The following is an excerpt from "Not Yet," (subsequently published under the title, "Someone Else's Yesterday") a manuscript by Jeff Keene about his past-life experiences. I had read this manuscript before I arranged to videotape the psychic reading, but I had not mentioned it or any of its contents to the psychic before or during the reading. Note that I am using the earlier version of Jeff's manuscript that I had in my possession before the psychic reading, not the more polished version he sent me later. I have corrected any spelling errors and I indicate where I have skipped portions, with elipses. Used by permission.
During my daily meditations, many amazing things would come to me. Fragments like faces, symbols or just eyes. Other times short scenes of a minute or less in duration would unfold. ... One recurring image was that of a soldier. The first time I came across him, he was crawling through leaves that were on the ground. He carried a rifle with a very long tube on top. I took it to be a scope. It occurred to me that the leaves could be friend or foe. Friend in the fact that they could conceal and foe because of the noise they make as one moves through them.
I have only had one audio episode since the night of the party. It happened as I was parking my car at the grocery store. While waiting for someone to back out of a parking space, I noticed a car behind me waiting to park also. A short distance up the line another car was backing out of a space. I figured I would take the farthest one and let the car behind me have the space I originally intended to park in. (This gives you an idea of where my mind was.) I pulled into the space and shut off the motor. Just then I heard one word "Fusilier". It was a strong voice emanating from behind me over my left shoulder. I looked around but saw nothing. I surveyed the area around the car and found no-one in the immediate vicinity of my car. The windows of the car were closed because of the weather. The voice had been loud and very clear, as if someone was calling to me. I rested my head on the steering wheel. What was going on? What was the meaning of this strange word? Later that day I stopped at the Trumbull Library. In the Oxford Dictionary I found the word "fusilier". "Originally, a solider armed with a fusil (a light weight musket or fire-lock.) In the British Army, the designation of "fusiliers" is still retained by certain regiments which are distinguished from the other regiments of the line only by wearing a kind of busby and by some small peculiarities of costume." Further down, it read: "All officers belonging to fusilier corps have two epaulets." Now the voice started to make sense. If someone had knowledge of British uniforms, upon approaching a fusilier from behind and seeing the two epaulets on his shoulders, all they had to do was call out "Fusilier!" If the person did not know the soldier's name or rank, but saw the double epaulets, he may do just that to get his attention.
Now I had a name for the crawling soldier of my meditation, not a proper name, but a regimental designation, Fusilier.
The Fusilier has played a prominent role in my meditations. His episodes were the longest in duration. I have kept a log and will recount them for you as they occurred.
First came short bursts, like flash cards, a diamond shape on an epaulet, brown uniform and the word "tam". Symbols and insignia like a small crown torch and wings with a dark border around them popped in and out of view (I would make drawings of these images). ...
...Once I found myself in the company of another man. We were on a hill looking down on a city street through field glasses. The man I was with said a three-word phrase in French. I wrote the words down phonetically (I do not speak or write French). I repeated this phrase to a local storekeeper who was born in France. I asked what does it mean. He said, "It sounds like you are saying the two passing, as if you were talking about two people passing in the street." I was surprised for this went along with my vision perfectly.
There was a view of a large city with a fire raging at its center. A huge column of smoke rising into the sky. All these were a prelude to small vignettes. It was remarkable how abruptly most of these started. As I lay on the couch one day, a very loud noise to my right caused me to jump, it was the sound of a very powerful airplane engine, popping and sputtering to life. The sound was then repeated to my left. I was standing in the middle of the fuselage of a plane facing toward the front. Above me I could see the head and shoulders of the pilot and copilot. Directly ahead of me on the same level I could see the transparent nosecone, small, metal bracing ran through it.
A short time later, there were bright flashes, possibly from bombs because of the low level we were flying at, or maybe from flack exlpoding near the plane. It may even have been from both sources. I remember thinking "I'm not part of the crew, they don't even know who I am or what I am. All they know is they are dropping me over Germany. I am going to France by way of Germany. I get the impression that the crew had been warned not to talk about me or the drop zone, even among themselves. To do so may cause them to spend the remainder of the war in a cell."
One day in a bookstore, I saw a book on WWII airplanes sitting on top of the bargain book pile. I skimmed through it. There, in a short section on bombers was the plane I had seen in my meditation. The nose was just as I had drawn it after my meditation. It was a "Martin Marauder," a fighter-bomber. There was one large engine on each wing. The American forces primarily used them but I was to soon find that some were also used by the British.
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