500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

"Done one o' me eyes in altergevver," he confided lugubriously. "Any blinkin' 'ow," he added in cheerier tones, "if that don't entitle a bloke to 'arf price at the pickshers fer the rest of 'is blinkin' natural I don't know wot will do!" —James Vance Marshall, 15, Manette Street, W.1.

Twenty-four Stitches in Time

During the 1918 reverses suffered by the Turks on various fronts large numbers of mules were captured and sent to the veterinary bases to be reconditioned, sorted, and shod, for issue to various units in need of them. It was no mean feat to handle and shoe the worst-tempered brutes in the world. They had been made perfect demons through privation.

"Ninty," a shoeing-smith (late of Grange Road, Bermondsey), was laid out and savaged by a mule, and carried off to hospital. At night his bosom pal goes over to see how his "old china" is going on.

"'Ow are ye, Ninty?"

"Blimey, Ted, nineteen stitches in me figh an' five in me ribs. Ted – wot d'ye reckon they done it wiv? A sewin' machine?" —A. C. Weekley (late Farrier Staff Sergeant, 20th Veterinary Hospital, Abbassair), 70 Denbigh Road, East Ham, E.6.

His Second Thoughts

A Bluejacket who was brought into the Naval Hospital at Rosyth had had one of his legs blown off while he was asleep in his hammock. The late Mr. Thomas Horrocks Oppenshaw, the senior surgeon-in-charge, asked him what his first thought was when the explosion woke him up.

"My first thought was 'Torpedoed, by gum!'"

"And what did you think next?"

"I think what I thought next was 'Ruddy good shot!'" —H.R.A., M.D., llford Manor, near Lewes, Sussex.

Hats Off to Private Tanner

The following story, which emphasises the Cockney war spirit in the most adverse circumstances, and how it even impressed our late enemy, was related to me by a German acquaintance whose integrity is unimpeachable.

It was at a German prisoner-of-war clearing station in Douai during the summer of 1917, where wounded British prisoners were being cleared for prison-camp hospital.

A number of wounded of a London regiment has been brought in, and a German orderly was detailed to take their names and particulars of wounds, etc. Later, looking over the orderly's list, the German sergeant-major in charge came across a name written by the orderly which was quite unintelligible to the sergeant-major.

He therefore requested an intelligence officer, who spoke perfect English, to ask this particular man his name. The intelligence officer sought out the man, a Cockney, who had been severely wounded, and the following conversation took place.

I.O.: You are Number – ?

Cockney: Yussir.

I.O.: What is your name?

Cockney: Fourpence'a'penny.

I.O.: I understand this is a term of English money, not a name.

Cockney: Well, sir, I used to be called Tanner, but my right leg was took orf yesterday.

The final words of the intelligence officer, as related to me, were: "I could have fallen on the 'begrimed ruffian hero's' neck and kissed him." —J. W. Rourke, M.C. (ex-Lieut. Essex Regt.), 20 Mill Green Road, Welwyn Garden City.

The Markis o' Granby

Wounded at Sheria, Palestine, in November 1917. I was sent to the nearest railhead in a motor-ambulance. A fellow-passenger – also from a London battalion – was wounded very badly in both thighs. The orderly who tucked him up on his stretcher before the start asked him if he would like a drink.

"No, thanks, chum – not nah," he replied; "but you might arsk the driver to pull up at the ole Markis o' Granby, and we'll all 'ave one!"

I heard later that he died in hospital. —C. Dickens (late 2/20th London Regiment), 18 Wheathill Road, Anerley, S.E.20.

A One-Legged Turn

Wounded about half an hour after the final attack on Gaza, I awoke to consciousness in the M.O.'s dug-out.

"Poor old concert party," he said; "you're the fifth 'Ragamuffin' to come down."

Eventually I found myself sharing a mule-cart with another wounded man, but he lay so motionless and quiet that I feared I was about to journey from the line in a hearse.

The jolting of the cart apparently jerked a little life into him, for he asked me, "Got a fag, mate?" With a struggle I lighted my one remaining cigarette.

After a while I asked him, "Where did you catch it, old fellow?" "Lumme," he replied, "if it ain't old George's voice." Then I recognised Sam, the comedian of our troupe.

"Got it pretty rotten in the leg," he added.

"Will it put paid to your comedy act, Sammy?" I asked.

"Dunno," he replied with a sigh in his voice – "I'm tryin' to fink 'art a one-legged step dance." —G. W. Turner (late 11th London Regt.), 10 Sunny View, Kingsbury, N.W.9.

4. HIGH SEAS

The Skipper's Cigar

Bradley (a Deptford flower-seller before joining up) was the "comic" of the stokers' mess deck.

He was always late in returning from shore leave. One Monday morning he returned half an hour "adrift," and was promptly taken before the skipper.

The skipper, a jovial old sort, asked him his reason for being adrift again, and Bradley replied:

"Well, sir, Townsend and me were waiting for the liberty boat, and I was telling him that if ever I sees the skipper round Deptford I'll let him 'ave a 'bob' bunch of flowers for a 'tanner,' and we looked round and the blinkin' boat was gorne."

The skipper smiled and dismissed him. On Christmas Day Bradley received a packet containing a cigar in it, with the following written on the box:

"For the best excuse of the year. – F. H. C., Capt."

I saw Bradley three years ago and he told me he still had that cigar in a glass case with his medals. —F. H. (late Stoker, R.N.), 18 Little Ilford Lane, Manor Park, E.12.

Breaking the Spell

We were in a twelve-inch gun turret in a ship during the Dogger Bank action. The ship had been hit several times and big explosions had scorched the paint and done other damage. There came a lull in the firing, and with all of us more or less badly shaken there was a queer silence. Our captain decided to break it. Looking round at the walls of the turret he remarked in a Cockney, stuttering voice: "Well, lads, this blinking turret couldn't 'arf do with a coat of paint." —J. Bone, 84 Victoria Road, Surbiton.

A V.C.'s Story of Friendship

A transport packed with troops and horses for the Dardanelles was suddenly hailed by a German cruiser and the captain was given a few minutes in which to abandon ship.

One young soldier was found with his arms round his horse's neck, sobbing bitterly, and when ordered to the boats he stubbornly refused to move. "Where my white-faced Willie goes I goes," he said proudly.