500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

"Fro Something at Them!"

There was a certain divisional commander in France who enjoyed a popularity that was almost unique. He was quite imperturbable, whatever the situation.

Unfortunately, he had an impediment in his speech, and when first one met him he was difficult to understand. But heaven help anyone who asked him to repeat anything. A light would come into his eye, and he would seize hold of his victim by the shoulder-strap and heave and tug till it came off.

"You'll understand me," he would say, "when I tell you your shoulder-strap is undone!"

The Division he commanded had just put up a wonderful fight just south of Arras in the March '18 show, and, having suffered very heavy casualties, were taken out of the line and put into a cushy front next door to the Portuguese.

The morning after they took over the Germans launched a heavy attack on the Portuguese, who withdrew somewhat hurriedly, so that the whole flank of the British division was open.

The general was sitting eating his breakfast – he had been roused at six by the bombardment – when an excited orderly came into the room and reported that the Germans had got right in behind the Division and were now actually in the garden of the general's château.

The general finished drinking his cup of coffee, the orderly still standing to attention, waiting instructions.

"Then you had better 'fro' something at them – or shoo them away," said the general. —F. A. P., Cavalry Club, Piccadilly, W.

Missed his Mouth-organ

During the Battle of the Somme our trench-mortar battery was going back after a few days' rest. It was very dark and raining. As we neared our destination it appeared that Jerry and our chaps were having a real argument.

We were going up a road called "Queen's Hollow." Jerry was enfilading us on both sides, and a rare bombing fight was going on at the farther end of the Hollow – seventy or a hundred yards in front of us. We were expecting to feel the smack of a bullet any moment, and there was a terrible screeching and bursting of shells, with a few "Minnies" thrown in. We were in a fine pickle, and I had just about had enough when my pal (a lad from "The Smoke") nearly put me on my back by stopping suddenly.

"I don't like this, Bomb," he said.

"What's wrong with you? Get on," I replied, "or we'll all be blown sky high."

"Oh, all right," he said, "but I wish I'd brought me mouf orgin. I could then have livened fings up a bit." —"Bombardier" (R.A.), late T.M.B., 7th Division.

Water-cooled

There must be at least six men still alive who remember a certain affair at Kemmel. During the latter part of April 1918 our machine gunners had been having a bad time, and one old Cockney sergeant found himself and his party isolated miles in front of our line.

The cool way in which he gave orders, as he told his men to make their way back – lying down for a bit, then making a run for another shelter – would have been humorous if conditions had not been so terrifying.

He himself kept his gun working to protect their retreat, and when he saw they had reached a place of safety he picked up his gun and rejoined them unhurt.

One of his men, describing the action afterwards, said, "Carried his gun three miles – wouldn't part with it – and the first thing he did when he was able to settle down quietly was to start cleaning the blessed thing!" —H. R. Tanner, "Romsdal," Newton Ferrers, S. Devon.

Top-hatted Piper of Mons

During the retreat from Mons it was a case of "going while the going was good" until called upon to make a stand to harass the enemy's advance.

After the stand at Le Cateau, bad and blistered feet caused many to stop by the wayside. Among these, in passing with my little squad, I noticed a piper belonging to a Scottish regiment sitting with his blistered feet exposed and his pipes lying beside him. Staff officers were continually riding back and urging the parties of stragglers to make an effort to push on before they were overtaken.

In the late afternoon of this same day, having myself come up with my unit, I was resting on the roadside when I heard the skirl of bagpipes. Before long there came into sight, marching with a fair swing, too, as motley a throng as one ever saw in the King's uniform. Headed by a staff officer were about 150 men of all regiments with that same piper, hatless and with one stocking, in front.

Beside him was a Cockney of the Middlesex Regiment, with a silk hat on his head, whose cheeks threatened to burst as he churned out the strains of "Alexander's Rag-time Band" on the bagpipes. Being a bit of a piper himself, he was giving "Jock" a lift and was incidentally the means of fetching this little band away from the clutches of the enemy. —"Buster" Brown (late Bedfordshire Regt.), Hertford.

Two Heads and a Bullet

Early in 1916 ten of us were going up with rations – chiefly bread and water. In one part of the trench there were no duckboards and the vile mud was thigh-deep.

Here we abandoned the trench and stumbled along, tripping over barbed wire and falling headlong into shell-holes half-full of icy water.

A German sniper was at work. Suddenly a bullet pinged midway between the last two of the party.

"Hear that?" said No. 9. "Right behind my neck!"

"Yes," replied No. 10, "right in front of my bloomin' nose!" —C. A. Davies (late 23rd R. Fusiliers), 85 Saxton Street, Gillingham, Kent.

Spoiling the Story

We were billeted in the upper room of a corner house north of Albert, and were listening to "Spoofer's" memories of days "dahn Walworf way."

"Yus," he said, "I ses to the gal, 'Two doorsteps an' a bloater.'"

At that moment a "coal-box" caught the corner of the house, bringing down the angle of the wall and three-parts of the floor on which we had squatted.

Except for bruises, none of us was injured, and when the dust subsided we saw "Spoofer" looking down at us from a bit of the flooring that remained intact.

"Yus," he continued, as though nothing had happened, "as I was saying, I'd just called fer the bloater…"

Came another "coal-box," which shook down the remainder of the floor and with it "Spoofer."

Struggling to his hands and knees, he said, "Blimey, the blinkin' bloater's cold nah." —F. Lates, 62 St. Ervan's Road, North Kensington.

Afraid of Dogs

Towards the end of October 1918 I was out on patrol in front of Tournai on a dark, windy night. I had a Cockney private with me, and we were some distance from our lines when we heard a dog barking. All at once, before I could stop him, the Cockney whistled it.

I threw the Cockney down and dropped myself. A German Verey light went up – followed by a hail of machine-gun bullets in our direction. As the light spread out, we saw the dog fastened to a German machine-gun! We lay very still, and presently, when things had quietened down, we slid cautiously backwards until it was safe to get up.

All the Cockney said was, "Crikey, corp, I had the wind up. A blinkin' good job that there dawg was chained up. Why? 'Cause 'e might 'ave bitten us. I allus was afeard o' dawgs." —J. Milsun (late 1/5th Battn., The King's Own 55th Div.), 31 Collingwood Road, Lexden, Colchester.

The Song of Battle

At the first Gaza battle we had to advance 1,700 yards across a plain in full view of the Turks, who hurled a terrific barrage at us. We were in artillery formation, and we marched up until within rifle range. With machine guns and artillery the Turks were depleting our ranks, so that less than half of us were still marching on at 500 yards range.

In my section was the Cockney "funny man" of the company. When things were bad, and we were all wondering how long we would survive, he began singing lustily a song which someone had sung at our last concert party behind the lines, the refrain of which was "I've never heard of anybody dying from kissing, have you?"

Before he had started on the second line nearly everyone was singing with him, and men were killed singing that song. To the remainder of us it acted like a tonic.

Good old Jack, when he was wounded later he must have been in terrible pain, yet he joked so that at first we would not believe he was seriously hit. He shouted, "Where is 'e? – let me get at 'im." —J. T. Jones (late 54th Division), 37 Whittaker Road, East Ham, E.6.

Stalls at "Richthofen's Circus"

A New Zealander was piloting an old F.E. 2B (pusher) 'plane up and down over the lines, observing for the artillery, when he got caught by "Richthofen's Circus."