500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

A howling gale was raging and some of the survivors had to swim for it.

As the first swimmer reached the heaving side of the rescuing ship he was caught by willing hands and hauled on board.

When he got his breath he stood up and, shaking himself to clear the water somewhat from his dripping clothes, looked around with a smile at the "hands" near by and said: "Well, ain't nobody a-goin' ter kiss me?" —J. W., Bromley, Kent.

The Fag End

The captain of the troopship Transylvania had just called the famous "Every man for himself" order after the boat had received two torpedoes from a submarine.

The nurses had been got off safely in a boat, but our own prospects of safety seemed very remote. Along came a Cockney with his cigarettes and the remark, "Who'll 'ave a fag afore they get wet?" —A. W. Harvey, 97 Elderfield Road, Clapton, E.5 (late 10th London Regiment).

"Spotty" the Jonah

On board the s.s. Lorrento in 1917 with me was one "Spotty" Smith, A.B., of London. He had been torpedoed five times, and was reputed to be the sole survivor on the last two occasions. Such a Jonah-like reputation brought him more interest than affection from sailormen.

Approaching Bizerta – a danger spot in the South Mediterranean – one dark night, all lights out, "Spotty" so far forgot himself as to strike matches on deck. In lurid and forcible language the mate requested him "not to beat his infernal record on this ship."

"Spotty," intent on turning away wrath, replied, "S'elp me, sir, I've 'ad enough of me heroic past. This next time, sir, I made up me mind to go down with the rest of the crew!" —J. E. Drury, 77 Eridge Road, Thornton Heath.

He Just Caught the Bus!

After an arduous spell of patrol duty, our submarine had hove to to allow the crew a much-needed breather and smoke. For this purpose only the conning-tower hatch was opened so as to be ready to submerge, if necessity arose, with the minimum of delay.

Eager to take full advantage of this refreshing interlude, the crew had emerged, one by one, through the conning-tower and had disposed themselves in sprawling attitudes around the upper deck space, resting, reading, smoking.

Sure enough, soon the alarm was given, "Smoke seen on the horizon."

The order "Diving stations" was given and, hastily scuttling down the conning-tower, the crew rapidly had the boat submerging, to leave only the periscope visible.

The commander kept the boat slowly cruising with his periscope trained on the approaching smoke, ready for anything. Judge of his amazement when his view was obscured by the face of "Nobby" Clark (our Cockney A.B.) at the other end of the periscope. Realising at once that "Nobby" had been locked out (actually he had fallen asleep and had been rudely awakened by his cold plunge), we, of course, "broke surface" to collect frightened, half-drowned "Nobby," whose only ejaculation was: "Crikey! I ain't half glad I caught the ole bus." —J. Brodie, 177 Manor Road, Mitcham, Surrey.

Dinner before Mines!

"Somewhere in the North Sea" in 1917, when I was a stoker on H.M.S. Champion, there were plenty of floating mines about.

One day, several of us were waiting outside the galley (cook house) for our dinners, and the cook, a man from Walworth, was shouting out the number of messes marked on the meat dishes which were ready for the men to take away.

He had one dish in his hand with no number marked on it, when a stoker rushed up and shouted: "We nearly struck a mine – missed it by inches, Cookey." But Cookey only shouted back: "Never mind about blinkin' mines nah; is this your perishin' dish with no tally on it?" —W. Downs (late stoker, R.N.), 20 Tracey Street, Kennington Road, S.E.

A Philosopher at Sea

We were a helpless, sorry crowd, many of us with legs in splints, in the hold of a "hospital" ship crossing from Boulogne. The boat stopped dead.

"What are we stopping for, mate?" one man asked the orderly.

"The destroyers wot's escortin' of us is chasin' a German submarine. I'm just a-goin' on deck agin to see wot's doin'." As he got to the ladder he turned to say: "Nah, you blokes: if we gits 'it by a torpedo don't go gettin' the ruddy wind up an' start rushin' abaht tryin' ter git on deck. It won't do yer wounds no bloomin' good!" —E. Bundy (late L/Corporal, 1/5th L.F.A., 47th Division), 4 Upton Gardens, Barkingside, Ilford, Essex.

Extra Heavyweight

Amongst the crew of our mine-sweeper during the war "Sparks," the wireless operator, was a hefty, fat chap, weighing about 18 stone. One day while clearing up a mine-field, laid overnight by a submarine, we had the misfortune to have four or five of the mines explode in the "sweep."

The explosion shattered every piece of glass in the ship, put the engines out of action, and nearly blew the ship out of the water.

"Bill," one of our stokers – a Cockney who, being off watch, was asleep in his bunk – sat up, yawned, and exclaimed in a sleepy voice: "'Ullo, poor ole 'Sparks' fallen out of 'is bunk again! 'E'll 'urt 'isself one of these days!" —R.N.V.R., Old Windsor, Berks.

Three Varieties

The boat on which I was serving as a stoker had just received two new men as stokers.

On coming down the stokehold one of them seemed intent on finding out what different perils could happen to him.

After he had been inquiring for about an hour a little Cockney, rather bored, got up and said, "Now look here, mate. The job ain't so bad, looking at it in this light – you've three ways of snuffing it: one is burnt to death, the other is scalded to death; or, if you're damn lucky, drowned. That's more chances than they have upstairs." —B. Scott (late Stoker, H.M.S. "Marlborough"), 29 Stanley Road, Southend-on-Sea, Essex.

He was a Bigger Fish

The battleship in which I was serving was picking up survivors from a torpedoed merchantman in the North Atlantic. They had been drifting about for hours clinging to upturned boats and bits of gear that had floated clear of the wreckage.

Our boat had picked up three or four half-drowned men and was just about to return to the ship when we espied a fat sailor bobbing about with his arms around a plank. We pulled up close to him and the bow-man leaned out with a boat-hook and drew him alongside.

He seemed to have just strength enough left to grasp the gunwale, when we were surprised to hear him shout, in an unmistakable Cockney voice: "All right, Cockey, un'itch that boat 'ook. Wot d'yer fink I am – a blinkin' tiddler?" —Leslie E. Austin, 6 Northumberland Avenue, Squirrels Heath, Romford, Essex.

The "Arethusa" Touch

During the action off Heligoland in August 1914 the light cruiser Arethusa came under a hot fire. A shell penetrated the chief stoker's mess, knocked a drawer full of flour all over the deck, but luckily failed to explode.

A Cockney stoker standing in the mess had a narrow escape, but after surveying the wreckage and flour-covered deck all he said was: "Blowed if they ain't trying to make a blinkin' duff in our mess!" —C. H. Cook (Lieut., R.N.V.R.), 91 Great Russell Street, W.C.1.

His Chance to Dive

During the early part of 1917, whilst I was serving with one of H.M. transports, we had occasion to call at Panama for coaling purposes before proceeding to England via New York.

One of our many Cockney sailors was a fine swimmer and diver. He took every opportunity to have what he termed "a couple of dives."

Owing to the water being rather shallow immediately along the quay, his diving exhibitions were limited to nothing higher than the forecastle, which was some 30 ft. His one desire, however, was to dive from the boat-deck, which was about 60 ft. Whilst steaming later in the front line of our convoy, which numbered about forty-two ships, we became the direct target of a deadly torpedo. Every soul dashed for the lifeboats.

After things had somewhat subsided I found our Cockney friend – disregarding the fact that our ship was badly damaged and was now listing at an almost impossible angle – posing rather gracefully for a dive. He shouted, "Hi! hi! Wot abaht this 'un? I told yer I could do it easy!" He then dived gracefully and swam to a lifeboat. —Bobbie George Bull (late Mercantile Marine), 40 Warren Road, Leyton, E.10.

Wot Abaht Wot?

In 1917 our job on an armed merchantman, H.M.A.S. Marmora, was to escort food ships through the danger zone. One trip we were going to Sierra Leone, but in the middle of the afternoon, when about two days out from Cardiff, we were torpedoed.

The old ship came to a standstill and we all proceeded to action stations. Just as we were training our guns in the direction of the submarine another torpedo struck us amidships and smashed practically all the boats on the port side.

"Abandon ship" was given, as we were slowly settling down by the bows. Our boat was soon crowded out, and there seemed not enough room for a cat. The last man down the life-line was "Tubby," our cook's mate, who came from Poplar.

When he was about half way down the boat was cut adrift and "Tubby" was left hanging in mid-air. "Hi!" he shouted. "What abaht it?"

Another Cockney (from Battersea) replied: "What abaht what?"