500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

The petrol tank behind the pilot's seat was set on fire and burning oil poured past him into the observer's cockpit ahead and the clothes of both men started to sizzle.

They were indeed in a warm situation, their one hope being to dive into Zillebeke Lake, which the New Zealander noticed below. By the time they splashed into the water machine and men were in flames; and, moreover, when they came up the surface surrounding them was aflame with the burning oil.

Treading water desperately and ridding themselves of their heavy sodden flying coats, they made a last bid for life by swimming under water, that flaming water, and at last, half-dead, reached the bank.

There a strong arm gripped the New Zealander by the scruff of the neck and he was hauled to safety, dimly aware of a hoarse voice complaining bitterly, "Ours is the best hid battery in this sector, the only unspotted battery. You would choose just 'ere to land, wouldn't yer, and give the bloomin' show away?"

Our Cockney battery sergeant-major had, no doubt, never heard of Hobson or his choice. —E. H. Orton, 9 High Grove, Welwyn Garden City, Herts.

"Butter-Fingers!"

A Cockney infantryman of the 47th Division was on the fire-step on the night preceding the attack at Loos. He was huddled up in a ground-sheet trying to keep cheerful in the drizzle.

Suddenly a British 12-in. shell passed over him, and as he heard its slow rumble he muttered, "Catch that one, you blighters."

Just then it burst, and with a chuckle he added, "Oh, butter-fingers, yer dropped it!" —Henry J. Tuck (late Lt., R.G.A.).

Getting into Hot Water

We were in the front line, and one evening a Battersea lad and myself were ordered to go and fetch tea for the company from the cook-house, which was in Bluff Trench. It was about a mile from the line down a "beautiful" duckboard track.

With the boiling tea strapped to our backs in big containers, both of which leaked at the nozzles, we started for the line. Then Jerry started sniping at us. There came from the line a sergeant, who shouted, "Why don't you lads duck?" "That's right," replied my chum. "D'yer fink we wants ter be scalded to death?" —H. G. Harrap (23rd London Regiment), 25 Renfrew Road, S.E.

2. LULL

Rate of Exchange – on Berlin

With four Cockney comrades of the Rifle Brigade, during 1915 at Fleurbaix, I was indulging in a quiet game of nap in the front line.

One man dropped out, "broke to the wide." Being an enthusiastic card player, he offered various articles for sale, but could find no buyers. At last he offered to find a Jerry prisoner and sell him for a franc.

He was absent for some time, but eventually turned up with his hostage, and, the agreement being duly honoured, he recommenced his game with his fresh capital.

All the players came through alive, their names being J. Cullison, F. Bones, A. White, W. Deer (the first-named playing leading part), and myself. —F. J. Chapman (late 11th Batt. Rifle Brigade), 110 Beckton Road, Victoria Docks, E.16.

A Hen Coup

During the retreat from Mons strict orders were issued against looting. One day an officer, coming round a corner, discovered a stalwart Cockney Tommy in the act of wringing the neck of an inoffensive-looking chicken. The moment the Tommy caught sight of his officer he was heard to murmur to the chicken, "Would yer, yer brute!" Quite obviously, therefore, the deed had been done in self-defence. —The Rev. T. K. Lowdell, Church of St. Augustine, Lillie Road, Fulham, S.W.6.

A "Baa-Lamb" in the Trenches

The "dug-out" was really a hole scraped in the side of a trench leading up to the front line and some 50 yards from it. It was October '16 on the Somme, after the weather had broken. The trench was about two feet deep in liquid mud – a delightful thoroughfare for runners and other unfortunate ones who had to use it.

The officer in the dug-out heard the splosh – splosh – splosh … of a single passenger coming up the trench. As the splosher drew abreast the dug-out the officer heard him declaiming to himself: "Baa! baa! I'm a blinkin' lamb lorst in the ruddy wilderness. Baa! baa!.."

And when the bleating died away the splosh – splosh – splosh … grew fainter too, as the "lamb" was lost in the night. —L. W. Martinnant, 64 Thornsbeach Road, Catford, S.E.6.

He Coloured

When serving with the Artists' Rifles in France we went into the line to relieve the "Nelsons" of the 63rd (Royal Naval) Division.

As I was passing one of their men, a regular "Ole Bill," who was seated on the fire-step, I heard him say, "Artists' Rifles, eh; I wonder if any of you chaps would paint me a plate of 'am and eggs!" —R. C. Toogood, 43 Richmond Park Avenue, Bournemouth.

Why the Fat Man Laughed

During the winter of 1914-15 the trenches were just like canals of sloppy mud, and dug-outs were always falling in. To repair the dug-outs pit-props were used, but they often had to be carried great distances up communication trenches, and were very difficult to handle. The most popular way to carry a prop was to rest one end on the left shoulder of one man and the other end on the right shoulder of the man behind.

On one occasion the leading man was short and fat, and the rear man was tall and thin. Suddenly the front man slipped and the prop fell down in the mud and splashed the thin man from head to foot. To add to his discomfort the little fat man gave a hearty laugh.

"Can't see anything to larf at, mate," said the mud-splashed hero, looking down at himself.

"I'm larfing," said the little fat Cockney, "'cos I've just remembered that I tipped the recruiting sergeant a bloomin' tanner to put me name down fust on his list so as I'd get out here quick." —A. L. Churchill (late Sergt., Worcs. Regt.), 6 Long Lane, Blackheath, Staffs.

He Met Shackleton!

The troops in North Russia, in the winter of 1918-19, were equipped with certain additional articles of clothing designed on the same principles as those used on Antarctic expeditions. Among these were what were known as "Shackleton boots," large canvas boots with thick leather soles. These boots were not at all suitable for walking on hard snow, being very clumsy, and they were very unpopular with everyone.

The late Sir Ernest Shackleton was sent out by the War Office to give advice on matters of clothing, equipment, and so on. When he arrived at Archangel he went up to a sentry whose beat was in front of a warehouse about three steps up from the road, and said to him, "Well, my man, what do you think of the Shackleton boot?"

To this the sentry replied: "If I could only meet the perishing blighter wot invented them I'd very soon show – "

Before he could complete the sentence his feet, clad in the ungainly boots, slipped on the frozen snow, and slithering down the steps on his back, he shot into Sir Ernest and the two of them completed the discussion on Shackleton boots rolling over in the snow! —K. D., Elham, near Canterbury.

Domestic Scene: Scene, Béthune

Near the front line at Béthune in I917 was a farm which had been evacuated by the tenants, but there were still some cattle and other things on it. We were, of course, forbidden to touch them.

One day we missed one of our fellows, a Cockney, for about two hours, and guessed he was on the "scrounge" somewhere or other.

Eventually he was seen coming down the road pushing an old-fashioned pram loaded with cabbages, and round his waist there was a length of rope, to the other end of which was tied an old cow.

You can imagine what a comical sight it was, but the climax came when he was challenged by the corporal, "Where the devil have you been?" "Me?" he replied innocently. "I only bin takin' the kid and the dawg for a bit of a blow." —A. Rush (late 4th Batt. R. Fus.), 27 Milton Road, Wimbledon.

Getting Their Bearings

It was on the Loos front. One night a party of us were told off for reconnoitring. On turning back about six of us, with our young officer, missed our way and, after creeping about for some 15 minutes, a message came down, "Keep very quiet, we are nearly in the German lines."

I passed on the message to the chap behind me, who answered in anything but a whisper, "Thank 'eaven we know where we are at last." —H. Hutton (late 16th Lancers, attached Engineers), Marlborough Road, Upper Holloway.

High Tea

During the winter of 1917-18 I was serving with my battery of Field Artillery in Italy. We had posted to us a draft of drivers just out from home, and one of them, seeing an observation balloon for the first time, asked an old driver what it was.

"Oh, that," replied the old hand, who hailed from Hackney – "that is the Air Force canteen!" —M. H. Cooke (late "B" Battery, 72nd Brigade, R.F.A.), Regency Street, Westminster.

Lots in a Name

Salonika, mid-autumn, and torrents of rain. The battalion, changing over to another front, had trekked all through the night. An hour before dawn a halt was called to bivouac on the reverse slope of a hill until the journey could be completed in the darkness of the following night.