500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

Imagine our surprise when, after all was quiet again, we heard the same noise in the wire. One of the sentries was a Cockney, and without a word he crawled over the parapet and disappeared in the direction of the noise.

A few minutes later came the sound of smothered laughter, and the sentry returned with a hedgehog firmly fixed in an empty bully tin. It was the cause of our alarm!

After releasing the animal from its predicament, the sentry said: "We'd better send the blighter to the Zoo, Corp, wiv a card to say 'this little pig put the wind up the troops, caused a fousand men to open fire, was bombed, machine-gunned, and shelled.' Blimey! I'd like to see the Gunner officer's face if he knew this." —D. R. Payne, M.M. (ex-Worcester Regt.), 40 High Street, Overton, Hants.

Straight from the Heart

Under canvas at Rousseauville with 27th Squadron, R.F.C., early 1918 – wet season – raining hard – everything wet through and muddy – a "fed-up" gloomy feeling everywhere.

We were trying to start a 3-ton lorry that was stuck in the mud on the aerodrome. After we had all had a shot at swinging the starting handle, the very Cockney driver of the lorry completely exhausted himself in yet another unsuccessful attempt to start up. Then, leaning against the radiator and pushing his cap back, he puffed out:

"I dunno! These perishin' lorries are enough to take all the flamin' romance out of any blinkin' camp!" —R. S. W. (Flying-Officer, R.A.F. Reserve), 52 Cavendish Road, N.W.6.

Smile! Smile! SMILE!!

Conversation between two Cockney members of a North Country regiment whilst proceeding along the Menin road in March 1918 as members of a wiring party:

1st: I'm fed up with this stunt.

2nd: Same 'ere. 'Tain't 'arf a life, ain't it? No rest, no beer, blinkin' leave stopped – er, got any fags?

1st: No, mate.

2nd: No fags, no nuffink. It's only us keepin' so ruddy cheerful as pulls us through. —V. Marston, 232 Worple Road, Wimbledon, S.W.20.

War's Lost Charm

Time, winter of 1917: scene, a track towards Langemarck from Pilkem. Weather and general conditions – Flanders at its worst. My companion that night was an N.C.O. "out since 'fourteen," and we had plodded on in silence for some time. Suddenly behind me there was a slither, a splash, and a smothered remark as the sergeant skidded from the duckboard into an especially dirty shell hole.

I helped him out and asked if he was all right. The reply came, "I'm all right, sir; but this blinkin' war seems to have lost its charm!" —J. E. A. Whitman (Captain, late R.F.A.), The Hampden Club, N.W.1.

Taking It Lying Down

The 1st Battalion of the 25th Londons was preparing to march into Waziristan.

Old Bert, the cook, diligently loading up a kneeling camel with dixies, pots and pans, and general cooking utensils, paused for a bit, wiped the sweat from his brow, and stood back with arms akimbo gazing with satisfaction upon his work.

Then he went up to the camel, gave him a gentle prod, and grunted "Ooush, yer blighter, ooush" (i.e. rise). The camel turned gently over on his back, unshipping the whole cargo that Bert had worked so hard upon, and kicked his legs in the air.

Poor old Bert looked at the wreckage and exclaimed, more in sorrow than in anger: "Blimey, don't yer understand yer own langwidge, yer kitten?" —T. F. Chanter, 16 Atalanta Street, Fulham.

The First Twenty Years

It was round about Christmas 1917, and we were resting (?) at "Dirty Bucket Corner." The Christmas present we all had in view was a return to the line in front of Ypres.

On the day before we were due to return the Christmas post arrived, and after the excitement had abated the usual "blueness" settled in – the craving for home comforts and "Blighty."

My partners in the stretcher-bearing squad included a meek and mild man (I believe he was a schoolmaster before the war) and a Cockney from Seven Dials. We used to call him "Townie."

Although the ex-schoolmaster would have had cause in more normal times to rejoice – for the post contained a letter telling him that he had become the father of a bonny boy – the news made him morbid.

Of course, we all congratulated him. Meanwhile "Townie" was busy with a pencil and writing pad, and after a few minutes handed to the new parent a sheet of paper folded in half. The recipient unfolded it and looked at it for several seconds before the rest of us became interested and looked over his shoulder.

The paper was covered with lines, circles, and writing that appeared to us like "double-Dutch."

"What's this?" the father asked.

"That's a map I drawed fer yer kid. It'll show him where the old pot and pan is when he's called up," and he concluded with this afterthought: "Tell 'im ter be careful of that ruddy shell-hole just acrost there. I've fallen in the perishin' thing twice this week." —"Medico" (58th (London) Division), Clapham Common, S.W.11.

Shell as a Hammer

At one time the area just behind Vimy Ridge was plentifully sprinkled with enemy shells which had failed to explode. As these were considered a great source of danger they were indicated by "danger boards" nailed to pointed stakes driven into the ground.

On one occasion, seeing a man engaged in so marking the resting-place of a "dud" – he was a cheerful Cockney, who whistled as he went about his job – I was much amused (though somewhat scared) to see him stop at a nearby shell, select a "danger board," pick up the shell, and proceed to use it as a hammer to drive the stake into the ground! —H. S. A. (late Lieut., Suffolk Regt.), Glebe Road, Cheam.

Sore Feet

After the first battle of Ypres an old driver, whom we called "Krongie," had very bad feet, and one day reported sick at the estaminet where the M.O. held office.

After the examination he ambled up the road, and when he was about 50 yards away the M.O.'s orderly ran out and called: "Krongie, when you get to the column tell the farrier the M.O.'s horse has cast a shoe."

"Krongie": "Ho, yus. You tell 'im ter give the blinkin' cheval a couple of number nines like he gave me for my feet." —P. Jones (R.H.A.), 6 Ennis Road, N.4.

My Sword Dance – by the C.O

A bitterly cold morning in winter, 1916, in the Ypres Salient. I was on duty at a gas alarm post in the front line when along came the colonel.

He was the finest soldier and gentleman I ever had the pleasure to serve under (being an old soldier in two regiments before, I had experienced a few C.O.s). It was said he knew every man's name in the regiment. No officer dare start his own meal until every man of his company had been served. No fatigue or working party ever went up the line, no matter at what hour, without the colonel first inspected it.

He had a mania for collecting spare ammunition, and more than once was seen taking up to the front line a roll of barbed wire over his shoulder hooked through his stick. To him every man was a son, and to the men's regret and officers' delight he soon became a general.

This particular morning he approached me with "Good morning, Walker. You look cold. Had your rum?" To which I replied that I had, but it was a cold job remaining stationary for hours watching the wind.

"Well," said the C.O., "do this with me." With that he started marking time at a quick pace on the duckboards and I did likewise. We kept it up for about two minutes, while others near had a good laugh.

"Now you feel better, I know. Do this every ten minutes or so," he said, and away he went to continue his tour of inspection.

My Cockney pal in the next bay, who, I noticed, had enjoyed the scene immensely, said, "Blimey, Jock, was he giving you a few lessons in the sword dance or the Highland Fling?" —"Jock" Walker (late Royal Fusiliers), 29 Brockbank Road, Lewisham, S.E.13.

A Big Bone in the Soup

In Baghdad, 1917, "Buzzer" Lee and I were told off to do "flying sentry" round the officers' lines from 3 to 5 a.m. Well, we commenced our duty, and Buzzer suggested we visit the mess kitchen to see all was well, and in case there was anything worth "knocking off" (as he called it) in the way of char or scran (tea or bread and butter).

The mess kitchen was in darkness, and Buzzer began scrounging around. After a while he said: "I've clicked, mate! Soup in a dixie!" By the light of a match he found a cup, removed the dixie lid, and took a cup of the "soup."

"We're in the market this time, mate," said Buzzer, and took out a cupful for me.

"It don't taste like Wood's down the New Cut," I said, doubtfully.