500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

An officer with our lot was a regular dare-devil. He always boasted that the German bullet had not yet been made which could find him.

One day, regardless of his own safety, he was on the parapet, and though many shots came over he seemed to bear a charmed life.

One of the men happened to put his head just out of the trench when a bullet immediately struck his "tin hat" sending him backwards into the trench.

The officer, from the parapet, looked down and said, "You are a fool, I told you not to show yourself." —A. Smith (Cameronians), 40 Whitechapel Road, E.1.

Standing Up to the Turk

In the second attempt to capture Gaza we were making our advance in face of heavy machine-gun fire. In covering the ground we crouched as much as possible, the Turks directed their fire accordingly, and casualties were numerous, so our Cockney humorist shouted: "Stand up, boys. It's best to be hit in yer props (legs) than in yer blinkin' office (head)." —W. Reed (late 7th Battn., Essex Regiment), 3 Shenfield Road, Woodford Green, Essex.

Lodging with the Bombs

I was driving a lorry along the road from Dickebusch to Ypres when the Germans started shelling with shrapnel and high explosive.

By the side of the road was a cottage, partly ruined, with the window-space boarded up: and, with some idea of seeking protection from the flying fragments, I leaned up against one of the walls.

I hadn't been there long when a face appeared at a gap in the boards, and a voice said: "Do yer fink y're safe there, mate, cos we're chock full o' bombs in 'ere." —Edward Tracey, c/o Cowley Cottage, Cowley, Middlesex.

In Fine Feather

While on the Somme in 1916 my battery was sent to rest in a village behind the line. The billet allotted to us had been an hotel, and all the furniture, including bedsteads and feather mattresses, had been stored in the room which did duty as an orderly room.

Returning one day from exercise, we saw a flight of enemy 'planes coming over, and as we approached the billet a bomb was dropped straight through the roof of our building, the sole occupant of which at the time was a Cockney signaller on duty, in touch with Brigade Headquarters.

We hurried forward, expecting to find that our signaller had been killed. The orderly room was a scene of indescribable chaos. Papers were everywhere. Files and returns were mixed up with "iron rations," while in a corner of the room was a pile of feathers about 4 feet deep – all that remained of the feather mattresses. Of our signaller there was no sign.

As we looked around, however, his head appeared from beneath the feather pile. His face was streaming with blood, and he looked more dead than alive, but as he surveyed his temporary resting-place, a grin spread over his features, and he picked up a handful of feathers.

"Blimey!" he observed, "they must 'ave 'it a blinkin' sparrer." —"Gunner," Oxford Street, W.1.

All the Fun of the Fair

At Neuve Eglise, March 1918, we were suddenly attacked by Jerry, but drove him back. Every now and again we spotted Germans dodging across a gap in a hedge. At once a competition started as to who could catch a German with a bullet as he ran across the gap.

"Reminds me of shooting at the bottles and fings at the fair," said my pal, another Cockney Highlander.

A second later a piece of shrapnel caught him in the hand. "Blimey, I always said broken glass was dangerous," he remarked as he gazed sadly at the wound. —F. Adams (late H.L.I.), 64 Homestead Road, Becontree, Essex.

Teacup in a Storm

We were in support trenches near Havrincourt Wood in September 1917. At mid-day it was exceptionally quiet there as a rule.

Titch, our little Cockney cook, proceeded one day to make us some tea by the aid of four candles in a funk-hole. To aid this fire he added the usual bit of oily "waste," and thereby caused a thin trail of smoke to rise. The water was just on the boil when Jerry spotted our smoke and let fly in its direction everything he had handy.

Our trench was battered flat… We threw ourselves into a couple of old communication trenches. Looking around presently for our cook we found him sitting beneath a waterproof sheet calmly enjoying his sergeant-major's tea. "Ain't none of you blokes firsty?" was his greeting. —R. J. Richards (late 61st Trench Mortar Battery, 20th London Division), 15 London Street, W.2.

Jack's Unwelcome Present

Our company were holding the line, or what was a line of trenches a short time before, when Jerry opened out with all kinds of loudspeakers and musical instruments that go to make war real.

We were knocked about and nearly blinded with smoke and flying sandbags. The best we could do was to grope our way about with arms outstretched to feel just where we were.

Eventually someone clutched me, saying, "Is that you, Charlie – are you all right?"

"Yes, Jack," I answer, "are you all right?"

"Well, I don't know fer sure," he says as he dives his hand through his tunic to his chest and holds on to me with the other. I had a soft place in my heart for Jack, for nobody ever sent him a parcel, so what was mine was Jack's. But not the piece of shrapnel that came out when he withdrew his hand from inside his tunic!

"The only thing that ever I had sent me – and that from Jerry!" says Jack. "We was always taught to love our enemies!"

They sure loved us, for shortly after I received my little gift of love, which put me to by-by for several months. But that Cockney lad from East London never grumbled at his hard lot. He looked at me, his corporal, and no wonder he clung round my neck, for he has told me since the war that he was only sixteen then. A brave lad! —D. C. Maskell (late 20th Battn. Middlesex Regt.), 25 Lindley Road, Leyton, E.10.

Goalie Lets One Through

In September 1916 we landed in a portion of German trench and I was given orders to hang on. Shells were bursting all around us, so we decided to have a smoke.

My two Cockney pals – Nobby and Harry, who were a goalie and centre-forward respectively – were noted for their zeal in keeping us alive.

Nobby was eager to see what was going on over the top, so he had a peep – and for his pains got shot through the ear. He fell back in a heap and exclaimed, "Well saved, goalie! Couldn't been better if I'd tried."

"Garn," said Harry, bending over him, "it's blinkin' well gorn right frew, mate." —Patrick Beckwith, 5 Duke Road, Chiswick, W.4.

A Good Samaritan Foiled

I was rather badly wounded near Bullecourt, on the Arras front, and was lying on a stretcher outside the dressing station.

Nearby stood a burly Cockney with one arm heavily bandaged. In the other hand he held his ration of hot coffee.

Noticing my distress, he offered me his drink, saying, "'Ere y'are, mate, 'ave a swig at this." One of the stretcher-bearers cried: "Take that away! He mustn't have it!"

The Cockney slunk off.

"All right, ugly," he said. "Take the food aht of a poor bloke's mouf, would yer?"

Afterwards I learned the stretcher-bearer, by his action, had saved my life. Still, I shan't forget my Cockney friend's generosity. —A. P. S. (late 5th London Regiment), Ilford.

Proof of Marksmanship

Poperinghe: a pitch-black night. We were resting when a party of the West Indian Labour Company came marching past. Jerry sent one over. Luckily, only one of the party was hit.

A voice from the darkness: "Alf! keep low, mate. Jerry 'as got his eye in – 'e's 'it a nigger in the dark!" —C. Jakeman (late 4/4th City of London Royal Fusiliers), 5 Hembridge Place, St. John's Wood, N.W.8.

"Well, He Ain't Done In, See!"

During the great German offensive in March 1918 our company was trying to hold the enemy at Albert. My platoon was in an old trench in front of Albert station, and was in rather a tight corner, the casualties being pretty heavy. A runner managed to get through to us with a message. He asked our sergeant to send a man to another platoon with the message.

One of my pals, named Gordon, shouted, "Give it to me; I'll go."