500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

Biscuits – Another Point of View

In April 1915 my battalion was on the way up to take over a line of "grouse-butts" – there were no continuous trenches – in front of a pleasure resort by the name of Festubert.

Arrived at Gore, a couple of miles or so from the line, we ran into some transport that had got thoroughly tied up, and had a wait of about half-an-hour while the joy-riders sorted themselves out. It was pitch dark and raining hard, and the occasional spot of confetti that came over added very little to the general enjoyment.

As I moved up and down my platoon, the usual profane but humorous grousing was in full spate. At that time the ration arrangements were not so well organised as they afterwards became, and for some weeks the bulk of our banquets had consisted of bully and remarkably hard and unpalatable biscuits. The latter were a particularly sore point with the troops.

As I listened, one rifleman held forth on the subject. "No blinkin' bread for five blinkin' weeks," he wound up – "nothin' but blinkin' biscuits that taste like sawdust an' break every tooth in yer perishin' 'ed. 'Ow the 'ell do they expect yer to fight on stuff like that?" "Whatcher grousin' about?" drawled another weary voice. "Dawgs lives on biscuits, and they can fight like 'ell!" —S. B. Skevington (late Major, 1st London Irish Rifles), 10 Berkeley Street, W.1.

His Bird Bath

A battalion of the Royal Fusiliers (City of London Regiment) was in support, and a private was endeavouring to wash himself as thoroughly as possible with about a pint of water in a mess-tin.

A kindly disposed staff officer happened to come along, and seeing the man thus engaged, said, "Having a wash, my man?"

Back came the reply, "Yus, and I wish I was a blinkin' canary. Could have a bath then." —R. G. Scarborough, 89 Tennyson Avenue, New Maiden, Surrey.

Ducking 'em – then Nursing 'em

After the Cambrai affair of November 1917 our company came out of the line, but we had to salvage some very large and heavy shells.

We had been carrying the shells in our arms for about an hour when I heard a fed-up Cockney turn to the sergeant and say: "'Ere 'ave I been duckin' me nut for years from these blinkin' fings – blimey, and nah I'm nursin' 'em!" —Rfn. Elliott (late 17th K.R.R.C.), 9 Leghorn Road, Harlesden, N.W.

Salonika Rhapsody

Three of us were sitting by the support line on the Salonika front, conditions were fairly bad, rations were short and a mail was long overdue. We were fed-up. But the view across the Vardar Valley was some compensation.

The wadis and plains, studded with bright flowers, the glistening river and the sun just setting behind the distant ridges and tinting the low clouds, combined to make a perfect picture. One of my pals, with a poetic temperament, rhapsodised on the scene for several minutes, and then asked our other mate what he thought. "Sooner see the blinkin' Old Kent Road!" was the answer of the peace-time costermonger. —W. W. Wright, 24 Borthwick Road, E.15.

A Ticklin' Tiddler

In January 1915, near Richebourg, I was one of a ration-party being led back to the front line by a lance-corporal. The front line was a system of breast-works surrounded by old disused trenches filled with seven feet or so of icy-cold water.

It was a very dark moonless night, and near the line our leader called out to those in the breast-works to ask them where the bridge was. He was told to step off by the broken tree. He did so and slid into the murky depths – the wrong tree!

We got him out and he stood on dry (?) land, shining with moisture, full of strange oaths and vowing vengeance on the lad who had misdirected him.

At stand-down in the dawn (hours afterwards) he was sipping his tot of rum. He had had no chance of drying his clothes. I asked how he felt.

"Fresh as a pansy, mate," was his reply. "Won'erful 'ow a cold plunge bucks yer up! Blimey, I feel as if I could push a leave train from 'ere to the base. 'Ere, put yer 'and dahn my tunic and see if that's a tiddler ticklin' me back." —F. J. Reidy (late 1st K.R.R.s), 119 Mayfair Avenue, Ilford.

Biscuits and Geometry

During a spell near St. Quentin our company existed chiefly on biscuits – much to the annoyance of one of our officers, who said he detested dogs' food.

One evening he met the Cockney corporal who had just come up in charge of the ration party.

Officer: "Any change to-night, corporal?"

Corporal: "Yessir!"

Officer: "Good! What have we got?"

Corporal: "Rahnd 'uns instead of square 'uns, sir." —R. Pitt (late M.G.C.), 54 Holland Park Avenue, W.11.

All that was Wrong with the War

Taking up ammunition to the guns at Passchendaele Ridge, I met a few infantrymen carrying duckboards.

My mule was rather in the way and so one of the infantrymen, who belonged to a London regiment, gave him a push with his duckboard.

Naturally, the mule simply let out and kicked him into a shell-hole full of water.

We got the unlucky fellow out, and his first action was to shake his fist at the mule and say: "There's only one thing I don't like in this blinking war and that's those perishin' mules!" —H. E. Richards (R.F.A.), 67 Topsham Road, Upper Tooting, S.W.17.

Not a Single Cockney

In 1917, when we were acting as mobile artillery, we had halted by the roadside to water and feed our horses, and were just ready to move off when we were passed by a column of the Chinese Labour Corps, about 2,000 of them.

After they had all passed, a gunner from Clerkenwell said: "Would yer believe it? All that lot gorn by and I never reckernised a Townie!" —C. Davis (late Sergeant, R.A., 3rd Cavalry Division), 7 Yew Tree Villas, Welling, Kent.

Sanger's Circus on the Marne!

On the way from the Marne to the Aisne in September 1914 the 5th Cavalry Brigade passed a column of Algerian native troops, who had been drawn up in a field to allow us to continue along the nearby road.

The column had all the gaudy appearance of shop windows at Christmas. There were hooded vehicles with stars and crescents blazoned on them, drawn by bullocks, mules, and donkeys. The natives themselves were dressed, some in white robes and turbans, others in red "plus four" trousers and blue "Eton cut" jackets; and their red fezzes were adorned with stars and crescents. Altogether a picturesque sight, and one we did not expect to meet on the Western Front.

On coming into view of this column, one of our lead drivers (from Bow) of a four-horse team drawing a pontoon wagon turned round to his wheel driver, and, pointing to the column with his whip, shouted, "Alf! Sanger's Circus!" —H. W. Taylor (late R.E.), The Lodge, Radnor Works, Strawberry Vale, Twickenham.

"Contemptible" Stuff

When the rumour reached us about a medal for the troops who went out at the beginning, a few of us were sitting in a dug-out outside Ypres discussing the news.

"Mac" said: "I wonder if they'll give us anything else beside the medal?"

Our Cockney, Alf, remarked: "You got a lot to say about this 'ere bloomin' 'gong' (medal); anybody 'd fink you was goin' ter git one."

"I came out in September '14, any way," said Mac.

Alf (very indignant): "Blimey, 'ark at 'im! You don't 'arf expect somefink, you don't. Why, the blinkin' war was 'arf over by then." —J. F. Grey (late D.L.I, and R.A.O.C.), 247 Ducane Road, Shepherd's Bush, W.12.

A Cockney on Horseback – Just

We were going out to rest after about four months behind the guns at Ypres, and the drivers brought up spare horses for us to ride. One Cockney gunner was heard to say, "I can't ride; I've never rode an 'orse in me life." We helped him to get mounted, but we had not gone far when Jerry started sending 'em over. So we started trotting. To see our Cockney friend hanging on with his arms round the horse's neck was quite a treat!

However, we eventually got back to the horse lines where our hero, having fallen off, remarked: "Well, after that, I fink if ever I do get back to Blighty I'll always raise me 'at to an 'orse." —A. Lepley (late R.F.A.), 133 Blackwell Buildings, Whitechapel, E.1.

A Too Sociable Horse