500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

He crept out of the trench and up a steep incline and over the other side, and was apparently being peppered by machine-gun fire all the way. We had little hope of him ever getting there. About a couple of hours later another Cockney cried: "Blimey! He's coming back!"

We could see him now, crawling towards us. He got within a dozen yards of our trench, and then a Jerry "coal-box" arrived. It knocked us into the mud at the bottom of our trench and seemed to blow Gordon, together with a ton or so of earth, twenty feet in the air, and he came down in the trench.

"That's done the poor blighter in," said the other Cockney as we rushed to him. To our surprise Gordon spoke:

"Well, he ain't done in – see!"

He had got the message to the other platoon, and was little the worse for his experience of being blown skyward. I think that brave fellow's deed was one of many that had to go unrewarded. —H. Nachbaur (late 7th Suffolks), 4 Burnham Road, St. Albans, Herts.

"Baby's Fell Aht er Bed!"

The day before our division (38th Welch) captured Mametz Wood on the Somme, in July 1916, our platoon occupied a recently captured German trench. We were examining in a very deep dug-out some of Jerry's black bread when a heavy shell landed almost at the entrance with a tremendous crash. Earth, filled sandbags, etc., came thundering down the steps, and my thoughts were of being buried alive about forty feet underground. But amid all the din, Sam (from Walworth) amused us with his cry: "Muvver! Baby's fell aht er bed!" —P. Carter (late 1st London Welch), 6 Amhurst Terrace, Hackney, E.8.

Stamp Edging Wanted

During severe fighting in Cambrai in 1917 we were taking up position in the front line when suddenly over came a "present" from Jerry, scattering our men in all directions and causing a few casualties.

Among the unfortunate ones was a Cockney whose right hand was completely blown off.

In a sitting position he calmly turned to the private next to him and exclaimed "Blimey, they've blown me blinkin' German band (hand) off. Got a bit of stamp edging, mate?" —T. Evans, 24 Russell Road, Wood End Green, Northolt, Greenford.

"Oo's 'It – You or Me?"

It was our fifth day in the front line in a sector of the Arras front. In the afternoon, after a terrible barrage, Jerry came over the top on our left, leaving our immediate front severely alone.

Our platoon Lewis gun was manned at that time by "Cooty," a Cockney, he being "Number One" on the gun. We were blazing away at the advancing tide when a shell exploded close to the gun.

"Cooty" was seen to go rigid for a moment, and then he quickly rolled to one side to make way for "Number Two" to take his place. He took "Number Two's" position beside the gun.

The new "Number One" saw that "Cooty" had lost three fingers, and told him to retire. "Cooty" would not have that, but calmly began to refill an empty magazine. "Number One" again requested him to leave, and a sharp tiff occurred between them.

"Cooty" was heard to say, "Look 'ere, oo's 'it– you or me?" "You are," said "Number One."

"Then mind your own blinkin' business," said "Cooty," "and get on with shelling these peas."

Poor "Cooty," who had lost his left foot as well, passed out shortly after, was a Guardsman at one time. —D. S. T., Kilburn, N.W.

The Stocking Bomb

We were a desert mobile column, half-way across the Sinai Peninsula from Kantara to Gaza. Turkish aeroplanes paid us a daily visit and pelted us with home-made "stocking-bombs" (old socks filled with nails, old iron, and explosives).

On this particular day we were being bombed and a direct hit on one gunner's shoulder knocked him to the ground, but failed to explode.

Sitting up in pain he blinked at the stocking-bomb and then at the plane and shouted: "Nah chuck us yer blinkin' boots dahn!" He then fainted and we helped him, but could not resist a broad smile. —A. Crose, 77 Caistor Park Road, West Ham, E.15.

Not an Acrobat

In a communication trench on the Somme, near Guillemont, in August 1916, we were halted for a "blow" on our way up when Jerry opened with shrapnel.

Private Reynolds, from Marylebone, had his right hand cut off at the wrist. We bound his arm as best we could, and whilst doing so one man said to him, "A sure Blighty one, mate – and don't forget when you get home, drop us a line to let's know how you are getting on in hospital."

"Yus! I'll write all right," said Reynolds, and then, suddenly, "'Ere, wot d'yer fink I am, a blinkin' acrobat? 'Ow can I write wivout a right arm ter write wiv?" —A. Sharman (late 12th Royal Fusiliers), 177 Grenville Road, N.W.2.

Story Without an Ending

Our gun position lay just behind the Ancre, and Fritz generally strafed us for an hour or two each day, starting about the same time. When the first shell came over we used to take cover in a disused trench.

One day, when the strafe began, I grabbed two story magazines just before we went to the trench, and, arrived there, handed one to my Cockney pal.

We had both been reading for some time when a shell burst uncomfortably near, and a splinter hit my pal's book and shot it right out of his hand. At which he exclaimed: "Fritz, yer blighter, I'll never know nah whether he was goin' to marry the girl or cut 'er bloomin' froat." —G. W. Wicheloe (late 138th Heavy Battery, R.G.A.), 162 Stevens Road, Chadwell Heath, Essex.

Cause and Effect

A 5·9 had burst on the parados of our trench, and caused – as 5·9's usually did – a bit of a mess.

A brand-new officer came around the trench, saw the damage, and asked: "Whatever caused this mess?"

Without the slightest suspicion of a smile a Cockney private answered: "An explosive bullet, sir!" —C. T. Coates, 46 Hillingdon Street, London, S.E.17.

The Cockney and the Cop

During the final push near Cambrai Jerry had just been driven from a very elaborate observation post – a steel-constructed tower. Of course, we soon occupied it to enable us to see Jerry's hasty retreat.

No sooner had we got settled when, crash, Jerry had a battery of pipsqueaks trained on us, firing gas shells. A direct hit brought the building down.

By the time we had sorted ourselves out our eyes began to grow dim, and soon we were temporarily blind. So we took each other's hands, an ex-policeman leading.

After a few moments a Cockney friend chimed out, "Say, Cop, do you think you can find the lock-up now, or had you better blow your whistle?" —H. Rainford (late R.F.A.), 219 The Grove, Hammersmith, W.6.

In the Drorin' Room

It was on "W" Beach, Gallipoli, some months after the historic landing. It was fairly safe to picnic here, but for the attentions of "Beachy Bill," a big Turkish gun. I was with six other R.F.A. details in a dug-out which was labelled, or rather libelled, "The Ritz."

"Smiler" Smith gave it that name, and always referred to this verminous hovel in terms of respect. Chalked notices such as "Wait for the Lift," "Card Room," "Buffet," were his work.

A dull thud in the distance – the familiar scream – and plomp came one from "Bill," a few yards from the Ritz. Only "Smiler" was really hurt. He received a piece of shell on his arm. As they carried him away, he called faintly for his tobacco tin.

"Where did you leave it, 'Smiler'?"

"In the drorin' room on the grand pianner," said "Smiler" faintly. —Gunner W. (late 29th Division, R.F.A.).

Getting His Goat

Sandy was one of those whom nature seemed to have intended for a girl. Sandy by colour, pale and small of features, and without the sparkling wit of his Cockney comrades, he was the butt of many a joke.

One dark and dirty night we trailed out of the line at Vermelles and were billeted in a barn. The farmhouse still sheltered its owner and the remainder of his live-stock, including a goat in a small shed.

"Happy" Day, having discovered the goat, called out, "Hi, Sandy! There's some Maconochie rations in that 'ere shed. Fetch 'em in, mate."