500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

A Cockney groom was detailed to look after him. The two never seemed to agree, for the groom was always being bitten or kicked by "Jerry."

One morning the picket discovered that "Jerry" was missing, and concluded that he must have broken away during the night. The matter was reported to the sergeant, who went and routed out the groom. "What about it? Ain't you goin' to look for 'im?" said the sergeant.

"Not me, sarge! I always said the blighter was a blinkin' spy!" replied the groom. —J. Musgrave (late 175th Infantry Brigade), 52 Cedar Grove, South Ealing, W.5.

Not Every Dog has his Night

Our battalion arrived in a French village late on the night of September 25, 1915, after marching all day in pouring rain. To add to our troubles no billets were available (the place was teeming with reserve troops for the attack at Loos).

We were told to find some sort of shelter from the rain and get a good night's rest, as we were to move up to the attack on the morrow.

My chum, a Londoner, and I scouted round. I found room for one in an already overcrowded stable; my chum continued the search. He returned in a few minutes to tell me he had found a spot. I wished him good night and went to sleep.

In the morning, when I came out of the stable, I saw the long legs of a Guardsman (who proved to be my chum) protruding from a dog kennel. Beside them sat a very fed-up dog! —F. Martin (late 1st Batt. Scots Guards), 91 Mostyn Road, Brixton, S.W.

The Brigadier's Glass Eye

A brigadier of the 54th Infantry Brigade (18th Division), who had a glass-eye, and his Cockney runner, were on their way up the line when they observed a dead German officer who had a very prominent gold tooth.

The next day, passing by the same spot, the Brigadier noticed that the gold tooth was missing.

"I see that his gold tooth has gone, Johnson," he said.

"Yessir."

"I suppose someone will take my glass eye, if I am knocked out."

"Yessir. I've put meself dahn fer that, fer a souvenir!" —W. T. Pearce, "Southernhay," Bethune Avenue, Friern Barnet, N.11.

The Chaplain-General's Story

In June 1917 I shared a G.H.Q. car with the Chaplain-General to the Forces, Bishop Gwynne, who was on his way from St. Omer to Amiens, whilst I was on my way to the Third Army School at Auxi-le-Château.

During the journey our conversation turned to chaplains, and the bishop asked me whether I thought the chaplains then coming to France were of the right type, especially from the point of view of the regimental officers and men. My reply was that the chaplains as a whole differed very little from any other body of men in France: they were either men of the world and very human, and so got on splendidly with the troops, or else they were neither the one nor the other, cut very little ice, and found their task a very difficult one.

The Bishop then told me the following story, which he described as perfectly true:

"A chaplain attached to a London regiment made a practice of always living in the front line whenever the battalion went in to the trenches rather than remaining with Battalion Headquarters some way back, and he had his own dug-out over which appeared the words 'The Vicarage.'

"One day a young Cockney in the line for the first time was walking along the trench with an older soldier, and turning a corner suddenly came on 'The Vicarage.'

"'Gorblimey, Bill!' he said, 'who'd 'ave fought of seein' the b – vicarage in the front line?'"

"Immediately the cheery face of the padre popped out from behind the blanket covering the entrance and a voice in reply said: 'Yes! And who'd have thought of seeing the b – vicar too?'"

"That's the kind of chaplain," said the Bishop, "I'm trying to get them to send out to France." —(Brig. – Gen.) R. J. Kentish, C.M.G., D.S.O., Shalford Park, Guildford.

A Thirst Worth Saving

During the summer of 1917 our battalion – the 1/5th Buffs – formed part of General Thompson's flying column operating between the Tigris and the Shatt Al-'Adhaim.

One morning we discovered that the native camel drivers had deserted to the enemy's lines, taking with them the camels that were carrying our water.

No man had more than a small cup of water in his bottle yet we waited orders until dawn the next day, when a 'plane dropped a message for us to return to the Tigris.

I shall not dwell on that 20-mile march back to the river over the burning sand – I cannot remember the last few miles of it myself. None of us could speak. Our lips and tongues were bursting.

When we reached the Tigris we drank and drank again – then lay exhausted.

The first man I heard speak was "Busty" Johnson, who, with great effort hoarsely muttered: "Lumme, if I can only keep this blinkin' first till I goes on furlough!" —J. W. Harvey (late 1/5th Buffs, M.E.F.), 25 Queen's Avenue, Greenford Park, Middlesex.

Points of View

On a wet and cold winter's night in the hills south of Nablus (Palestine) a sentry heard sounds as of slipping feet and strange guttural noises from the direction of the front line. He waited with his rifle at the port and then challenged: "Halt! who goes there?"

A thin, dismal voice came from the darkness. "A pore miserable blighter with five ruddy camels."

"Pass, miserable blighter, all's well," replied the sentry.

Into the sentry's view came a rain-soaked disconsolate-looking Tommy "towing" five huge ration camels.

"All's well, is it? Coo! Not 'arf!" said he. —W. E. Bickmore (late "C" 303 Brigade, R.F.A., 60th Div.), 121 Gouville Road, Thornton Heath, Surrey.

Not the British Museum

The Labyrinth Sector.

Three of us – signallers – having just come off duty in the front line, were preparing to put in a few hours' sleep, when a voice came floating down the dug-out steps: "Is Corporal Stone down there?"

Chorus: "No!"

Ten minutes later came the same voice: "Is Sergeant Fossell down there?"

"Go away," replied our Cockney; "this ain't the blinkin' British Museum!" —G. J. Morrison (late 14th London Regt.), "Alness," Colborne Way, Worcester Park, Surrey.

Jerry Would Not Smile

I met him coming from the front line, one of "London's Own." He was taking back the most miserable and sullen-looking prisoner I have ever seen.

"Got a light, Jock?" he asked me. I obliged. "'Ave a Ruby Queen, matey?" I accepted.

"Cheerful-looking customer you've got there, Fusie," I ventured, pointing to his prisoner.

He looked up in disgust. "Cheerful? Lummie, he gives me the creeps. I've orfered 'im a fag, and played 'Katie' and 'When this luvly war is over' on me old mouf orgin for him, but not a bloomin' smile. An' I've shown him me souvenirs and a photograph of me old woman, and, blimey, if that don't make a bloke laugh, well, it's 'opeless!"

And then, with a cheery "Mercy bokoo, matey," and a "Come on, 'Appy," to his charge, he pushed on. —Charles Sumner (late London Scottish), Butler's Cottage, Sutton Lane, Heston, Middlesex.

"Birdie" Had to Smile