500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

Off went Sandy, to return hastily with a face whiter than usual, and saying in his high treble: "'Appy, I can't fetch them. There's two awful eyes in that shed."

Subsequently Jerry practically obliterated the farm, and when we returned to the line "Happy" Day appropriated the goat as a mascot.

We had only been in the line a few hours when we had the worst bombardment I remember. Sandy and the goat seemed kindred spirits in their misery and terror.

"Happy" had joined the great majority. The goat, having wearied of trench life and army service, had gone over the top on his own account. The next thing we knew was that Sandy was "over" after him, shells dropping around them. Then the goat and "Sandy Greatheart" disappeared behind a cloud of black and yellow smoke. —S. G. Bushell (late Royal Berks), 21 Moore Buildings, Gilbert Street, W.

Jennie the Flier

It was my job for about two months, somewhere in the summer of 1917, to take Jennie the mule up to the trenches twice a day with rations, or shells, for the 35th Trench Mortar Battery, to which I was attached. We had to cover about 5 kilos. from the Q.M. stores at Rouville, Arras, to the line. When Jerry put a few over our way it was a job to get Jennie forward.

One night we arrived with a full load, and the officer warned me to get unloaded quick as there was to be a big bombardment. No sooner had I finished than over came the first shell – and away went Jennie, bowling over two or three gunners.

Someone caught her and I mounted for the return journey. Then the bombardment began in earnest.

You ought to have seen her go! Talk about a racehorse! I kept saying, "Gee up, Jennie, old girl, don't get the wind up, we shall soon get back to Rouville!"

I looked round and could see the flashes of the guns. That was the way to make Jennie go. She never thought of stopping till we got home. —W. Holmes (9th Essex Regiment), 72 Fleet Road, Hampstead, N.W.

A Mission Fulfilled

On August 28, 1916, we were told to take over a series of food dumps which had been formed in the front and support lines at Hamel, on the Ancre, before a general attack came off.

On the following night Corporal W – , a true and gallant Cockney who was in charge of a party going back to fetch rations, came to my dug-out to know if there were anything special I wished him to bring.

I asked him to bring me a tin of cigarettes. On the return journey, as the party was crossing a road which cut through one of the communicating trenches, a shell struck the road, killing two privates and fatally wounding Corporal W – .

Without a word the corporal put his hand into his pocket and, producing a tin, held it out to an uninjured member of the party.

I got my smokes. —L. J. Morgan (late Capt., The Royal Sussex Regiment), 1 Nevern Square, S.W.5.

He Saved the Tea

On the night before our big attack on July 1, 1916, on the Somme, eight of us were in a dug-out getting a little rest. Jerry must have found some extra shells for he was strafing pretty heavily.

Two Cockney pals from Stratford were busy down on their hands and knees with some lighted grease and pieces of dry sandbag, trying to boil a mess-tin of water to make some tea.

The water was nearly on the boil when Jerry dropped a "big 'un" right into the side of our dug-out.

The smoke and dust had hardly cleared, when one of the Stratfordites exclaimed, looking down at the overturned mess-tin, "Blimey, that's caused it." Almost immediately his pal (lying on his back, his face covered with blood and dirt, and his right hand clasped tightly) answered: "'S'all right. I ain't put the tea and sugar in." —J. Russ (Cpl., late 6th Battn. Royal Berkshire Regt.), 309 Ilford Lane, Ilford, Essex.

Old Dutch Unlucky

After a week in Ypres Salient in February 1915 we were back at a place called Vlamertinghe "resting," i.e. providing the usual working parties at night. Going out with one of these parties, well loaded with barbed wire, poles, etc., our rifles slung on our shoulders, things in general were fairly quiet. A stray bullet struck the piling swivel of the rifle of "Darkie," the man in front of me. "Missed my head by the skin of its teeth," said "Darkie." "Good job the old Dutch wasn't here. She reckons she's been unlucky ever since she set eyes on me – and there's another pension for life gone beggin'." —B. Wiseman (late Oxford and Bucks L.I.), 12 Ursula Street, Battersea, S.W.11.

A Long Streak of Misery

Dusk was falling on the second day of the battle of Loos. I was pottering about looking for the other end of our line at the entrance to Orchard Street trench. A voice hailed me: "'Ere, mate! Is this the way aht?"

It came from a little Cockney, a so-called "walking" wounded case. Immediately behind him there hobbled painfully six feet of complete abjection.

I gave them directions, and told them that in two or three hundred yards they should be out of danger. Then Jerry dropped a "crump." It tortured the sorely-tried nerves of the long fellow, and when the bricks and dust had settled, he declared, with sudden conviction: "We're going to lose this blinkin' war, we are!"

His companion gave him a look of contempt.

"You ain't 'arf a long streak of misery," he said. "If I fort that I'd go back nah an' 'ave another shot at 'em – even if you 'ad to carry me back." —"Lines," (33 (S) Bty), 24 Clifton Road, Maida Vale, W.9.

"Smudger's" Tattoo

"Smudger" Smith, from Hoxton, had just returned off leave, and joined us at Frankton Camp, near Ypres. Not long after his arrival "Jerry" started strafing us with his long-range guns, but "Smudger" was more concerned with the tattooing which he had had done on his arms on leave.

I said they were very disfiguring, and advised him to have them removed, giving him an address to go to when he was again in London, and telling him the probable price.

Not very long after our conversation "Jerry" landed a shell about forty yards away from us and made us part company for a while. When I pulled myself together and looked for "Smudger" he was half-buried with earth and looked in much pain.

I went over to him and began to dig him out. Whilst I was thus engaged he said to me in a weak voice, but with a smile on his face:

"How much did yer say it would corst to take them tattoos orf?" And when I told him he replied: "I fink I can get 'em done at harf-price nah."

When I dug him out I found he had lost one arm. —E. R. Wilson (late East Lancs Regt.), 22 Brindley Street, Shardeloes Road, New Cross, S.E.14.

Importance of a "Miss"

Soon after the capture of Hill 70 an artillery observation post was established near the new front line. A telephone line was laid to it, but owing to persistent shelling the wire soon became a mere succession of knots and joints. Communication was established at rare intervals, and repairing the line was a full-time job. A Cockney signaller and I went out at daybreak one morning to add more joints to the collection, and after using every scrap of spare wire available made another temporary job of it.

Returning, however, we found at a cross-over that the wire had fallen from a short piece of board that had been stuck in the parapet to keep it clear of the trench. As my pal reached up to replace it his head caught the eye of a sniper, whose bullet, missing by a fraction, struck and knocked down the piece of wood.

The signaller's exclamation was: "Blimey, mate, it's lucky he ain't broke the blinkin' line again!" —J. Hudson (late R.G.A.), 6 Ventnor Road, New Cross, S.E.14.

"In the Midst of War – "

A battalion of a London regiment was in reserve in Rivière-Grosville, a small village just behind the line, in March 1917. Towards midnight we were ordered to fall in in fighting order as it was believed that the Germans had retired.

Our mission was to reconnoitre the German position, and we were cautioned that absolute silence must be preserved.

All went well until we reached the German barbed wire entanglements, that had to be negotiated by narrow paths, through which we proceeded softly and slowly, and with the wind "well up."

Suddenly the air was rent by a stream of blistering invective, and a Cockney Tommy turned round on his pal, who had tripped and accidentally prodded him with the point of his bayonet, and at the top of his voice said:

"Hi, wot's the blinkin' gime, Charlie? Do that again and I'll knock yer ruddy 'ead off."

Charlie raised his voice to the level of the other's and said he'd like to see him do it, and while we flattened ourselves on the ground expecting a storm of bullets and bombs at any moment, the two pals dropped their rifles and had it out with their fists.

Fortunately, rumour was correct, the Germans had retired. —H. T. Scillitoe, 77 Stanmore Road, Stevenage, Herts.

A Case for the Ordnance

A pitch dark night on the Salonika front in 1917. I was in charge of an advanced detachment near a railhead.