500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

His loyalty to his dumb friend was rewarded, for the German cruiser fired twice at the transport, missed each time, and before a third effort British destroyers were on the scene to chase her away. It was then the young soldier had the laugh over his friends, for they in many cases arrived back on the ship half frozen and soaked to the skin! —A Colonel, who wishes to remain anonymous: he holds the V.C., D.S.O., and M.C.

The Stoker Sums it Up

I was on a large transport (normally a freighter), which had just arrived at a port on the East African coast, very rusty, and with a very un-naval-looking crew. We were taken in charge by a very small but immaculate gun-boat.

Orders were shouted to us by megaphone, and our men were leaning over the side watching the gun-boat rather enviously, when a Poplar stoker came up from below for a "breather," and summed up his mates' feelings in eight words.

Cupping his hands about his mouth, he shouted in a voice of thunder: "Do yer stop aht all night in 'er?" —R. N. Spence (late Lieutenant, R.N.V.R.), 214 Croydon Road, Beckenham.

Channel Swimming his Next Job

During the war I had to fly a machine over to France. I had as passenger a Cockney Tommy who had recently transferred from the infantry to the R.F.C., and was joining his unit overseas.

Half-way over the Channel my engine failed and I glided down towards the nearest boat I could see. The landing was not very successful; the under-carriage struck the crest of a wave and the aeroplane hit the water almost vertically.

We were both thrown out, my passenger being somewhat badly knocked about in the process. We clung to the almost submerged wreckage and gazed hopefully towards the vessel I had sighted. She continued on her course, however.

The machine soon sank and we were left bobbing about in our life-belts. Things began to look far from bright, especially as my Cockney observer was in a pretty bad way by now. Suddenly the sun broke through the clouds, and the white cliffs of Grisnez, about eight miles away, stood out clearly.

"What's them hills, sir?" asked Tommy.

"Cape Grisnez, where Burgess landed after his Channel swim," I replied.

"Blimey," he said, "if we ever gets out of this perishing mess, and I can't get me old job back after the war, I'll be a blooming Channel swimmer. I know the ruddy way across nah." —"Pilot R.F.C.," London, W.1.

It Was a Collapsible Boat

I was one of the survivors of the transport ship Leasowe Castle. Just before she took her final plunge, I was standing on deck when an empty boat was seen drifting near by. Our section officer called for swimmers, and five or six men went overboard in a jiffy and brought the boat alongside.

There was a bit of a scuffle to get over the rail and into the boat, and one man jumped straight into her from a height of about thirty feet. To our dismay he went clean through – it was a collapsible boat!

No sooner had this happened than a typical Cockney voice said: "Blimey, he's got the anchor in his pocket, I'll bet yer!" —G. P. Gregory (late 272 M.G. Company), 107 Tunkar Street, Greenwich.

Luck in Odd Numbers

We were on board H.M.S. Sharpshooter, doing patrol off the Belgian coast. The signalman on watch, who happened to be a Cockney, suddenly yelled out: "Aeroplane on the starboard bow, sir."

The "old man," being fairly tired after a night of rain, said: "All right, it's only a friendly going back home."

About two minutes later the plane dropped three bombs, the last of which was much too close to be comfortable.

After our friend the signalman had wiped the splash off his face he turned round to the First Lieutenant and casually remarked: "Strike! It's a thundering good job he wasn't hostile or he might have hit us." —R. Walmsley, D.S.M., 47 Watcombe Road, South Norwood, S.E.25.

"Your Barf, Sir!"

We were a mixed crowd on board the old Archangel returning "off leave" from Southampton to Havre on the night of January 6, 1917. The sea was calm, and a moon made conditions ideal for Jerry's "skimmers."

When we were well under way I chummed up with a typical son of the Mile End Road, one of the Middlesex men, and we talked for some time whilst watching the long, white zig-zag wake.

Then he suggested looking for a "kip." After nosing around several dark corners, a strip of carpet along the alley between the first-class cabins appealed to us, and quietly unslinging kit and putting our packs for a pillow, we made ourselves as comfortable as possible. During the process my pal jerked his thumb towards the closed doors and whispered "Orficers."

How long we had been asleep I don't know, but we were rudely awakened by a dull booming thud and a sound of splintering wood, and at the same time we were jolted heavily against the cabins. We hurriedly scrambled to our feet, looked at each other (no need to ask what had happened!), then grabbed our kit and made for the deck.

As my companion passed the last cabin he banged on the door with his fist and called out: "Oi, yer barf'll be ready in a minute, sir!" —A. E. Ulyett, 41 Smith Terrace, King's Road, Chelsea, S.W.3.

"Mind My Coat"

Middle watch, H.M.S. Bulldog on patrol off the Dardanelles: a dirty and a black night. A shout of "Man overboard!" from the fore-gun crew… We located an A.B. in the water, and with a long boat-hook caught his coat and pulled him towards the boat. As he drew nearer he cried: "Don't pull so bloomin' hard; you'll tear my blinkin' coat!"

Then we knew it was our "Ginger," from Poplar. Now "Ginger" has the life-saving medal. A few weeks after his ducking the ship struck a mine and the after-part went west: "Ginger" was discovered in the water, having gone in after a wounded sub-lieutenant who had been blown overboard. —Henry J. Wood, D.S.M., 19 Gracechurch Street, E.C.3.

"Wot's the Game – Musical Chairs?"

It was a bitterly cold day in December, somewhere in the North Sea. A section of mine-sweepers were engaged clearing an area well sown by Jerry's submarines. Suddenly the expected happened, and in a few minutes one of the sweepers was settling down fast by the stern.

Those who did not "go west" in the explosion were with difficulty picked up; among them was a Cockney stoker rating. He arrived on board, wet, cold, and pretty well "pumped," and the bo'sun's peg of rum had almost disappeared between his chattering teeth when there was another explosion, and once again he was in a sinking ship.

His reply to the order "abandon ship," which he had heard for the second time within half an hour, was: "Wot blinkin' game's this – musical chairs?" —H. Waterworth, 32 Grasmere Road, Muswell Hill, N.10 (late Engineer-Lieutenant, R.N.R. (retired)).

A Voice in the Dark

Dawn of a day in March 1917 found Submarine F3 on patrol near the Terschelling lightship. As we broke surface two German destroyers were seen only a few hundred yards away. We immediately dived again, and shortly afterwards the depth charges began to explode. Lower and lower we went until we touched the bottom.

Bangs to the right of us, bangs to the left of us, bangs above us – then one glorious big bang and out went the lights.

Deadly silence, and then out of the darkness came the voice of our Battersea bunting-tosser – "Anyone got six pennorth o' coppers?" —Frederick J. H. Alsford, 78 North Street, S.W.4.

Why the Stoker Washed

H.M.Q. ship 18 was sinking sixty miles off the French coast as the result of gun-fire, after destroying a German submarine.

After getting away we had a hurried call-over and found that a Cockney fireman was missing. We hailed the ship which seemed about to take the plunge any minute, and at last the stoker appeared, spotlessly clean and dressed in "ducks."

He had to jump and swim for it. As we hauled him to our boat we asked him why he had waited to clean himself.

"Well," he explained, "if I am going to hell there's no need to let the blighter know I'm a stoker." —Wm. C. Barnaby (late Chief Coxswain, R.N.), 7 Seville Street, Knightsbridge, S.W.1.

Accounts Rendered

The First-Lieutenant of a warship I was in, though a first-class sailor, had no great liking for clerical work, consequently the ship's store-books were perhaps not quite as they should have been.

He therefore got an Able Seaman (who had been a London clerk in civil life) to give him a hand in his "off watches" in putting the books in order.

Shortly afterwards the ship stopped a torpedo and sank in eight minutes. Before the First-Lieutenant had very much time to look round he found himself in the "ditch."

As he was clambering out of the water on to the bottom of an upturned boat, he saw his "Chief Accountant" climbing up the other side, and the first thing he did was to reach out and shake hands with the A.B. across the keel of the boat, at the same time remarking, "Well, that clears up those blessed accounts anyhow." —John Bowman (Able Seaman, R.N.V.R.), 19 Handel Mansions, W.C.1.

An Ocean Greyhound