500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

"Smiffy" was in the bombing section of his platoon and had a bag of Mills grenades to carry.

Fritz began to get busy, and soon we had shrapnel bursting overhead. "Smiffy" immediately spread his body over his bag of bombs like a hen over a clutch of eggs.

"What the 'ell are you sprawling over them bombs for?" asked the sergeant.

"Well," replied Smiffy, "it's like this 'ere, sergeant. I wouldn't mind a little Blighty one meself, but I'd jest 'ate for any of these bombs ter get wounded while I'm wiv 'em." —T. E. M. (late London Regt.), Colliers Wood, S.W.19.

"Minnie's Stepped on my Toe!"

We were lying in front of Bapaume in August 1918 awaiting reinforcements. They came from Doullens, and among them was a Cockney straight from England. He greeted our sergeant with the words, "Wot time does the dance start?" The sergeant, an old-timer, replied, "The dance starts right now."

So over the top we went, but had not gone far when the Cockney was bowled over by a piece from a minnenwerfer, which took half of one foot away.

I was rendering first aid when the sergeant came along. He looked down and said, "Hello, my lad, soon got tired of the dance, eh?"

The little Cockney looked up and despite his pain he smiled and said, "On wiv the dance, sergeant! I'm sitting this one aht, fer Minnie has stepped on my toe." —E. C. Hobbs (late 1st Royal Marine Battn.), 103 Moore Park Road, Fulham, S.W.

In the Dim Dawn

Jerry had made a surprise raid on our trenches one morning just as it was getting light. He got very much the worst of it, but when everything was over Cockney Simmonds was missing.

We hunted everywhere, but couldn't find him. Suddenly we saw him approaching with a hefty looking German whom he had evidently taken prisoner.

"Where did you get him from, Simmonds?" we asked.

"Well, d'yer see that shell-'ole over there 'alf full o' water?"

"Yes," we said, all craning our necks to look.

"Well, this 'ere Fritz didn't." —L. Digby (12th East Surreys), 10 Windsor Road, Holloway, N.7.

Beau Brummell's Puttees

March 1918. Just before the big German offensive. One night I was out with a reconnoitring patrol in "No Man's Land." We had good reason to believe that Jerry also had a patrol in the near vicinity.

Suddenly a burst of machine-gun fire in our direction seemed to indicate that we had been spotted. We dived for shell-holes and any available cover, breathlessly watching the bullets knock sparks off the barbed wire. When the firing ceased and we attempted to re-form our little party, a Cockney known as "Posh" Wilks was missing.

Fearing the worst, we peered into the darkness. Just then a Verey light illuminated the scene, and we saw the form of "Posh" Wilks some little distance away. I went over to see what was wrong, and to my astonishment he was kneeling down carefully rewinding one of his puttees. "Can't get these ruddy things right anyhow to-day," he said. —H. W. White (late Royal Sussex Regt.), 18 Airthrie Road, Goodmayes, Essex.

Plenty of Room on Top

On December 4, 1917, we made a surprise attack on the enemy in the Jabal Hamrin range in Northern Mesopotamia.

We wore our winter clothing (the same as in Europe), with tin hats complete. After stumbling over the rocks in extended order for some time, the platoon on my left, who were on higher ground, sighted a Turkish camp fire on the right.

We swung round in that direction, to find ourselves up against an almost blank wall of rock, about 20 ft. high, the enemy being somewhere on top.

At last we found a place at which to scale it, one at a time. We began to mount, in breathless silence, expecting the first man to come tumbling down on top of all the rest.

I was the second, and just as I started to climb I felt two sharp tugs at my entrenching tool and a hoarse Cockney voice whispered, "Full up inside; plenty o' room on top." I was annoyed at the time, but I have often laughed over it since. —P. V. Harris, 89 Sherwood Park Road, S.W.16.

Nearly Lost His Washing-Bowl

In March 1917 we held the front line trenches opposite a sugar refinery held by the Germans. We got the order to stand to as our engineers were going to blow up a mine on the German position.

Up went the mine. Then Fritz started shelling us. Shells were bursting above and around us. A piece of shrapnel hit a Cockney, a lad from Paddington, on his tin hat.

When things calmed down another Cockney bawled out, "Lumme, that was a near one, Bill." "Blimey, not 'arf," was the reply. "If I 'adn't got my chin-strap dahn I'd 'ave lost my blooming washing-bowl." —E. Rickard (late Middlesex Regt.), 65 Apsley End, Hemel Hempstead, Herts.

Bath Night

The trenches on the Somme were very deep and up to our knees in mud, and we were a pretty fine sight after being in the front line several days over our time.

I shall never forget the night we passed out of the trenches – like a lot of mud-larks. The O.C., seeing the state we were in, ordered us to have a bath. We stopped at an old barn, where the R.E.'s had our water ready in wooden tubs. Imagine the state of the water when, six to a tub, we had to skim the mud off after one another!

Just as we were enjoying the treat, Jerry started sending over some of his big stuff, and one shell took the back part of the barn off.

Everybody began getting out of the tubs, except a Cockney, who sat up in his tub and shouted out, "Blimey, Jerry, play the blinkin' game. Wait till I've washed me back. I've lorst me soap." —C. Ralph (late Royal Welch Fusiliers), 153d Guinness Buildings, Hammersmith, W.6.

Back to the Shack

Whilst on the Somme in October 1916 my pal Mac (from Notting Hill) and myself were sent forward to a sunken road just behind Les Bœufs to assist at a forward telephone post which was in communication with battalion H.Q. by wire and with the companies in the trenches by runner.

During the night a false "S O S" was sent up, and our guns opened out – and, of course, so did the German guns – and smashed our telephone wire.

It being "Mac's" turn out, he picked up his 'phone and went up the dug-out steps. When he had almost reached the top a big shell burst right in the dug-out entrance and blew "Mac" back down the stairs to the bottom, bruised, but otherwise unhurt.

Picking himself up slowly he removed his hat, placed his hand over his heart, and said, gazing round, "Back to the old 'ome agin – and it ain't changed a bit." —A. J. West (late Corpl., Signals), 1/13th London Regt., 212 Third Avenue, Paddington, W.10.

His Last Gamble

One night in July 1917, as darkness came along, my battalion moved up and relieved a battalion in the front line.

Next morning as dawn was breaking Jerry started a violent strafe. My platoon occupied three fire-bays, and we in the centre one could shout to those in the bays on either side, although we could not see them.

In one of the end bays was "Monte Carlo" Teddy, a true lad from London, a "bookie's tick-tack" before the war. He was called "Monte Carlo" because he would gamble on anything. As a shell exploded anywhere near us Teddy would shout, "Are you all right, sarge?" until this kind of got on my nerves, so I crawled into his bay to inquire why he had suddenly taken such an interest in my welfare. He explained, "I gets up a draw larst night, sarge, a franc a time, as to which of us in this lot stopped a packet first, and you're my gee-gee."

I had hardly left them when a shell exploded in their bay. The only one to stop a packet was Teddy, and we carried him into the next bay to await the stretcher-bearers. I could see he would never reach the dressing station.

Within five minutes I had stopped a lovely Blighty, and they put me alongside Teddy. When he noticed who it was he said, "Well I'm blowed, just my blinkin' luck; licked a short head and I shan't last long enough to see if there's a' objection."

Thus he died, as he always said he would, with his boots on, and my company could never replace him. Wherever two men of my old mob meet you can bet your boots that one or the other is sure to say, "Remember 'Monte Carlo' Ted?" —E. J. Clark (late Sergeant, Lincoln Regt.), c/o Sir Thomas Lipton, Bart., K.C.V.O., Osidge, Southgate, N.14.

That Infernal Drip-Drip-Drip!

We were trying to sleep in half a dug-out that was roofed with a waterproof sheet – Whale and I. It was a dark, wet night. I had hung a mess tin on a nail to catch the water that dripped through, partly to keep it off my head, also to provide water for an easy shave in the morning.

A strafe began. The night was illuminated by hundreds of vivid flashes, and shells of all kinds burst about us. The dug-out shook with the concussions. Trench mortars, rifle grenades, and machine-gun fire contributed to the din.