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My Regression

By Mick Cole

As a small boy I always had a fascination for World War Two, and the Spitfire aeroplane in particular.

But then, there probably weren’t that many small boys who didn’t dream they were a fighter pilot fighting the big bad Germans.

As I grew older, I started to attend air shows with my Father and started to realise I felt completely at ease around aircraft. In fact I didn’t just feel at ease, I felt a sense of belonging whenever I was around aircraft.

In particular the Spitfire.

It was around this time I began to realise my interest in the Spitfire was more than just boyhood fascination. It went deeper, much deeper.

Whenever old World War Two songs were played on the radio I found myself singing along to them. How did I know the words? I had no idea.

Every year I go to the Royal Air force Association air show at Shoreham in Sussex. At the end of the flying display there is always a tribute band playing the wartime hits. “We’ll Meet Again”, “White Cliffs of Dover”, A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square ” etc. I was in my element.

My Father would often comment how strange it was that people of my generation would like songs from that generation. It didn’t seem strange to me. It felt natural.

Things started to come to a head a couple of years ago when at the Shoreham Air Show a Spitfire was coming in to land. I casually remarked to my Father that the pilot had got the trim all wrong on his approach and that he would have to go around again otherwise he would bounce the aircraft all over the runway.

No sooner had I finished speaking the commentator said “Oh, he’s got that trim all wrong. He’s going to have to go round again.”

My Father was more than a little curious how I knew. I didn’t know how I knew. I just did.

Later that same day my we were in a tent speaking to a few Battle of Britain pilots. They were commenting on how great the Spitfire was and what a joy it was to fly. Without even thinking, I said “ I have to agree with you on that. The only bad part on the design was that the throttle controls were on the port side of the aircraft and the undercarriage controls were on the starboard. On take-off, your right hand is holding the centre stick whilst your left hand is opening up the throttle. After take-off, you had to move your left hand off the throttle to the centre stick so you could keep that steady so you could take your right hand off the centre stick so you could raise the undercarriage. Once the wheels were up, you had to swap your hands over again.”

The old Pilots and my Father just looked at me with mouths open. How had I known that? I had no idea.

Again, later that day, my Father and I were looking at the sideshows and a painting of a Spitfire flying back across the white cliffs of Dover caught my eye. I remarked, “I have got to have that painting” I didn’t know at the time why that painting was so important. I just had to have it. The relevance of this painting will become clear at the end of this article.

By now, I was desperate to find out why my attraction to World War Two, and in particular the Spitfire, was so intense.

Not long after this particular air show, I went to a psychic party where I met a medium, Lin Rowden-Allen. I enquired as to whether she carried out regressions, or could help me to recall past lives, a few days later, I booked into one of Lin’s past life workshops.

On March 12th, 2005 I went to the past life workshop. The whole regression session was tape-recorded.

As I “went under” I could hear her voice asking:

“What is your name?”“George Hudson ” I replied. “But my friends call me ‘udders’ ”
“What year is it?”“1940”
“Where are you?”“On an airfield”
“What are you wearing?”“A flying suit. I fly fighters”
“Hurricanes?”“No, Spitfires”
“How old are you?”“21”
“Ah, 21. Time for celebration”“No, not really. We’re at war and I don’t think I’m going to survive this”
“You must have some to yourself to celebrate?"“We don’t get any rest days. There’re aren’t enough of us”
“Where do your parents come from?”“They live in Dymchurch”
“Do you want to come back now?”“ No, I’ve got to go. We’ve got a squadronscramble. Jerry’s having a go at our shipping in the channel”
“Okay, your mission has been successful. You’re coming back now”“Yes”

George is now crying uncontrollably

“Why are you crying? You’re back safely. Everything is alright”“Everything is not alright. My best friend Johnny has been killed. I saw him go down in the sea”

It was at this point Lin stopped the session and brought me back. I still had vivid recollections of Johnny’s death and was extremely upset and tearful for some time afterwards.

At home that evening I kept thinking, “Was that for real?” It had to be. It felt so real.

That night I had the most bizarre dream. I was back in the dispersal hut on the airfield in 1940. My squadron comrades were around me. It was so real. They were saying, “We don’t call you ‘Udders’, we call you ‘Hudders’ and your parents aren’t from Dymchurch, they’re from Manchester. They were only staying in Dymchurch so they could be near you”

I awoke with a jolt. Was that dream for real? Was it possible that George’s comrades were really coming through to make sure the story was straight.

I didn’t really sleep much for the rest of the night. I kept thinking about the regression and my dream. It all seemed so real.

The next day, my 22 year old son ‘phoned me, very excited. “Dad, I’ve found you!” What did he mean he’d “found” me?

He had logged on to the Commonwealth War Graves Commission Website. He also sent over the website link by email so I could see the entry for myself.

There it was.

Name: Hudson, George.
Rank: Sergeant.
Regiment: Royal Air Force.
Age: 21.
Date of Death: 03/06/1940.
Casualty Type: Commonwealth War Dead.
Parents came from Manchester

My whole body was covered in Goosebumps.

It had to be real. The answers to all my burning questions had been answered.

I thought this was now the end of it. I’ve had the regression. I have my answers. What else could there be?

Just over a year later I was to find out.

I was working in private practice as a Dispensing Optician. An elderly lady came in and I recognised her immediately. I wasn’t sure where I knew her from, but I was sure I knew her. As she was getting up to go, she dropped her handbag and a few documents fell out. I picked them up and saw the surname on one of these documents.

(I shall not say what the name was on those documents so that any living member the family who may read this does not become upset).

In an instant I knew where I knew this lady from. I asked her if she had a husband called Johnny. She replied she did have a husband called Johnny. He had been killed during the war but how could I possibly know that. I asked her how open minded she was. She said “reasonably” and so we sat and talked. And talked. And talked.

After quite a while she was quite convinced I had been who I said I had been, but she needed one more firm piece of evidence to really convince her. I asked her if she had a photograph of Johnny standing on the wing of an aeroplane, cudling a tan coloured spaniel dog and had this photograph been taken in France. She looked stunned and said she had. I replied, “I know. I took it”.

She left the practice saying she needed time to get her head around this. So did I.

A couple of days later she came back in with her son. She had been pregnant with him when Johnny was killed. He was very keen to meet me. We spoke for a while and then Johnny’s wife said she had a lot of photographs from the war, including ones’ of me as George!

I couldn’t believe it. Not only did I now know for sure I had lived before, I was actually going to see what I looked like.

They were very old photographs and not in particularly good condition, so she said she would take them to a photographic studio and have them digitally restored. She said when it was done she would bring the disc and the new prints in to me.

This lady was being so kind to me.

About a week later Johnny’s wife brought in the disc and the photographs. I saw myself in my past life as George Hudson. It was very emotional for us both. George at 21 was the spitting image of myself in this life at the same age. It was very uncanny.

She then made a gesture for which I will always be grateful. She said she had two medals of Johnny’s at home. One was the World War Two medal that all serviceman who served in that war, or their dependants received. The other was a medal that any serviceman who had spent more than three months in the European theatre of war received. She said that the parents of George would have received these. She wanted me to have Johnny’s. She said as we were best friends I had earned them and it is what he would have wanted. I tried to protest but she insisted. So did her son. She said she would bring them in later that week.

My emotions were now all over the place. I was an emotional wreck.

Near the beginning of this article I mentioned a painting I saw at an air show that I just had to have.

Whilst looking at the photos, the relevance of this picture became clear. Or at least I thought it had. One of the photos Johnny’s wife gave me was a propaganda photograph of my squadron flying in formation. The photograph showed Johnny’s Spitfire, DW-O in the background and me (George) in the foreground flying DW-K.

The squadron Johnny and George used to fly with was 610 squadron. The Spitfire in the painting that I just had to have is showing the markings of 610 squadron!

Spitefires in formation

This picture shows Johnny in the background flying DW-O and me (George) in the foreground flying DW-K


This is a photo of the painting I saw at the air show that I just had to have.

As I mentioned, I thought the relevance of this painting and my yearning for it had become clear. The fact that it showed my (George’s) squadron was only half the story.

When Johnny’s wife came in to give me the medals, (I still feel quite emotional about that even as I write this), I took in the painting to show her.

This is where the full relevance of this painting becomes clear. She said this painting was commissioned by her after the war to commemorate and acknowledge the near miss her husband once had over the channel shortly before he was killed. She said George had been flying with him that day and it was George that had actually saved him. She said that was what she had meant when she said I had earned the medals she had just given me.

You cannot see it very clearly in the picture in this article, but the aircraft registration numbers on the Spitfire are DW-O, Johnny’s Spitfire. Further more, she has the original in her front room.

Johnny’s medals are now proudly displayed in a cabinet at my home.

Another coincidence that has just occurred is the release of a new painting by a new aviation artist Richard Taylor. It shows Spitfires from 610 squadron patrolling over Dover. The actual Spitfire pictured is mine (George’s), DW-K.

Spitefires in formation

The newly released picture showing Spitfire DW-K from 610 Squadron


My (George’s) Spitfire DW-K from 610 Squadron

I have heard it said that many people become depressed after a regression. I personally feel elated. My questions have been answered.

I cannot thank Johnny’s wife enough for her kindness and generosity for allowing me this insight into my previous life, and I cannot thank Lin enough for carrying out the regression that finally allowed me to open up that part of my mind that keeps those memories.

Lin said that I would probably remember more and more as the months and years past. She was not wrong. I have remembered so much more of my past life since the regression. Most of it comes to me in dreams, but there are occasions when I will suddenly remember something and smile.

The War Graves Commission Website states George Hudson is buried in a Churchyard on the Isle of Wight.

No prizes for guessing where I ‘m going on holiday this year.