My pal was a soldier from head to foot. When duty called he was always ready; fear never entered his head. Night and day we were never parted; side by side we fought for two long years, and I am sure his thoughts always were that England did expect every man to do his duty. He was shot dead at my feet on the 5th of October, 1916. If he could have spoken to me I am sure his last words would have been, “Thank God, I have done my duty.” Broken-hearted through the loss of my pal I did my best to carry on, although my nerves were shattered, and fear was always in my heart. I was a messenger and had to carry messages from the firing line to headquarters. Three weeks after the death of my pal we were on the Somme. Our division went over the top; we fought our way forward all day until darkness stopped our advance. My captain handed me a message and said: “Go back to headquarters with this as quick as possible.” It was a lovely moonlight night. As I ran forward bullets and shells were flying everywhere. I don’t know whether it was the sight of dead men that lay around or the noise of the battle, but fear got the better of me. I dropped into a shell hole. The longer I sat the worse I got. The message which meant so much to my comrades in the firing line was now getting delayed. Shell after shell burst around me. I made one more attempt to go on, and, as I crawled out of the shell hole, the sight I saw I shall never forget. There was my pal standing not two yards away, not in white as most ghosts are, but dressed in his soldier's clothes. I stood there: the shock was too much for me; I could not move. But the ghost (I am sure it was my pal) kept waving me on and pointing in the direction of the headquarters, which were about a mile away. I don't know how, but I moved on; the ghost moved also. If I stopped it stopped and waved me on. This went on until I was about ten yards off my destination. The ghost then waved its hand as if to say “good-bye,” and disappeared into the air. Terrified, I ran on. With the help of my pal, the message was delivered. He had helped me do my duty in life and he had still aided me—though dead. The Morning of the Ypres Big Push