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500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

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Год написания книги
2017
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"No, sir, there ain't none issued in the rations."

"No vegetables! What do you mean? – there are tons growing about here waiting to be picked. Look at all those dandelions – they make splendid greens. See that some are put in the stew to-morrow." With which illuminating information he retired.

Followed a few moments' dead silence. Then the Cockney recovered from the shock.

"Lumme, mate, what did 'e say? Dandelions? 'E must be a blinkin' descendant of Nebuchadnezzar!" —R. J. Tiney (late Sapper, R.E. Signals, 10th Corps), 327 Green Lanes, Finsbury Park, N.

Well-Cut Tailoring

Back from a spell behind Ypres in 1915, a few of us decided to scrounge round for a hair-cut. We found a shop which we thought was a barber's, but it turned out to be a tailor's. We found out afterwards!

Still, the old Frenchman made a good job of it – just as though someone had shaved our heads. My Cockney pal, when he discovered the truth, exclaimed: "Strike, if I go 'ome like this my old girl will swear I bin in fer a stretch." —F. G. Webb (late Corpl., Middlesex Regiment), 38 Andover Road, Twickenham.

Evacuating "Darby and Joan"

Things were going badly with the town of Albert, and all day the inhabitants had been streaming from the town. On horse, on foot, and in all manner of conveyances they hastened onwards…

Towards evening, when the bombardment was at its height and the roads were being plastered with shells, an old man tottered into sight pulling a crazy four-wheeled cart in which, perched amidst a pile of household goods, sat a tiny, withered lady of considerable age. As the couple reached the point where I was standing, the old man's strength gave out and he collapsed between the shafts.

It seemed all up with them, as the guns were already registering on the only exit from the town when, thundering round a bend in the road, came a transport limber with driver and spare man. On seeing the plight of the old people, the driver pulled up, dismounted and, together with his partner, surveyed the situation.

"What are we going to do with Darby and Joan?" asked the driver. "We can't get them and all their clobber in the limber and, if I know 'em, they won't be parted from their belongings."

"'Ook 'em on the back," replied the spare man. Sure enough, the old man was lifted into the limber and the old lady's four-wheeler tied on the back.

Off they went at the gallop, the old lady's conveyance dragging like a canoe in the wake of the Mauretania. The heroic Cockney driver, forcing his team through the din and debris of the bombardment, was now oblivious to the wails of distress; his mind was back on his duty; he had given the old people a chance of living a little longer – that was all he could do: and so he turned a deaf ear to the squeals and lamentations that each fresh jolt and swerve wrung from the terrified antiquity he was towing.

Shells dropped all around them on their career through the town until it seemed that they must "go under." However, they appeared again and again, after each cloud cleared, and in the end I saw the little cavalcade out of the town and danger. —N. E. Crawshaw (late 15th London Regt.), 4 Mapleton Road, Southfields, S.W.18.

"Why ain't the Band Playing?"

I served with the 11th London Regiment in Palestine. One day our officer paid us a visit at dinner-time to find out if there were any complaints. While we were endeavouring to find the meat at the bottom of the spoilt water we heard a voice say: "Any complaints?" One of the platoon, not seeing the officer, thought the remark was a joke, so he replied, "Yes, why ain't the band playing?" On realising it was an official request he immediately corrected himself and said: "Sorry, sir, no complaints."

I rather think the officer enjoyed the remark. —F. G. Palmer, 29 Dumbarton Road, Brixton, S.W.2.

His Deduction

Our battalion, fresh from home, all nicely groomed and with new kit, stepped out whistling "Tipperary." We were on the road to Loos. Presently towards us came a pathetic procession of wounded men struggling back, some using their rifles as crutches.

Our whistling had ceased; some faces had paled. Not a word was spoken for quite a while, until my Cockney pal broke the silence, remarking, "Lumme, I reckon there's been a bit of a row somewhere." —Charles Phillips (late Middlesex Regt.), 108 Grosvenor Road, Ilford.

Peter in the Pool

We had advanced beyond the German first line in the big push of '18. The rain was heavy, the mud was deep; we had not quite dug in beyond "shallow," and rations had not come up – altogether a most dismal prospect.

Quite near to us was a small pool of water which we all attempted to avoid when passing to and fro. Suddenly there was a yell and much cursing – the Cockney of the company, complete with his equipment, had fallen into the pool.

After recovering dry ground he gazed at the pool in disgust and said, "Fancy a fing like that trying to drahn a bloke wiv a name like Peter." —J. Carlton, Bayswater Court, St. Stephen's Court, W.2.

Where "Movie" Shows Cost Soap

We landed in North Russia in June 1918. We were piloted in on the City of Marseilles to a jetty. We did not know the name of the place. On the jetty we saw from the boat a British marine on sentry duty. We shouted down to him, "Where are we, mate?" He answered "Murmansk."

We asked, "What sort of place," and he shouted, "Lumme, you've come to a blighted 'ole 'ere. They 'ave one picture palace and the price of admission is a bar of soap." —M. C. Oliver (late Corporal R.A.F.), 99, Lealand Road, Stamford Hill, N.16.

Sherlock Holmes in the Desert

In the autumn of 1917, when training for the attack on Beersheba, in Palestine, we were encamped in bivouacs in the desert.

The chief meal of the day was served in the cool of the evening and more often than not consisted of bully beef stew.

One evening the Orderly Officer approached the dixie, looked into it, and seeing it half full of the usual concoction, remarked, "H'm, stew this evening."

At once there came a voice, that of a Cockney tailor, from the nearest bivouac – "My dear Watson!" —R. S. H. (late 16th County of London Q.W.R.), Purley, Surrey.

The Army "Loops the Loop"

The road from Jerusalem to Jericho was very bad, and if you went too close to the edge you were likely to go over the precipice; indeed, many lives were lost in this way.

One day a lorry toppled over and fell at least a hundred feet. When the rescuers got down to it, expecting to find a mangled corpse, they were surprised to hear a well-known Cockney voice from under the debris, exclaiming: "Blimey, I'll bet I'm the first bloke in the whole Army wot's looped the loop in a motor-lorry." —Sidney H. Rothschild, York Buildings, Adelphi, W.C.2.

Repartee on the Ridge

While on the Vimy Ridge sector I was going one dark night across the valley towards the front line when I lost my way among the mud and shell-holes. Hearing voices, I shouted an inquiry as to the whereabouts of Gabriel Trench. Back came the reply: "Lummie, mate, I ain't the blinkin' harbourmaster!" —T. Gillespie (late Mining Company, R.E.), London.

A New Kind of "Missing"

A battalion of the 47th London Division was making its first journey to the front line at Givenchy.

As we were proceeding from Béthune by the La Bassée Canal we passed another crowd of the same Division who had just been relieved. We were naturally anxious to know what it was like "up there," and the following conversation took place in passing:

"What's it like, mate?"

"All right."

"Had any casualties?"

"Yes, mate, two wounded, and a bloke lost 'is 'at." —F. G. Nawton, (ex-Major 15th Batt. M.G.C., 2 Kenton Park Road, Kenton, Middlesex).

And it Started with a Hen Raid!

While we were behind the line in March 1918 some chickens were stolen from the next village and traced to our billet by the feathers.

As the culprits could not be found our O.C. punished the whole company by stopping our leave for six months.

A few days later we "moved up" just as Jerry broke through further south. The orderly sergeant one night read out orders, which finished up with Sir Douglas Haig's famous dispatch ending with the words: "All leave is now stopped throughout the Army till further orders." Thereupon a tousled head emerged from a blanket on the floor with this remark: "Blimey, they mean to find out who pinched those blinking chickens." —J. Slack, 157 Engadine Street, Southfields, S.W.18.

"I'm a Water-Lily"
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