Ghosts Have Warm Hands: The Pull of War, Memory, and the Paranormal

Will R Bird, Ghosts have warm hands

There are certain stories in the paranormal world that make you pause for breath in the way that, they just stop you in your tracks, not because of the shock value, but because of the raw humanity and hope that they contain. One such account I heard recently comes from Will R. Bird’s memoir "Ghosts Have Warm Hands", an extraordinary book that recounts his time in the trenches during the First World War with the 42nd Battalion of the Black Watch of Canada. The First World War, told by people who were there is such a place of horror that finding messages of hope and peace are rare but heart warming.

I’ve always found myself drawn to military paranormal investigations. It’s as though these battlefields or sites have some sort of magnetic energy pulling me towards them, places where duty, courage, trauma, and sacrifice have fused into the very soil. These sites and stories resonate differently. They’re not just “haunted locations,” you can feel them, they are vast emotional landscapes imprinted with human stories that demand to be remembered and having been in the Military myself for so long, you feel like you can closer relate to the personalities and their stories.

Bird’s story is one of the most compelling examples of how the paranormal intersects with war, grief, and survival. Sceptics may say that he was day dreaming, waking sleep or some other reason, but there is no doubting that Bird believed in his truth and that his brother's promise was kept.

A Promise Kept Beyond Death

Before heading to France in 1914, Will’s younger brother Steve had made him a promise, “If I don’t come back, I’ll try to find some way to keep an eye on you.” Steve was Missing believed killed in Action in 1915, and somehow, he kept that promise. Throughout the war, Steve appeared to Will on several occasions. Sometimes he guided him, saving his life.

One of the most remarkable encounters took place at Vimy Ridge. After a long and bitterly cold night working with barbed wire, Will finally found shelter with two comrades in a dug-out bivvy carved into a railway embankment. Exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep.

What happened next cannot be explained by chance and here is his own account (Bird, WR, 1997, P28-30):

The ground sheet pegged over our heads was pulled free and fell on my face, rousing me. Then a firm warm hand seized one of mine and pulled me up to a sitting position. It was very early, as first sunshine was glittering on the dew-wet grass. I was annoyed that I should have to do some chore after being out so late. I tried to pull free. But the grip held, and as I came to a sitting-up position my other hand was seized and I had a look at my visitor.

In an instant I was out of the bivvy, so surprised I could not speak. I was face to face with my brother, Steve, who had been killed in 1915! The first notice from the War Office had said: "Missing, believed dead." After a time one of his mates wrote to say a boot had been found with his name on it. The Germans had mined the Canadian trench and blown it up.

Steve grinned as he released my hands, then put his warm hand over my mouth as I started to shout my happiness. He pointed to the sleepers in the bivvy and to my rifle and equipment. "Get your gear", he said softly.

As I grabbed it he turned and started walking away rapidly. It was hard to keep up with him. We passed make-shift shelters filled with sleeping men of my platoon. No one was awake. Now and then a gun fired off toward the Somme or a machine-gun chattered, but on the whole it was a quiet morning. As soon as we got past the shelters I hurried to get close to Steve. "Why didn't you write Mother?" I asked.

He turned and the grin was still on his face. "Wait", he said. "Don't talk yet."

Then I noticed he had a soft cap on and no gas mask or equipment. Somehow he had learned where the 42nd was, and "D" Company, but how in the world did he know where I was sleeping?

We left the company area and headed directly into a collection of ruins that had been Petit Vimy. "There's no one around here," I said. "How did you know where to find me?"

At that moment my equipment, slung hurriedly over one should, slipped off and fell to the ground before I could catch it. As I stopped and retrieved it Steve went into a passageway in the ruins and I ran to catch him. Arrived there, I saw one way went right and the other left. Which way had he gone? "Steve"! I called. There was no answer, so I dropped my rifle and gear and ran to the right. It only took minutes - two or three - to get to the far side, but there was no sign of my brother. I ran back and called again, took the way to the left, searched and searched again, called repeatedly, but could not find him. Finally, I sat down on my equipment and leaned back against a bit of wall. I was tired and sweating and excited. A great desire to find our officer and get the day off took hold of me, but I realized I did not know where the officer or sergeant-major were, and if I left the immediate area and Steve returned he would not know where I had gone. Probably he had no pass and did not want to be seen. If only I had not bothered with my equipment I could have kept up with him!

Minutes went by. I got up and made another search of the ruins. The sun began to glisten on the tops of the broken walls. I settled back more comfortably on my equipment and heard the usual morning stir of guns firing registering shots. The sun got warmer. I dozed.

Suddenly I was shaken awake. Tommy had me by the arm and was yelling. "He's here! Bill's here!"

I stumbled up, dazed, looked at my watch. It was nine o'clock.

"What's made you come here?" Tommy was asking. "What happened?"

"What's all the row about?" I countered.

"You should know. They're digging around that bivvy you were in. All they've found is Jim's helmet and one of Bob's legs."

"Legs!" I echoed stupidly. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you know that a big shell landed in the bivvy? They've been trying to find something of you."

It seemed utterly incredible. I put on my gear and followed Tommy. There was a great cavity in the embankment and debris was scattered over the whole area. Mickey came running to shake hands with me.

WW1 Battlefields imprinted in our minds

The Paranormal in the Theatre of War

For me, this account highlights something profound, the battlefield is not only a place of horror and sacrifice but also of extraordinary moments of connection that transcend death. Whether we interpret Steve’s appearance as a ghost, a guardian spirit, or the fulfilment of a brother’s vow, it is clear that Will believed it was real and that belief saved his life.

Stories like this fuel my own passion for exploring the paranormal in military contexts. Sites of conflict are unlike any other because of the sheer scale of suffering, the intensity of human emotion, and the weight of unresolved grief create conditions where the energy seems to me to be stronger than anywhere else.

In my own investigations, I often feel that pull, a sensation that history itself is reaching out. Sometimes it manifests as a sound or a fleeting shadow. Other times, it’s just a presence, a feeling within me.

Ghosts with Warm Hands - Why These Stories Matter

It’s tempting to reduce ghost stories from the battlefield to superstition or imagination. However, they are testimonies of resilience, reminders of promises kept, and echoes of bonds that even war could not sever.

Will Bird’s Ghosts Have Warm Hands is not just a war memoir it’s a paranormal account grounded in lived experience, written by a man who survived the trenches in part because of a brother who refused to let go.

To me, this is partly that which makes military hauntings so powerful. They remind us that history is not dead, it is alive, reaching out through memories of those who survived, and on this occasion survived because of the warmth of a ghost’s hand.

Reference: Bird, W.R. (1997) Ghosts have warm hands: A memoir of the Great War, 1916-1919. 1st ed. Nepean: CEF Books.

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