LIKE A LITTLE CANDLE

By EVO (C. A. EVENDEN)

First published in 1959 – Now in the Public Domain

(South Africa, Hong Kong and New Zealand)

Published by Good Hope Publishing 2013

P. O. Box 206 Simon‘s Town 7995 South Africa

*****

Other Titles by GHP (Digital)

Four Minutes Past Midnight – Bruce Alexander Kilgour http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005MZISAM

Bongo, Bongo, Bongo. Life in the Belgian Congo – Vera Renaud http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00C8UTAQ0

*****

FOREWORD

The Other Side

This brief narrative, based on an intensive study of the Unseen, from whence came the request to make this report, is not to exploit sensation,

nor impart anything other than the reality of survival.

The term ―the other side‖ is often employed to denote that other

Existence; here it also denotes the other side of an ordinary man, a cartoonist, who at times sought to look further than the politics of unrest

and the age-old struggle for material power.

*****

ONE

From Northern Rhodesia, an unexpected letter:

My dear Evo,

It is not possible, being so far away, that you could have heard the news

of the tragic loss we have suffered—our beloved Rodney, our second on,

was killed in a car accident on Good Friday.

More and more, in the days of my overwhelming grief, have I found my thoughts turning to you, and remembering the serenity of mind you have

found, am wondering if you can help me.

Comfort there is none, but I cling to the thought that there can be a

message of hope, or some understanding of the mystery and riddle of life. Such a loved and loving heart to be snatched away — so much

wanted, so much needed. I feel I am groping in the dark and can find no

help in spite of so many kind friends who cannot do enough to show their loving sympathy. Perhaps this is something one must fight out alone, but

I cannot help feeling that my great desire to write to you must have some

meaning.

Forgive me if I am placing a burden on you that is an embarrassment, maybe I am asking too much.

Yours in affectionate memory, Betty.

Dear Betty,

I was so grateful you wrote and you now have my reply, in which it is

clear that none of us need be embarrassed in helping each other. Neither, through love, can any of us stand alone.

Your son is living and completely recovered, as I have good reason to

know, and stands closer to you and those he loves than ever before. His

thought flows towards you, striving to assure you that he is still your son, and you are still his mother. After all, we know that thought is the power

of communication, and never has depended on speech alone, which I

shall refer to further on.

You say you cannot help feeling that your desire to write to me must have some meaning. I think it has, though I am merely an instrument, for

a strange thing has happened. Through you I made a decision.

In contact, six years ago, Barrie asked me to write something to help

others, in the same way that he has helped us. Time after time, being so occupied, I put this off. And then, just before your letter came, Barrie sat

with us, urgently renewing his plea that I record the story of our research,

which brought about the serenity of mind you have mentioned.

Your son, more than anyone, is helping you to attain that serenity, and I

am writing for him, for Barrie, and for others who may find these notes

helpful. Where there is love, on the wings of thought, there is no

separation. Thought is a two-way traffic.

When your letter came, quickly followed by other calls for help, I could

no longer ignore Barrie's appeal.

Strangely enough, what serenity of mind I achieved had its beginning on

a battlefield—and the long, long trail of a lifetime, of things accepted, and mysteries I could not explain, all began with the voice of an old man

on the hills of Gallipoli, overlooking the beaches and white breakers of a

classic sea, studded with magic islands.

*****

TWO

I shall never forget the voice of that old man. Under the Aegean stars,

when the dugout candles transformed the, hills and clefts with peeping

lights, masking the scars of war, you could hear him crooning, ever the same old tune.

In camp, and on the destroyer coming over, this child's hymn was ever

on his lips. To me he looked old, but perhaps not as old as he seemed.

Some cursed him and called him an old reprobate, in soldiers' language. On his dusty tunic hung three grubby campaign ribbons, hanging by as

many threads. He had been all sorts of things—now he was a batman,

sometimes a temporary stretcher-bearer. And sometimes a cook. On my 21st birthday he smashed up some army biscuits and made a coarse flour.

With unwashed hands he put in a few raisins he had been saving for the

occasion. And in the evening, over a smoking birthday cake, adorned with 21 matches, he intoned into the night air:

" . . . . like a little candle,

Burning in the night;

'E looks dahn from 'eaven, To-oo see us shine

You in your small comer

And I — in — mine."

Apparently he knew no other tune, or else this was his favourite, his

theme tune, or perhaps more than that. . . .

Towards the middle of one night, he was stretcher-bearing down a rain-swept valley, when he was pierced between the shoulders by a flying

fragment. They carried him to a dressing station, and from there to the,

mortuary on the Beach. At dawn, in the rain, I stole down to see him.

The mortuary, hastily built, with a long corrugated iron roof, was curtained at one end with damp hessian. Gently I pulled it aside . . . he

lay with a number of others, peaceful in the brotherhood of—of what, of

where, of what far country? It was something I could not understand.

I looked at his identity disc. Where he should have placed the initials of his religion he had stamped a crude "A". On his rounds of duty he liked

you to spot this, so that he could tell you what it stood for—and with a

knowing look he would say—"Anything-arian, satisfied?"

Now he had gone, and the hills knew him no more.

But dare I tell you that three nights later, during a lull of the mountain

battery, that I heard him, heard his muttered crooning, as if he were

sitting as he used to do, on the dugout steps, gazing across to Imbros.

I put it down to my imagination, yet two nights later, when I returned to the dugout, I heard him again. It could be no one else, I would know that

voice anywhere:

"You in your small corner

And I—in—mine. . ."

It was inexplicable, and for a while it was difficult to shake off the queer

feeling that he was trying to implant the thought of his survival, that all

was well. After all, he could have a reason. Some weeks before he shared with me a disturbing experience. In a part of the line some earthworks

had fallen in and in the night we were together in a burial fatigue.

Afterwards, with the silent Padre, we adjourned for a mess-tin of tea at a forward dressing station.

We were subdued, and perhaps for that reason a tall Queensland sergeant

started a discussion with the Padre. We listened— mere youths, a bit

shaken and unsettled in our beliefs. When the sergeant challenged—"Where is your loving Father, to allow this carnage?", I scarcely heard

the quiet voice of the Padre— that war was made by man— and felt the

first empty pangs of scepticism, that death was the end. It shook me. Never before had I heard these arguments.

But later, on that same night, the old soldier had swept them away with a

ribald oath, and had gone straight into his everlasting tune ...‖like a little

candle, burnin' in the night."

I shall never forget that voice, so inexplicable, against the background of war. It began to restore the idea of an Unseen Friendship, it began all the

seeking and striving, to use gifts given to all men, the gifts of Life, Love

and Intelligence; to use them in trying to understand the power of the Invisible, from which we draw the breath of life.

From Padre Bill Duxbury, ex-footslogger, Gallipoli ... written in the

Libyan Desert:

"Based on deep experience, I am of the fixed opinion that what we misguidedly call 'death' is nothing but a minor incident, which we in our

sometimes foolish egotism would turn into a major crisis. There is no

cutting off of the spirit ... a vessel is not less a vessel because it

disappears over the horizon. It is still as real and still the same. When we

on this shore say 'There she goes,' others on a farther shore say 'There she comes!' It is something like that with what is called ‗passing over.' Only,

the garment has given place to another— and spiritual man—even as we

are—lives on. We pray for them, they pray for us.‖

*****

THREE

Afterwards, when I recounted that frontline experience back in Melbourne, I met blank looks, until someone spoke about clairvoyance

and a sixth sense. It was the first time I took serious note of these things,

but having no understanding of them, felt a great deal of doubt. I was to

learn in time that many more people have this "sixth sense" than are aware of it.

The thirst for knowledge continued after we were married. I heard

debates and lectures and read philosophy, and for relaxation read Zane

Grey, "The Roaring U.P. Trail" and all that. Then back to history, the Bible, and the wonderful thoughts of men in all ages, and the mysteries

of ancient Greece and Egypt. And the more I read the more I realised that

a certain philosopher was probably right when he wrote that the origin of all war was a desire to thieve. I read about the mystics of the Orient and

read about George Fox and the Quakers and admired their stand on the

principle of Friendship. I felt the love of St. Francis of Assisi.

And in many faiths and beliefs I began to note they were linked together by two things—by the mysterious power of love and by a belief,

amounting to a knowledge, in some cases, of man's survival.

In the huge Public Library of Melbourne I also noticed something else—

that no matter what one might believe, there was always a book, written by someone past or present, which would try to shatter that belief. Words

against words. So I read the negative and the positive, and the why and

the wherefore, and in time came to realise I was engaged in an exploration far more fascinating than climbing Everest and infinitely

more far-reaching than aiming rockets at the moon. Audacious as it may

sound I was exploring the mystery of life and death. The exploration had

only just begun, but the mystery on Gallipoli had started me to think.

Now I must halt for a moment to tell you what I am trying to do here.

I am not trying to write a book—regardless of how many people read

these notes I shall have done my part. What I must do is put on record

some of the experiences met with in this exploration—not for any personal reason, not to form a sect, but simply to meet Barrie's request,

that this may help others.

*****

Barrie was born near Wilson's Promontory, most southerly point of the

Australian mainland, famed for its wooded hills and forest fires. The

occasion became a matter of sonic urgency, and in the dawn wind I had

galloped on an aged racehorse, through miles of bush and bracken, for

the doctor.

With Barrie's arrival our affairs began to change but not our fortunes, as I then believed. If one's life has a destined pattern, it may only be seen in

looking back, except the pattern be repeated, and so become recognised

as one proceeds.

The farm, in bush country, could not be developed without further capital and we were broke. We had to say good-bye to all that, including four

bay horses which we had grown to love.

In Melbourne, after a struggle, I resumed newspaper work. The labour of

the farm had prevented much reading, but here, once more, I was in a city of books, debates and lectures.

I was not easy to convince, I was still seeking the why and the wherefore,

and always the need to earn bread and butter came first.

In a few months of city life, I became restless, and having a friend in

America I determined to try and reach that country via Canada.

*****

One evening in Melbourne, when tearing myself away from books, we

visited the home of distant friends. It was a party, and most of the other visitors I had not met. During the evening one of these aroused my

interest if not suspicion. She was a dark, serious girl, and they said she

had an extraordinary gift of clairvoyance. In a quiet interval she suddenly brushed aside some frivolous remarks and—asking a friend to take

notes—began to address me across the table. There came forth the most

outlandish things, and when I began to laugh and make fun of it the others defended her. They said she was out of the ordinary. She was, but

I didn't know it, not then.

She told me that I would never travel East to Canada; instead, a ship

would take us West to a friendly country, a "land of palms". There I would fulfill my ambition in connection with papers, with drawing many

pictures, but this was only the beginning. Arising from my work would

come an inspiration which would concern large numbers of people. In a

whispering voice she said she could see marching columns, a kind of army in which I was a kind of general.

At this point I smilingly asked what kind of horse would I be riding.

Patiently, she said I would not be leading an army in that sense, but it

would involve much travel and I would meet "thousands of people".

Again I interrupted and said that I was an ex-private, who suffered from stage fright, and had no social ambitions of any kind. She almost gave

me up in despair, and then said—"I will just tell you this, that when you

speak to princes and a king you will recall all I told you."

This was the first experience I had had of this kind, and I may be forgiven for thinking it bordered on the ridiculous. After all, at that time I

was something of a bookworm who had become immersed in Abraham

Lincoln, Robert Blatchford, Wilberforce—but then something she had said about the world and the flesh reminded me of the Lord Buddha, who

warned a devoted follower not to love him too much, because the spirit

was greater than the flesh, and the flesh was merely temporary.

My wife, ever at my side in my exploration of the unseen, secured the notes made during this interview, and in later years I read them so often

that I almost knew them by heart.

As you know, whether I deserved it or not, all those things came true.

Even now, I still cannot explain it.*

(*Editor’s Note: Charles Alfred Evenden was to become the founder leader of one of the world’s largest ex-servicemen’s organizations, the

Memorable Order of Tin Hats – The M.O.T.H. movement - whose

headquarters are to be found at Warrior’s Gate at the site of the Old Fort in Durban, South Africa. See “About the Author”.)

True clairvoyance is a gift, as with any of the arts, and just as a gifted

musician can suffer from overwork and give an indifferent performance,

so it is with the gift of clairvoyance. But all this I was to discover later.

*****

At this time, perhaps through the nature of my reading, and certainly

inspired by the comradeship of Gallipoli, I began to sense the power of friendship. None of us being perfect we can sometimes be disillusioned

by an unfriendly act or a piece of injustice, but these are often blessings

in disguise, and even diversions necessary to our pilgrimage.

Thoughts like these led me to note in a later book — "the greatest power given to man is friendship, were this divine gift properly utilised in

human affairs, envy and hatred would vanish and prosperity would dwell

among the nations. Friendship is a creative force . . . and turns ideals into practical deeds.‖

*****

FOUR

Life is mysterious and appears to consist of a jumbled mass or

hotchpotch of experiences. Yet if we can observe it, there sometimes appears a pattern, the kind of thing which one calls "a string of

coincidences ", like identical beads strung upon a single thread.

In Melbourne, after some months, I forgot about the mysterious

interview with the girl, believing I knew my own course. Then one day, roused by a trivial piece of injustice, I walked, in the lunch hour, down

Collins Street, my thoughts chaotic. At a shipping office a window poster

arrested my attention and on an impulse I walked in and booked our passages by the good ship "Barradine" for Durban. I had seen Durban on

my way back to Australia from the war.

Durban was a sweet-natured seaside resort in those days, and when we

arrived we were charmed by the blue and gold of this semi-tropical scene. Because of the long voyage, and now new scenes and faces and

the urgent need to start work, I was quite unaware that our move had any

significance, except the desire for a change.

Yet in the first week we were in Durban, we were casually introduced to a Durban woman, who, to our astonishment—she also having this mystic

vision—repeated to us some of the things we had been told in

Melbourne. And then several months later, after I had become

established, we heard the same fantasy repeated.

This thing rang the bell three times, how or why I could not explain. And

perhaps because none of it resulted from my seeking, it once more fell

into the background and out of mind, and unimportant.

This repetitive pattern, in connection with other matters, was to emerge at rare intervals. Gratefully, I know of others who have had similar

experiences.

Before long, Barrie became a sea cadet, full of laughter and a

determination to go to sea. One night, walking with him down a darkened street, and not looking where I was going, I crashed into a tree.

Turning to me in his sailor's outfit he struck a comic pose and exclaimed

—"what happened, Dad?" More appropriate to the theme of these notes would be—"What happened, Barrie?"—as you may see.

As he grew up into a virile schoolboy, and mastered the bugle at the sea

cadets, over which at one memorable parade Admiral Evans

complimented him, he occasionally surprised us in the interest he

showed in the deeper things of life. This peeped forth at intervals and he

was never bored by brief discussions on the spiritual and the material, and I sometimes noticed that he would drop a book of high adventure

when I chanced to read out something from a philosophic work.

Surprising as it may seem I found my reading and research on these

matters helped me as a cartoonist. If I had to make people think it meant I had to do a lot of thinking myself. Following the lead of the world-

famous cartoonist, Will Dyson, I believed it was a mere waste of time

and talent simply to make people laugh. As I have remarked before, we learn more from tears than laughter, though laughter may serve for

relaxation. But I never liked the idea of portraying politicians and

dictators as puppets dancing on the strings of the cartoonist.

There are good and bad in all strata of human society, but bad politicians—of the aggressive type—as all the world knows but

sometimes seems to forget, can cause world evils like mass persecution

and mass slaughter. These are not comic characters, but are only worthy

of the deadliest satire, the strongest weapon of the serious cartoonist—who, in, his exposure of premeditated evil, often proves prophetic.

Those few remarks will serve to cover a span of several years, during

which I evolved the simple Remembrance cartoon which gave birth to the M.O.T.H.—the Memorable Order of Tin Hats, which spread across

the length and breadth of Southern Africa, through a zeal which we all

shared—the story of which is recorded in my autobiography.

Cartooning and organising, reading and thinking was my life, and when the financial depression shook the world I studied it from many

standpoints. Countless editorials dealt with the political and economic

angle, but not a few examined it from the spiritual viewpoint. Human

distress was universal and what I saw in these leaders influenced my reading.

In the period of the long depression I read various spiritual writings and

studied the New Testament to learn the Master's view of money. I

studied the parables—the story of the talents, the widow's mite and ―rendering unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's‖ and felt that while

there was no evil in money itself the evil in the world arose from its

misuse and abuse, to put it in its simplest form.

Faith makes the shortest cut to the solution of these evils, but I was fascinated by research. Through personal experience, aided by the

reading of truth-seekers like Swedenborg*, I came to know beyond

question of the existence of an Invisible Universe.

(*Editor’s Note: Emanuel Swedenborg born Emanuel Swedberg: 29 January 1688 – 29 March 1772, was a Swedish scientist,

philosopher, theologian, revelator, and, in the eyes of some, Christian

mystic. He is best known for his book on the afterlife, Heaven and Hell, 1758 – Wikipedia)

One night during the big depression, in quiet meditation in the garden, I

was impelled to look up at the order of the stars. All this confusion and

disorder and misdirection on the earth, yet overhead, for all generations and races to see, the untouchable design of the Infinite. Yet how foolish

one could feel to attempt to explain the Infinite and talk about ... ―God's

plan for the Universe‖! The impertinence of this idea was replaced by

another thought—that you could not throw millions of stars against millions of stars to deny their existence, as millions of words oppose

millions of words in libraries over the meaning of life.

I continued to gaze at the night sky and I knew that the greatest minds

had accepted "these are my Witnesses." From the Invisible these thinkers had accepted the gift of thought and intelligence, of Life itself, the

greater Realities, invisible things which could be expressed, but could

not be bartered or handed back or be destroyed as with material things.

Plainly, the misuse of these gifts, as with money, is the cause of disharmony. To use these gifts for the good of mankind is to glimpse the

harmony of the heavens and the Unseen Universe. When we receive a

gift from a friend we say "thank you". As I sat in the garden I asked myself "How can we say ‗thank you‘ and justify the gift of Life?"

Certainly not by lip-service—but only through right action.

As I looked at the stars I knew I had found the heart of a simple creed.

All the editorials I had read, all the angles 1 had studied, came down to the complete necessity to understand a simple principle—to do unto

others, as you would have them do unto you. To learn these words

parrot-fashion is useless; to know the reason for them is to know a solution for disorder and big depressions.

*****

From "All Men Return", by Moth 0, 1944:

Man comes into this life naked, but he doesn't depart that way. He takes

with him the fruit of his apprenticeship, his character. The material rules

of material institutions he leaves behind, the laws and regulations which tried to dominate his spirit vanish into dust.

At Zero Hour, on the threshold between one life and another, man can

learn more than in all the years he has lived. In that moment he learns that Brotherhood is of the spirit, that to do unto others is not restricted to

this life, but embraces Those Others who gave all for us.

*****

FIVE

The last time our small family had a holiday together was in the Drakensberg. A little later I was to see the amusing spectacle, in the 1937

Coronation, of Admirals on horseback. On this

Drakensberg outing we were to see a sea cadet astride a horse galloping

along the track. And then they came to a home-made bridge, consisting of planks. When the poor horse got to the middle of the planks two legs

went through, and then, in struggling to extricate them, the other two

went down. The horse was resting on its belly, with its four legs protruding below the bridge. When we rescued both horse and rider the

rider said he much preferred fishing to circus acts.

For a long time Barrie's fishing venue was the North Pier, Durban, where

he caught fish but frequently lost his fishing tackle. One evening we went to an n outhouse, which we called "The Shed", and ―cooked‖ some

lead on an old stove to make lead sinkers. Presently the vessel slipped

and a big blob of molten lead fell on Barrie's left foot. It ultimately left a vivid "L"-shaped scar. I told him he was marked for life. He laughed.

In due course he joined the training ship "General Botha" and became a

fine type of South African, strong-limbed, fair-minded and self-

disciplined. Like all sailors he was interested in the stars, his favourite constellation being Orion. Being philosophic he tried his hand at poetry,

while his vigorous style in drawing showed he might have become a

capable artist.

Completing his two years on the training ship he began his sea career as 'an apprentice-officer on the "Sandown Castle." In several weeks he was

in Philadelphia, where he spent all he had in buying me an etching and

his mother the latest cake-mixing machine. When he brought this home

and plugged it in to demonstrate, we found the current was wrong and the motor was damaged. But the etching, of a New England farmhouse,

was put up on the wall, and the motor was put right, for these were the

only material gifts he was ever able to give us.

In this period of apprenticeship he studied only two things, navigation,

and an Eastern form of philosophy, which earned him the nick-name of

"Yogi", and by which he became known in this 3-year period.

During the Memel crisis his ship was in dry dock in Hamburg. When the war broke out the vessel was proceeding southwards through the Bay of

Biscay. Arriving home in Durban his ship was held up for a month

waiting for a cargo of citrus. To us this was wonderful, just like old

times, as if he had never been away, across the world's broad oceans.

At mealtimes, and on long walks with what we regarded as his two dogs,

"Skipper" the black and tan Doberman, and ... ―Roger" the black and white spaniel, we had many talks. Regarding the war he was inclined to

be silent; it seemed to be in conflict with some private philosophy. In one

connection he was relieved to be at sea. With a broad smile he said—"There's one thing, Dad, if I have to go under, it will be a clean end."

This gave me an opening. We were walking across vacant land above

Durban North at the time, and under the broad blue sky we called the

dogs to us and sat down. I said—"Do you think the end is the end?"

He paused, and then—"Definitely not, of that I'm sure. And if I should

go there's one thing I must ask Mum and you not to do." He looked out to

sea. "And that is, not to give way to grief, not to act as if you'll never see

me again. From what I understand—and I'm sure it's right—grief is a barrier, and I could be nearer than you think."

From my own knowledge I asked him if he thought that, death was

merely a transition, as some put it, to another condition of consciousness.

He agreed, and Roger leaping into his lap, he got up with a laugh, seized Roger, and made the spaniel leap over his clasped hands, an old game

which, if persisted in, sometimes made the dog rebellious.

On the way home he told me that too much sorrow clouded the senses.

"In what way?" I asked. He said—"You should know. There are other senses besides the material ones, like the sense of companionship. You

might not see a person sitting in the same room, but you know they are

there."

That same, night, with Barrie's fellow apprentices, we had a dart contest, and each time 1 took aim Barrie, just behind me, applied his dart to my

posterior, to which I responded—that although I couldn't see the point, I

sensed it! He thought that was a good joke. We mustn't always be serious.

Eventually, he said "good-bye" and sailed with his ship to the Cape.

Then on to the hazardous seas above the Equator. For the first time I

suffered a premonition, which I

fought off. A premonition can manifest itself in physical pain.

*****

There come to mind at this point the lines we put together at a later

date—which was a demonstration of telepathy—

Don no sad crown should I go down

With my ship in a warring sea;

Nor sorrow in haste should the wreck-flung waste

Carry no cross for me. In Neptune's heart is a starry chart

With a cross above the sea,

And a place to land with the Leading Hand Who walked on Galilee.

Barrie was born in the land of the Southern Cross, a land of artists and poets, and sweet-voiced women and virile men. But he loved South

Africa and its mountains, and there was no scene he loved more in the

world than the Bluff and Durban harbour.

South Africa was his home and he sometimes said you could find no friendlier people in the world than John and Jan. At this time there were

thousands of visiting troops who could say the same thing.

*****

SIX

Early in 1941, after two years at sea, Barrie, now a six-footer, went

ashore at Plymouth to study for his Second Mate's Certificate. He went into the cockpit of the Plymouth blitz, almost every night being

transformed into an inferno of fire and explosion. He was appalled at

"man's inhumanity to man."

Merchant shipping was suffering terrific losses when he went to Cardiff for the examinations. By this time he had gathered together all his kit,

including sextant, binoculars and valuable books. We received the

triumphant cable—"Passed Second Mate's Hope to See You Soon." From Cardiff he was sent to the, Shipping Pool, from there to the Clyde, where

he discovered his vessel was a depot ship, a sitting duck in the river. He

turned it down—he wanted the sea, not the land.

In the dock area he stopped a stranger and asked the whereabouts of the Clan Line Offices. They were nearby, and stepping into the office, he

was signed on as Fourth Officer on a fast cargo vessel called the "Empire

Song." We received a very enthusiastic letter—what a fine vessel it was,

quite new, and "you should see my cabin"—he hinted it was possible he would be coming to Durban, and was collecting all his belongings, to

leave the things he valued ashore, when he came home.

He told us that while loading he had spotted Jack Keir on the dockside.

Jack had been a fellow-apprentice on the cargo ship, now he was in the Royal Navy—later to become a Lieut.-Commander, D.S.C., and later our

son-in-law.

Jack told us afterwards of this dockside meeting. The ship was being

loaded with high explosives and other munitions. Barrie said he knew, of course, that it was all highly dangerous, but wartime was full of

dangerous jobs and it was all part of the picture.

And so, before his 20th birthday, his ship sailed and became part of a huge convoy, southward bound. No one knew what destination, but

common sense indicated that so big a convoy would not go through the

"Med."

The days went by and grew into weeks. In the belief that the convoy would stop at Cape Town we made arrangements for a trunk call should

Barrie arrive at that port.

I thought—the convoy would zig-zag and take a long detour, and this

might account for no news. The weeks were passing and I made discreet

inquiries of naval friends. But they knew nothing. Then I saw a huge

convoy arrive outside Durban harbour, and when I found that Barrie's ship was not with it, I had to fight a premonition like a tiger.

The long silence was broken by a telephone call. Twenty-one days ago

the ship had gone down, and I was informed a cable had been received

that Barrie was reported missing presumed lost through enemy action . . . no one knew where.

The front door slammed in the North wind. Fortunately, it was I who

picked up the telephone and not my wife. She was in the garden, and

before I broke it to her I knew a flood of rage. Who made this damnable assumption ¬"presumed lost"? Lost? How can Barrie be lost?

Remember, I told myself, what you have discovered about the falseness

of the word "lost". Remember what Barrie said himself. Don't fail him,

wait and see.

But there is nothing to be ashamed of in being human. We rang our

daughter at the Public Library and she hastened home. We called a dear

friend who a fortnight previously had been advised that her son, a friend

of Barrie, had gone down with H.M.S. Hood. If we helped each other it would lessen the shock. It did. Such help is more desirable than shekels

of gold.

Presently, the four of us sat down to lunch but of course we hardly

touched it. To talk was better than being silent, so we talked. By accident, there was a fifth chair, empty, at the opposite end of the table.

Upon this table Barrie, Win, my wife and I had built English galleons.

Gazing at the empty chair there came a sudden conviction that Barrie was sitting there, listening. I could have sworn Barrie was in the room. I

could not prove it, but I was certain that, besides the other voices, I could

hear Barrie, pleading to be heard.

*****

The word "Missing" set in motion two opposing thoughts. One was that

he was not lost but would turn up, the other was that he was not "missing" but in this room, anxious that we should not disown him by

harbouring the word "lost".

In the war between the spiritual and the material it is often the material

which seems to win. You can see that in the disorder of the world. Even great prelates have prayed for the victory of material arms.

And so we were torn between these two forces, our mortal minds

absorbed mortal things and could not tune in to the greater Reality of the Infinite.

Yet not quite—we could not relinquish the knowledge gained over so

many years, that the spirit is the reality.

Soon, through lack of any further news we knew we must make a stand

and accept a principle regarding the question of Barrie's existence. The principle became this—that we live in something more than a material

world, that we live in a spiritual Universe, and that no-one could drop out

of that Universe. There is no such thing as a lost soul.

The months rolled on and although we experienced vivid dreams of talking to Barrie, I shall not recount them, which does not mean we can

dismiss them. Far from it, as I saw later.

For four years we fought the term "Missing, presumed lost." If we have

no faith beyond the material, such messages exert a terrible power in the form of suspense. Because I set out to help others in like case, I knew

people could die of broken hearts. The worst thing well-intentioned folk

can do is to speak to you of "your sad loss." It only stirs the wound and underlines an untruth. On too many occasions, mournful laments and

anthems and fateful utterances like "dust unto dust" fall on the ears of the

stricken and heighten the agony of grief. The desire to lessen that agony

is the theme of these notes, with gratitude to such as Wilberforce, who wrote a greater truth:

"We live in a world of illusion; part of our illusion is to call things by

their wrong names. We speak of the land of the living, whereas human

life is only the threshold of the land of the living. We speak of death as falling asleep—whereas it is awaking."

When I think of the inspired truths which have been written on survival,

when I think of St. John who wrote "Let not your heart be troubled ", I wonder at my own impertinence.

*****

SEVEN

It was during this period that I wrote a brief series of newspaper articles

to help those in the same strait as ourselves. In countering this kind of

distress it is always better rather than suffer inaction, to go out and help

others.

I found the key for the first article when Winston Churchill, in one of his

stirring speeches, made use of Sir Harry Lauder's song title "Keep right

on to the end of the Road". On odd occasions in this long duration of

"Missing, presumed lost" I recollected the picture of the famous Scottish comedian, in the First World War, singing to crowded houses packed

with troops on leave. Then, suddenly, in the middle of the run of "Three

Cheers" came a telegram, bearing the sombre notification that the comedian's only son had been killed in action.

Then, for the actor, all the lights went out ... until three days later when

he read his son's last words—carry on. To the echoing skirl of the pipes

he resumed his robust singing and met with a tornado of cheering. But it was an ordeal, he said afterwards, that no words could describe.

Carrying on at this point with cartooning, to a big unseen audience, it

was natural that I should sometimes see that distant scene. With due

restraint, it might be mentioned that it is perhaps even harder for the cartoonist, who, working within four walls, lacks the encouragement of a

visible audience, while the words ―missing, presumed lost" do not strike

one fell blow but hang on and never seem to diminish.

I discovered during this time, along with many social workers and Padre friends, that even in helping others you had to utilise a certain amount of

moderation, for if your reputation spread, your very willingness to give

relief often attracted letters and agitations over unimportant matters, trivial demands, which sometimes involved mountains of

correspondence, yet which bore no comparison with the far deeper

tragedies of life and war.

*****

But that robust song is one of the things that cheer. Its words, to some,

may seem ordinary, but the tune makes them triumphant. When I heard the song title uttered by Churchill I scarcely heard the rest of his speech,

but carried on with the words of the chorus:

Keep right on to the end of the Road,

Keep right on to the end.

If the way be long, let your heart be strong, Keep right on round the bend.

Though you're tired and weary, still journey on

Till you come to that happy abode,

Where all you love—and been dreaming of Will be there, at the end of the Road.

That song carries a smile that will not be denied. It lengthens your stride and lifts your chin, and carries you on—to see what tomorrow will bring

you.

We had yet to wait for that tomorrow, but it was to arrive in an

unexpected fashion.

*****

From "All Men Return" ...

"The outward garb of mourning proclaims a loss which isn't true ... we

cannot lose the un-losable. A mother to whom I wrote realised that to

encourage grief was to deny her son. But there was one thing that still

worried her—the thought that it would be a very long time before she saw her boy face to face. This spectre of separation was disposed of

when she saw that none of us have the right to presume that we ourselves

shall be here next week, let alone next year.

"Time flies and life marches on, and while we are here there is work to do, to fight injustice, to alleviate suffering, and in our spare moments to

beautify the patch of earth where we live and where other feet have trod.

All our days are footsteps of service, bringing us ever closer to our next meeting."

*****

EIGHT

About a year after Barrie's disappearance we met a Royal Marine who it seemed was in the same convoy, on an escort vessel. He could not tell us

much, only that five ships had been diverted to the Mediterranean, and

one was so heavily attacked, near an island off Malta, that it caught fire

and sank. The date was May 9th, 1941.

There was no other news, only rumours and vague stories of survivors.

These and sundry minor incidents gave no relief. A canary which Barrie

had given us flew out of its cage and vanished. Barrie's dog Skipper was

killed in the black-out and Roger died soon after of old age.

But I am wrong in saying there was no relief. There was, for instance, a

thrilling visit from Ian de Villiers, ex-General Botha friend of Barrie, but

now flying a Swordfish. On the morning he left for Cape Town he

saluted Barrie's home from the air, the bi-plane dipping down and zooming up directly above our main chimney-pot.

Towards the end of four years of prayer and hope and false rumour, I

made enquiries through the Admiralty, South Africa House, the Red Cross and the Vatican. They did their best but it all resulted in a blank.

Some friends advised us to see a medium, but knowing some-thing of

this subject, and knowing there were mediums and mediums, as with

everything else, I felt we had no means of knowing which from which. You could suffer many disappointments in experimenting.

We were now approaching a, coincidence, which need receive no

significance.

Barrie's ship went down on 9th May, 1941, and V.E. Day arrived 9th May, 1945. Four years, and although we did not know it, it marked the

end of the road and the word Missing."

Now I must pause and consider what I may write of the seemingly

impossible.

No normal man or woman likes to appear anything but normal, even though, through a long and unusual study you discover the reality of

supernormal events. Doors opening into the unseen. Because I made a

promise to Barrie I shall write these things as they happened, and make no pretence of explaining those matters which I still do not understand.

And now let me introduce two lively cocker spaniels which helped to fill

the void left by Skipper and Roger. The names of these two spaniels, full

of mischief, were Bingo and Lady. Every morning when I had finished

my cartoon and we had tea in the lounge the spaniels would be on hand for a tidbit. My chair faced a settee on the opposite wall.

One morning, about three weeks before V.E. Day, I was thus relaxing

when I heard a peculiar sound apparently in the vicinity of the settee. It

was a subdued drumming noise, alternately lapsing and coming on at intervals. My wife heard it, and then the dogs came in—at least, they

stood in the doorway at the alert, both with one paw raised—and gazed

steadily at the settee.

We were not alarmed and thought it was perhaps a rat, although such a thing had not occurred before. The next morning at the same time the,

same thing happened, the drumming sound, with pauses, was renewed.

And the spaniels came in and repeated their performance. I listened. It could hardly be a rat—it was not a gnawing sound. It appeared to be in

the settee, like someone knocking, but again we dismissed it as one of

those mysteries. . . .

The third morning, at the same time, it came again and so distinctly from the, settee, that we got up and turned it over. But a thorough examination

revealed nothing. I then took a torch and went under the house, but there

was no sign of anything. We felt a trifle foolish and it must seem weird to you, reading these lines. The floorboards were perfectly sound. We

talked it over and decided—in case there was some hidden fault in the

floor—to change the furniture round. After that we only heard it once

more, and then never again.

On the third day when the sound was so distinct that we turned over the

settee, and then changed all the furniture round, both of us, half-

seriously, wondered if it had something to do with Barrie. Somehow, we

both had a strong sense of his nearness. What eventuated can speak for itself. For years we had known the hard necessity to steel our minds

against any form of wishful thinking.

Yet, here again, you can go to the other extreme and shut your mind up

far too much. And your mind is a receiving station, incomparably beyond anything invented by man.

On V.E. Day it became my duty to lay a wreath at the Cenotaph before a

large assembly. As the bugles sounded I had a hazy impression of silent

figures standing everywhere. In the sunlit Silence the trees rustled and whispered, and there came an overwhelming sense of relief and

companionship, mixed with a feeling of expectancy, as of the opening of

an unseen door.

NINE

It was three days later when the telephone rang. There came the quiet

voice of an elderly man, a stranger. In paying a visit to the Public Library he had met our daughter, and in discussing certain books learnt of our

problem.

He apologised for his intrusion. Living far from Durban he knew little

about me and nothing about Barrie, except that, as Win had told him, our son had been missing for four years. Because of this, he offered his help.

He had long studied Survival and whenever in Durban, visited a private

circle of friends, where he was due shortly. He invited me to morning tea and the next day I met him.

He was quiet-mannered, friendly and sincere, and his serenity of mind

could not be mistaken.

I had never before seen him, but I knew his name, that of a highly

respected businessman. His study of survival he had found of absorbing interest in his private life. He rightly remarked, regarding Barrie, that it

was better to know the truth, if possible, than to linger on in doubt. In

this search it was necessary to have the service of a good medium, and it was possible at his next sitting that he could obtain the name of a local

medium with whom my wife and I would be in harmony.

This question of harmony was all important and he described it at some

length. He had friends in that other existence who could help, but, of course, at this stage, he could promise nothing.

It was necessary that I should be willing and give him permission to

make the enquiry. His

sincerity was beyond question, so I cheerfully gave him my consent.

It was a fortnight later, on a Saturday morning before breakfast, when he telephoned, and once more apologising for his intrusion, he told me that

he had ascertained the previous night at his circle, that Barrie was

definitely on the other side and had been trying to attract our notice for

some time. From his unseen friends he had obtained the name of a medium with whom we would be in harmony. He himself had made no

approach to this person, and giving me the name asked me if I had met

her. No, never. While he was speaking I rapidly turned the pages of the telephone directory and identified the name and number.

He told me to 'phone the address but on no account disclose who I was

and give no information, except to say we were troubled and wished to

make an appointment. If the medium was successful we would have

much greater satisfaction in knowing we had given her no clue, nor any prompting. Thanking him, I put the receiver down. There was no hurry

and we sat down to breakfast. It was at this table, four years ago, that I

had had an overwhelming feeling of Barrie's presence.

We knew what we must do—ring up the address. But we hesitated, because all this seemed to us, as it must seem to you, like a story "out of

this world". And in a way, it was. Yet the initiative had not come from

us. Help had been offered, and we must accept it. At noon I 'phoned the

address. A motherly voice answered. Giving no information, I said we would like to make an appointment. It was fixed for Monday at noon.

On this Saturday night I worked at the typewriter. During most of this

"Missing" period I had continued writing letters to Barrie—to read them

helped my wife, and furnished me with a sort of diary of events. This had dropped behind, and I was typing till nearly midnight.

On Monday at noon we presented ourselves at the address, several miles

from our house. Cautiously, I removed my tin hat badge to lessen any

chance of recognition. We were received by a motherly type of woman with a gracious manner and we were shown into a cheerful sunlit room.

You felt you could not help liking her but perhaps, being a newspaper

man, I inwardly determined not to be deceived.

We sat down and were encouraged to relax. Then she too, settled back and relaxed and seemed to go into a slight trance. Within ten seconds she

began quietly speaking and described a young man in sea uniform who

had come into the room. He was tall, with blue eyes, and was tremendously eager to talk to us. By his manner and likeness she thought

he must be our son, he had been on the missing list a long time. Would

his name be "Harry"? We said nothing. Then she said—"It's Barrie", and I thought this was very good, but as a cartoonist I felt the description she

gave was that of a type and not necessarily a person.

There was a pause. And then, through her, Barrie spoke. "Dad", he said,

"you must not doubt me. Look!" Of course, I could see nothing—but she saw, and said immediately "He is lifting up his left foot." At that moment

neither my wife nor I could guess what she meant. Then she said—"Oh I

see—on his left ankle there is a glaring ' L '-shaped scar, and he says you

will remember the old shed and the lead sinkers." My poor wife nearly fainted, and I was stunned with amazement—we had forgotten this one

clear mark of identity, over which I had told Barrie that he would be

marked for life. She could have no means of knowing anything of this.

There could be no deception. The quiet face of the medium, and what

Barrie had said, removed all doubt. We shared an indescribable feeling of joy and relief, and all questions of identity dropped away like tattered

garments.

He then continued through this gifted woman, and told us about the ship,

that along with others it was diverted from a southbound Atlantic convoy, that late at night near the island of Pantelleria, in the centre of

the Mediterranean, it was attacked from the air by many planes ... and

without warning he was struck down and instantly lost contact and had no knowledge of drowning.

And we ourselves had been sometimes tortured by the idea that being a

good swimmer, he had been left alone in an empty sea!

At first, he said, he had been unhappy over losing all his gear which he had hoped to bring to Durban. Then he realised the shock to us and tried

to prevent our grief. "I came very close and saw you get the message,

days after the ship was sunk ... I saw Dad go through the house in a rage,

and I tried hard to impress my thoughts on you as you sat in the room, talking at the table."

It was at this point there came another pause. And then the medium

smiled, and said—"Did he have two dogs? Because there are two dogs

now leaping up at him with joy, one is a big black and tan dog and the other is smaller, black and white." At this, I could not describe our

feelings, neither, I felt, could I or anyone account for such a revelation,

coming through a stranger.

Through her, he continued. He had known we would be shortly making contact when he saw us moving all the furniture around the room in

response to the noise. He mentioned certain letters, and something that

was in his final letter, only known to ourselves. All this, as quickly as I could, I jotted down before we left the premises. But the highlight was

yet to come.

He finally pleaded that we should never again doubt his existence. "Here,

like you," he said, we have the same sense of privacy, but sometimes I can visit you, and to remove any doubt.

Dad, I will tell you what happened, not four years ago, but only a few

hours ago, on Saturday night. Close to midnight you closed your

typewriter. You went into the bathroom to wash your hands and then into the lounge and picked up a book. You were very tired and went into the

bedroom, where Mum was asleep and had left the light on. You put the

book on the bedside table and when you got into bed you stretched your arms and knocked the book down. Its flat side hit the floor and made a

report. Mum woke up startled and said ‗Goodness, whatever's that?'."

How can I hope that so wonderful a thing, so completely accurate, will

be believed? But then, I never intended to write it, to ever attempt to convince anyone of the seemingly impossible. Barrie told us this simple

thing to convince us of his survival, that he was not far away, and only

through Barrie's request have I finally committed these events to the written word in the hope it may help others.

You can hardly recall the trivial events of the day before yesterday, but

when they are recalled for you, so unexpectedly, from the Unseen, the

exact description of those minor happenings becomes nothing short of a revelation, and beyond common understanding.

*****

This first contact was the climax of four years of waiting and hoping, and like others in similar case, we sometimes wondered whether pain,

physical or mental, had any meaning. And then, one day, I picked up a

library book and some unknown hand had scribbled on the fly-leaf lines that reflected pearls of understanding, and which concluded:

He shall not find such pearls who fears

To travel the dark and lonely way;

And he that lightly sheds his tears Shall lightly know the joys of day.

*****

TEN

We were naturally reluctant to leave this first contact with Barrie, he assured us, however, that if we left it to him contact would be easier in

the future. We were reluctant too, to leave this gifted lady. I have not

mentioned her name, nor that of others, lest it be wrongly assumed that advertisement has its reward.

The next day I thanked the strange helper who had brought about this

contact. He was very moved that we had found reunion and repeated his

advice to continue our research as a study, and under no circumstances convert it into a cult. We continue as humble students of survival.

It was not long after this event that Win left for Britain on the

"Franconia" to marry Barrie's friend. They settled in Surrey and

ultimately had four children.

My private exploration into the deeper meaning of life I kept entirely

separate from my work. Indeed, I used it as a means of relaxation from

cartoons and the ever-increasing administrative work of a great

brotherhood, which collectively now holds more than five thousand meetings in each year throughout Southern Africa and overseas, and has

created more than three hundred practical Memorials, a circumstance,

when I mentioned it, which astonished the King. Regarding these achievements, shared by all, I confess that I have sometimes been at a

loss when others have said "how proud you must be of all this."

As a lifelong cartoonist I have always known, in the case of dictators

great and small, that "pride is the never-failing vice of fools", and not the same thing as uncovering a light hidden by a bushel. It is but a short step

from pride to vanity, quickly followed by a head swollen with a false

sense of power. And that kind of thing can be more deadly than radio-

active fallout, for in the end the fight for power can destroy the world. The "Power and the Glory" is not for man. In contrast, it is better to look

up at the starry heavens, to be reminded that as great as any one star may

be—it is only one of millions, and each one in its place. Our humility, whatever our station, should be likewise.

About this time, having this viewpoint of life, partly inspired by

"thinking out" cartoons on dictators and limelight merchants, I wrote the

book "Old Soldiers Never Die", which went into five editions.

Even if it meant reading till two in the morning I continued my own

research and learnt a good deal and rejected matters which led off into a

cul-de-sac. I found that re-incarnation for example, could be argued

apparently, in Barrie's existence. Two books I read at this time were Stewart Edward White's "Unobstructed Universe" and a much older

book, "Through the Mists", recorded by R. J. Lees, two chapters of

which—"The Relationship of Sleep to Death" and "The City of Compensation", I discussed later with Barrie. Both books have run into

many editions. In reading the literature of survival I have found,

regardless of what one accepts or rejects, that it influences a perspective

which can lift one above the tumult of the modern world—like suddenly leaving the noises of a big seaport and viewing the same city from the

deck of a departing ship.

It was four years after his ship went down that Barrie made our first

contact. It was about six years after this that I chanced to read, in serial form, certain famous war memoirs, and for the first time came across an

official account of what had happened to Barrie's ship—how part of a

southbound convoy was detached and sent through the Mediterranean, in the face of Admiralty doubts, on an extremely hazardous venture under

the code name of "Operation Tiger". Here it was in detail. We had heard

only a small fragment from a Royal Marine, but all that Barrie had told us of their dangerous mission was now confirmed by this authentic

account.

In truth, Barrie had told us the same thing six years before. I wonder if

the great man who recorded "Operation Tiger" would believe he had been "scooped" by the Unseen? He ought to, because in a famous speech

during the war he said—"we are learning to-day that man is a spirit.‖

Perhaps he was influenced by Lord Dowding who, in a West End pulpit,

fearlessly spoke about the truth of survival.

In the six years after our first contact, in a determination not to exploit

this gift, we only had five sittings with a medium, mainly through

Barrie's initiative, and valuable, among other things, in confirming his

identity. He repeated the plea not to doubt him, for it was, possible with patient co-operation that he could help to establish contact without

outside assistance. There followed a lengthy period of patient trial and

error with judicious intervals between each attempt. In the beginning it was, extremely difficult and once or twice we were nearly giving it up.

After all, why trouble with trial and error, we thought; we had reached

contentment in the knowledge that Barrie and his friends existed as we

exist. But this was a selfish attitude—to merely satisfy ourselves, yet ignore the call of others. That had a lot to do with Barrie's plea to put this

matter on record.

*****

We have learnt, even if one may have little faith, that it is not so difficult

to conceive an invisible universe. That conception, for some, may begin with the realisation that mortal life can have no existence without

invisible support. Nothing can be created without thought, the invisible

power of the Universe, which like Life and Love can be expressed, but is itself intangible.

My own mother once asked—"If all these people who die have gone

somewhere, where are they?" Because she had a profound difficulty in

conceiving the reality of the invisible in that other existence, I pointed to some of the invisible factors of this world. We sit in an "empty" room,

yet from the "emptiness" draw the breath of life. In that same room, as in

all rooms, the unseen sound waves of voices, in many languages, penetrate, even if you shut doors and windows. To hear them you just

tune in.

Now watch the actors on a cinema screen. Your eyes cannot see the

separate pictures which compose the film. And supposing the speed of the film was increased a hundredfold, all that your eyes could see would

likely be a blurred mist. Yet the actors would still be there, but you

cannot see them. It is similar with many things beyond our ken.

A great scientist said—"All the world is in vibration" and defined matter, which we think so solid, as "nothing but a gossamer of electrical energy."

Reality, life and energy, even in the world we live in, are often more than

our earthly senses can take in.

The Invisible is the greater reality and permeates this and that other

existence. Barrie and his friends, you and me, all of us, wherever we may be, share this invisible Reality and have our being only through the

power of the Unseen.

A mother of a "General Botha" boy said this to me—"If you had a loved

one on the other side of the world, you could not identify him by putting your finger on a wall map—by saying 'he is here' or 'he is there.' There is

only one place where you know him, are aware of him—and that t place

could not be nearer. It is your own consciousness. And just as you hold him in your consciousness, so does he hold you in his."

We are held within the invisible, and not within the flesh. The spirit,

everywhere, is the one reality. It can never be lost, mislaid or destroyed.

The spirit is the life, the real you, the substance of personality.

Forgive me, I never meant to write so much, but if instead I had just

written ... All is Mind it would be truthful, yet not sufficient.

To glimpse the Invisible Universe, we may begin with the miracles of

this life. The human brain, for example, so often dismissed as "grey

matter", has been described as an electrical miracle far more intricate

than the combined telephone exchanges of a big city. With this in mind, telepathy, the transference of thought, is not so astonishing after all, and

perhaps even less astonishing when, with added power, it comes from the

intangible but greater resources of the Unseen.

*****

ELEVEN

Gradually establishing our own contact with Barrie we joined forces at spaced intervals. The basis of our contact was a telepathic principle

which were it described might conceivably appear sensational. Barrie

feels, however, that we should not broadcast it, for the obvious reason

that it would be the "sensational" which would be seized on, and not the simple truth of man's survival. Contact, for us, has taken years to

develop. The best gifts do not come easy.

In one contact I put it to Barrie that works far better than I might produce

had been written about survival—what good could these few notes do? He replied that all works, great and small, justify the gift of life. He

agreed if all the world's schoolchildren were taught the truth of

immortality, and gained a daily awareness of the continuity of life, they would grow up with an infinitely deeper sense of responsibility towards

their neighbour. They would possess the knowledge that a stricken

conscience could never find oblivion in the grave, and because no loved one, no man, woman or child had ever been put in a grave, they would

know a way of life which conquered sorrow and grief.

Our contact was not always easy, probably never easy, for neither was it

easy for Barrie. But he assured us it did not interfere with his progress.

*****

At my elbow are hundreds of notes taken at the time of contact, and

probably because of his own sudden departure in war and that of countless others, a recurring theme is the condemnation of war, such

notes nearly always ending with the terse comment—"All for material

power". On another occasion I asked him if we were right in sensing the presence of our unseen friends in the Silence at a Remembrance

ceremony. He replied that wherever there is Love there is no division. No

one stands alone.

We can remember this if we feel deserted, or maligned, or discredited. After all, we can be in good company, for some to-day even discredit

Shakespeare, nearly four hundred years after the birth of his genius.

Among my notes I have recorded the passing of a close friend, a dour

warrior, who found it difficult to conceive the fact of survival. We asked Barrie to help and only a few hours after our friend passed, he briefly

spoke through Barrie, concerning a circumstance known only to us and

addressing my wife by a nickname that only he had used.

These notes contain frequent checks on identity. Asking him the wording

of the cable he sent from Cardiff he at once replied—"Passed Second

Mate's hope to see you soon." There is some reference to giving and receiving; that it is not always better to give than receive, because both

actions depend on the spirit which prompts them. Both giving and

receiving and most forms of benevolence should respond to the golden

rule of moderation.

Barrie frequently told us things of which we had no knowledge, but

which we were afterwards able to check and prove correct.

*****

This great globe we call the Earth, a mere speck in space, whirls along its

destined course. And in 1953 a big ship, itself a speck on the ocean, took

us to London to see our daughter and a family which lived near Hampton Court.

Sometime later, on a grey London morning, we were in a Green Line bus

wending its way through lanes of cherry blossom, and then through the

streets of older London to the heart of the city where I was born. A brave city of eight million people, with homes battered and blitzed in war. Yet

here it was, with its crowded streets, its giant traffic, bigger than ever. In

the hurly-burly of daily life we may forget that while "peace hath her

victories no less renowned than war" that whether there is war or peace people are born and people die. The order of arrival and departure is the

lot of all mortals and there are no exceptions. This life is but an

apprenticeship, irrespective of social status, age, sex or race.

We went up to London from near Hampton Court because Barrie, a fortnight previously, had asked us to attend a lecture and demonstration

in connection with survival. Arriving at the big hall very early we were

fortunate enough to get two seats close to the stage. Gradually the stage and as the big audience settled down, began a brief lecture on survival.

She was followed by the medium, a confident well-dressed type of man.

These meetings, he said, were to demonstrate the truth of survival, and because of many unseen friends seeking contact, he could only spare a

few minutes to those indicated.

He stood silent for a moment, and you could have heard a pin drop, then

quietly indicating a woman in the crowded Hall, he gave her advice from her husband. It was quite successful, but had we no other experience, or

had Barrie not asked us to keep this date, we could have been dubious.

Personal experience makes all the difference.

Following this brief demonstration, he came to the centre of the stage and stood near the footlights. He bent over, and indicating my wife and I,

he gave the names of two friends of Barrie's. From this, he proceeded to

describe Barrie, and after a pause, as if listening, he gave Barrie's name. He then gave further details to identify Barrie and how his ship went

down. He mentioned the names of two other people on the ship, but of

these we had no information. He then told us that Barrie knew a good deal about this present subject and had spoken to us before, and only just

recently.

By this time you could feel the tense atmosphere in the Hall. Shortly he

described a black and white spaniel; then bending over and clasping his hands described how Barrie was demonstrating a trick with the dog, by

making it leap over his hands until the dog got impatient. He gave further

information which we were able to confirm. The audience was excited. I

noticed that a man on the other side of my wife was unashamedly crying. He told us afterwards he had recently lost his wife, and this thing he had

witnessed had given him the first comforting conviction of his wife's

survival.

The medium moved, as if to conclude the demonstration—when Barrie stopped him. The medium smiled and said—"My word, this son of yours

is persistent. He wants to say one other thing—Dad is a writer and has

written a successful book, but he has to write another one, and it will be on this subject of survival."

That was the first time I had heard this request.

In conclusion the medium asked if we had ever met him before. When

my wife replied to the effect that this was our first visit, that we had

come 6,000 miles from Durban, there came greetings from South Africans and Rhodesians in the audience. The demonstration lasted

nearly 20 minutes.

After the meeting it took a little time to get out of the Hall. We were besieged by eager questioners—was it all true?—was it really our son?—

did he really know anything of this subject?

He knew so much that here I am, in spite of myself, carrying out his

instructions.

While we were in England, Barrie helped us to find the Norman Gatehouse, after which Warriors Gate was designed. We had been

searching in Kent but, about to give it up, he then told us to go to Peper

Harow, in Surrey, where, with local assistance, we found it, although it

was now used as a barn.

*****

In thousands of miles of travel I have been asked by many friends why I

am so certain that "old soldiers never die". To such friends these notes

are dedicated.

Many millions in all ages have accepted the belief in survival, countless

others have found that belief difficult, partly due to the bitterness of war.

In wartime thousands of young men stand on the brink of the unknown,

asking questions or hearing arguments such as I heard on Gallipoli. And many of their kindred "stand and wait" and should the telephone ring, or

a fatal telegram arrive, they too, are afflicted by the unknown and suffer

overwhelming grief.

It is much the same in civil life. In this present existence, with its increasing hazards, the journey for many is a journey through life

towards the unknown, and through a world much distracted by disorder.

In this life all people are part of the same spiritual universe, but are of

infinite variety, as are the flowers of the earth.

The good sower, however, does not throw seeds of wheat, oats, rye,

barley and maize into the same field, for if he did, disorder and ruin

would result. Affinity makes for order.

To each field, its own seed. For each bird, its own flock. And over all, the ordered heavens, each star in its own place, a perpetual lesson in the

first need of orderly progression.

The wisest men have said that were one-third the treasure given to world

armaments bestowed on orderly human relations, there would be no need for the "science" of war ... a note frequently sounded by Barrie.

*****

TWELVE

At intervals in the last few years Barrie has gently reminded me of the need to record these notes, and I have wondered on each occasion how I

could write of all the things he has said, which seem so unreal to the

material world —of the circumstance, for example, that after violent death there is a quick return to consciousness, and aided by friendly and

apparently ordinary people, a gradual withdrawal to cheerful

surroundings, a sylvan retreat of convalescence, where a more virile life begins, in which, in vivid contrast to the disorder of the earth, there is

creative activity, orderly progression, harmony and beauty, where

another stage of learning is reached — yet only another stage, for though

knowing more they cannot answer all our questions.

Here was my difficulty, how could I write of these matters with so little

explanation of things which still mystify? For a long time these things

seemed off the beaten track and to attempt a clear record appeared

problematical.

Then, a few weeks ago, that mysterious, repetitive pattern returned.

Barrie initiated the plea; Betty, not knowing it, repeated the plea, then, in

the course of a few hours, came others, making the same plea for help. I

had to take notice.

It began with a contact so vivid that Barrie seemed to be sitting close at

my side. He wasted no time on lesser matters but started once more on

the need to write—―I don‘t want you to write a thick book, Dad ... what I

mean is something like the booklet you wrote during the war, the one you called 'All Me: Return '."

During the war I wrote six newspaper articles to help the bereaved fight

the illusion of loss. Because of many requests these were put together in

booklet form and four thousand copies were freely distributed to those needing them.

In due course we received hundreds of letters acknowledging the help

given, and later, Queen Elizabeth, now The Queen Mother, by whom I had been received in connection with the Order I founded, sent me a

kindly note of appreciation. But that was many years ago and the booklet

had long since gone out of print. Now with due guidance, Barrie's simple

direction had clarified the present attempt. "It will help others‖, he repeated, "even if you only record the outline of your experiences ". And

as if to underline the urgency of his call, other calls quickly followed —

as previously noted, a pattern not unlike corresponding beads strung

upon the same thread.

*****

Within a few hours Betty, came your own moving letter. After I had read

it the telephone rang, and I was urgently asked to see a friend whose good wife had suddenly passed over. The same afternoon two friends

asked me if I had a copy left of "All Men Return". Four calls for the

same kind of help within a very few hours.

And so Betty, with Barrie's aid, I have written these things for you and Rodney and others, in the modest hope that these things will hurt no one,

but give a little help where needed. I have no feeling that what I have

written is of any importance, when one thinks of the great truths written

on survival. So if my narrative is not always clear you may put it down to my indifferent writing. Of the sincerity of the things told me by Barrie

and others, there can be no doubt. Faith in the continuity of life is not

wishful thinking, but is completely justified in all ages.

*****

To pray for the "dead" is to pray for the Living. In sincere prayer,

thoughts are energised by the Unseen, and we tune in to a greater Love.

There is only one spiritual Universe and no-one passes from it. No-one

stands alone. Where there is Love there can be no division ... and

Thought, the magic carpet of Love, is a two-way Highway, in giving, and

receiving.

They help us, as we help them. Always.

EVO

*****

POSTSCRIPT

The manuscript of this small book was read by Betty and others before it

was printed. In due course Betty replied but as some small sense of

modesty prevents quoting the whole of her reply, it is perhaps only fair to the reader to allow an extract. ―How can I express in words" she wrote,

"this wonderful thing you have done for me? In my letter to you — the

one you quote — I wrote 'comfort there is none'. You have disproved my statement completely, by showing me how relatively unimportant is the

human body in the scheme of things. Mysteries still remain, but the

message of hope I sought you have supplied . . . bless you for the peace of mind you have brought to me and others. . . . Betty."

*****

THE appeal of this book (written in the author's private capacity) is to render a service.

Our lives consist of sunshine and shadow, and we cannot have one

without the other. The sunshine gladdens our hearts, but when shadows

appear we sometimes need alleviation from grief and sorrow.

The best alleviation comes from helping others. Therefore, if this small book has helped you, do not hide it away, don't withhold its ray of light.

Seek to help a friend who suffers, and give them this simple story. To

help them will help you.

****

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Charles Alfred Evenden, the eldest of the thirteen children was born in

London to John Charles Evenden of Kent and his wife, Elizabeth

Gregory on 1 October 1894.

He was educated at Haggerston Road School in the London Borough of

Hackney. At the age of twelve, he was top of the school and remained

there for two years, winning two scholarships to Charterhouse School.

However, his parents did not have the means to send him to Charterhouse and found him a job in a factory instead at half-a-crown a

week. To supplement his income he took to selling newspapers. While

doing this he began studying newspaper cartoons. This inspired him in the drawing classes he attended and on one occasion he sent a cartoon to

the Daily Express. The psychological effect of this act was to influence

his whole life.

World War He joined the Australian Army in World War I and was sent to Egypt. As a member of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps,

he took part in the Gallipoli campaign until he was badly shell-shocked

and evacuated to Malta. He was hospitalised in England and at the cessation of hostilities returned to a farming life in Australia.

Memorable Order of Tin Hats

According to the Dictionary of South African Biography, one night in

1927 after he and the editor of The Natal Mercury, RJ Kingston Russell, had seen a war film, Evenden was persuaded to draw a cartoon on

'remembrance'. According to the Dictionary, "The cartoon showed a tin

helmet surmounted by a burning candle. Around the flames of the candle were six words – True Comradeship–Mutual Help–Sound Memory".

However, the official MOTH website carries a cartoon captioned

Forgetfulness and this led to the founding of the Order. This is confirmed

by the Eastern Province Herald which describes the cartoon as follows: "a bullet- and shrapnel-riddled Allied helmet awash in the ocean. In the

background a steamship passes over the horizon, leaving the forgotten,

ghostly form of a veteran forlornly wading through the water."

The concepts of True Comradeship, Mutual Help and Sound Memory were to become the inspiration of a remarkable organisation of ex-front

line soldiers, of all ranks, known as the Memorable Order of Tin Hats

(MOTH). Evenden, as the founder of the movement and its guiding

inspiration was given the title of 'Moth O' - a position he held until his

death.

The membership of the MOTH movement, under Evenden's vigorous direction and leadership, grew into thousands. Men and women of two

world wars, of the Second Anglo Boer War (1899–1902) and even those

of former enemy forces streamed into its ranks. All who were prepared to keep alive the memories of comradeship and self-sacrifice - the finer

virtues that war brings forth - were welcomed and made at home in

―shell-holes‖ with colourful and meaningful names of war-time memories and occasions. The shell-holes spread to the United Kingdom,

Australia, New Zealand and to Rhodesia (Zimbabwe). Membership was

extended to those who had participated in the South African Border War.

The MOTH national headquarters is situated in Warriors‘ Gate, Durban, which is modeled on a Norman design from a photograph given to

Evenden by Admiral Evans-of-the-Broke. In 1948 Evenden opened

Mount Memory, a monument to the missing and dead of the Second World War, in the foothills of the Drakensberg mountains.

Writings

Evenden wrote the story of how the MOTH organisation was created in his book Old soldiers never die (Durban, 1952). He was also the author

of Like a little candle (Durban, 1959).

Recognition

In 1955 he was received by Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, at Clarence House.

On 11 November 1955 the freedom of the city of Durban was conferred

on him, at a parade of 14 000 Moths, by the then Mayor, Councilor

Vernon Essery

After his death in Durban on 1 April 1961 Evenden was cremated, and

his ashes were scattered over the Durban bay.

ex Wikipedia

*****

If you enjoyed reading ―Like a Little Candle‖ we

recommend the following title/s in the same genre:

Four Minutes Past Midnight – by B. A. Kilgour

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005MZISAM

*****