500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

"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

We were asleep in our dug-out at Bray, on the Somme, in November 1915. The dug-out was cut in the bank of a field where our horse lines were.

One of the horses broke loose and, taking a fancy to our roof, which was made of brushwood and rushes, started eating it.

Suddenly the roof gave way and the horse fell through, narrowly missing myself and my pal, who was also a Cockney.

After we had got over the shock my pal said, "Well, if that ain't the blinkin' latest. These long-eared blighters ain't satisfied with us looking after them – they want to come to bed with us." —F. E. Snell (late 27th Brigade, R.F.A.), 22 Woodchester Street, Harrow Road, W.2.

General Salute!

While "resting" at Bully-Grenay in the winter of 1916 I witnessed the following incident:

Major-General – and his A.D.C. were walking through the village when an elderly Cockney member of a Labour battalion (a typical London navvy) stumbled out of an estaminet. He almost collided with the general.

Quickly pulling himself together and exclaiming "Blimey, the boss!" he gave a very non-military salute; but the general, tactfully ignoring his merry condition, had passed on.

In spite of his pal's attempts to restrain him, he overtook the general, shouting "I did serlute yer, didn't I, guv'nor?"

To which the general hastily replied: "Yes, yes, my man!"

"Well," said the Cockney, "here's anuvver!" —A. J. K. Davis (late 20th London Regt., att. 73rd M.G.C.), Minnis Croft, Reculver Avenue, Birchington.

Wipers-on-Sea

Scene, "Wipers"; Time, winter of 1917.

A very miserable-looking R.F.A. driver, wet to the skin, is riding a very weary mule through the rain.

Voice from passing infantryman, in the unmistakable accent of Bow Bells: "Where y' goin', mate? Pier an' back?" —A. Gelli (late H.A.C.), 27 Langdon Park Road, Highgate, N.6.

He Rescued His Shirt

During the latter stages of the war, with the enemy in full retreat, supply columns and stores were in most cases left far behind. Those in the advance columns, when marching through occupied villages, often "won" articles of underclothing to make up for deficiencies.

Camberwell Alf had a couple of striped "civvy" shirts, and had lent a less fortunate battery chum one of these on the understanding that it would be returned in due course. The same evening the battery was crossing a pontoon bridge when a mule became frightened at the oscillation of the wooden structure, reared wildly, and pitched its rider over the canvas screen into the river.

Camberwell Alf immediately plunged into the water and rescued his unfortunate chum after a great struggle.

Later the rescued one addressed his rescuer: "Thank yer, Alf, mate."

"Don't yer 'mate' me, yer blinkin' perisher!" Alf replied. "Wot the 'ell d'yer mean by muckin' abaht in the pahny (water) wiv my shirt on?" —J. H. Hartnoll (late 30th Div. Artillery), 1 Durning Road, Upper Norwood, S.E.19.

A Smile from the Prince

One morning towards the end of May 1915, just before the battle of Festubert, my pal Bill and I were returning from the village bakery on the Festubert road to our billets at Gorre with a loaf each, which we had just bought.

Turning the corner into the village we saw approaching us a company of the Grenadier Guards in battle order, with a slim young officer at the head carrying a stick almost as tall as himself. Directly behind the officer was a hefty Guardsman playing "Tipperary" on a concertina.

We saluted the officer, who, after spotting the loaves of bread under our arms, looked straight at us, gave us a knowing smile and acknowledged our salute. It was not till then that we recognised who the officer was. It was the Prince of Wales.

"Lumme!" said Bill. "There goes the Prince o' Wales hisself a-taking the guard to the Bank o' England!" —J. F. Davis, 29 Faunce Street, S.E.17.

"Just to Make Us Laugh"

We were one of those unlucky fatigue parties detailed to carry ammunition to the forward machine gun positions in the Ypres sector. We started off in the dusk and trudged up to the line. The transport dumped the "ammo" at a convenient spot and left us to it. Then it started raining.

The communication trenches were up to our boot tops in mud, so we left them and walked across the top. The ground was all chalky slime and we slipped and slid all over the place. Within a very short time we were wet through and, to make matters worse, we occasionally slipped into shell-holes half full of water (just to relieve the monotony!).

We kept this up all night until the "ammo" had all been delivered; then the order came to march back to billets at Dranoutre. It was still pouring with rain, and when we came to Shrapnel Corner we saw the famous notice board: "Avoid raising Dust Clouds as it draws Enemy's Shell Fire."

We were new to this part of the line and, just then, the idea of raising dust clouds was extremely ludicrous.

I asked my pal Jarvis, who came from Greenwich, what he thought they put boards like that up for. His reply was typically Cockney: "I 'spect they did that just to make us laugh, as we cawnt go to the picshures." —Mack (late M.G.C.), Cathcart, The Heath, Dartford.

No Use Arguing with a Mule

Whilst "resting" after the Jerusalem battle, my battalion was detailed for road-making. Large stones were used for the foundation of the road and small and broken stones for the surface. Our job was to find the stones, assisted by mules.

A mule was new to Joe Smith – a great-hearted boy from Limehouse way – but he must have heard about them for he gingerly approached the one allotted to him, and as gingerly led him away into the hills.

Presently Joe was seen returning, but, to our amazement, he was struggling along with the loaded baskets slung across his own shoulders, and the mule was trailing behind. When I asked why he was carrying the load, he replied: "Well, I was loading 'im up wiv the stones, but he cut up rusty, so to save a lot of argument, I reckoned as 'ow I'd better carry the darned stones meself." —A. C. Wood, 56 Glasslyn Road, N.8.

Kissing Time

It was towards the end of '18, and we had got old Jerry well on the run. We had reached a village near Lille, which had been in German occupation, and the inhabitants were surging round us.

A corporal was having the time of his life, being kissed on both cheeks by the girls, but when it came to a bewhiskered French papa's turn the corporal hesitated. "Nah, then, corporal," shouted one of our boys, "be sporty! Take the rough with the smooth!" —G. H. Harris (late C.S.M., 8th London Regt.), 65 Nelson Road, South Chingford, E.4.

"Playin' Soldiers"

We were in the Cambrai Salient, in support in the old Hindenburg Line. Close to us was a road where there were a ration dump and every other sort of dump. Everybody in the sector went through us to get rations, ammunition, stores, etc.

There was just room in the trench for two men to pass. Snow had been on the ground for weeks, and the bottom of the trench was like glass. One night at stand-to the Drake Battalion crowded past us to get rations. On their return journey the leading man, with two sandbags of rations round his neck and a petrol can of water in each hand, fell over at every other step. Things were further complicated by a party of R.E.'s coming down the line with much barbed wire, in which this unfortunate "Drake" entangled himself.

As he picked himself up for the umpteenth time, and without the least intention of being funny, I heard him say: "Well, if I ever catch that nipper of mine playin' soldiers, I won't 'arf knock 'is blinkin' block orf." —A. M. B. (late Artists Rifles), Savage Club, W.C.2.

Per Carrier

During the occupation of the "foreshores of Gallipoli" in 1915 the troops were suffering from shortage of water.

I and six more, including Tich, were detailed to carry petrol cans full of water up to the front line. We had rather a rough passage over very hilly ground, and more than one of us tripped over stones that were strewn across the path, causing us to say a few strong words.

By the time we reached our destination we were just about all in, and on being challenged "Halt; who goes there?" Tich answered: "Carter Paterson and Co. with 'Adam's ale,' all nice and frothy!" —D. W. Jordan (late 1/5th Essex, 54th Division), 109a Gilmore Road, Lewisham, S.E.13.

"Enemy" in the Wire

I was in charge of an advanced post on the Dorian front, Salonica, 1917, which had been often raided by the Bulgars, and we were advised to be extra wary. In the event of an attack we were to fire a red flare, which was a signal for the artillery to put over a barrage.

About 2 a.m. we heard a commotion in our wire, but, receiving no answer to our challenge, I decided to await further developments. The noise was soon repeated in a way that left no doubt in my mind that we were being attacked, so I ordered the section to open fire and sent up the signal for the guns.

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.

He dipped the cup again and exclaimed: "'Ere, I've fahnd a big bone!"

It was a new broom-head, however; it had been left in the dixie to soak for the night! —G. H. Griggs (late Somerset L.I.), 3 Ribstone Street, Hackney, E.9.

"I Shall have to Change Yer!"

In the Ypres Salient in July 1915 Headquarters were anxious to know which German regiment was facing us. An immense Cockney corporal, who was particularly good on patrol, was instructed to secure a prisoner.

After a night spent in No Man's Land he returned at dawn with a capture, an insignificant little German, trembling with fear, who stood about five foot nothing.

Lifting him on to the fire-step and eyeing him critically, the corporal thus addressed him: "You won't do for our ole man; I shall have to take yer aht to-night and change yer!" —S. Back, Merriams Farm, Leeds, near Maidstone.

Scots Reveille

Ours was the only kilted battalion in the division, and our bagpipes were often the subject of many humorous remarks from the other regiments.

On one occasion, while we were out resting just behind the line at Château de la Haye, we were billeted opposite a London regiment. Very early in the morning the bagpipes would sound the Scottish reveille – a rather long affair compared with the usual bugle call – and it did not please our London friends to be awakened in this manner.

One morning while I was on early duty, and just as the pipers were passing, a very dismal face looked out of a billet and announced to his pals inside, "There goes them perishin' 'toobs' again." —Arthur R. Blampied, D.C.M. (late London Scottish), 47 Lyndhurst Avenue, Streatham Hill, S.W.2.

In the Negative

A battalion of the London Regiment had been having a particularly gruelling time in the trenches, but some of the men were cheered with thoughts of impending leave. In fact, permission for them to proceed home was expected at any moment.

At this time the Germans started a "big push" in another sector, and all leave was suddenly cancelled.

An N.C.O. broke the news to the poor unfortunates in the following manner: "All you blokes wot's going on leaf, ain't going on leaf, 'cause you're unlucky."

In spite of the great disappointment, this way of putting it amused even the men concerned. The real Cockney spirit! —S. C., Brighton.

"An' That's All that 'Appened"

Before going up the line we were stationed at Etaples, and were rather proud of our cook-house, but one day the colonel told the sergeant-major that he had heard some of the most unparliamentary language he had ever heard in his life emanating from the cook-house.

The sergeant-major immediately called at the cook-house to find out the cause of the trouble, but our Cockney cook was very indignant. "What, me Lord Mayor? [slang for 'swear']. No one's ever 'eard me Lord Mayor."

"Don't lie to me," roared the sergeant-major. "What's happened here?"

"Nuffin'," said the cook, "except that I slopped a dixie full of 'ot tea dahn Bill's neck. I said 'Sorry, Bill,' and Bill said 'Granted, 'Arry,' an' that's all what's 'appened." —Ryder Davies (late 1st Kent Cyclists, Royal West Kents), 20 Villa Road, S.W.9.

Watching them "Fly Past"

Our first big engagement was a counter-attack to recapture the trenches lost by the K.R.R.'s and R.B.'s on July 30, 1915, when "Jerry" used liquid fire for the first time and literally burned our chaps out.

To get into action we had to go across open country in full view of the enemy. We began to get it "in the neck" as soon as we got to "Hell Fire Corner," on our way to Zillebeke Lake. Our casualties were heavy, caused by shell fire, also by a German aeroplane which was flying very low overhead and using its machine gun on us.

My pal, Wally Robins (later awarded M.M., promoted corporal, and killed at Lens), our company humorist, was looking up at the 'plane when a shell landed, killing several men in front of him.

As he fell I thought he too had caught it. I rushed to him anxiously and said, "Are you hurt?"

This was his reply: "I should think I am. I wish they would keep their bloomin' aeroplanes out of the way. If I hadn't been looking up at that I shouldn't have fallen over that blinkin' barbed wire stake." —E. W. Fellows, M.M. (late Corporal, 6th Battn., D.C.L.I.), 33 Dunlace Road, Clapton, E.5.

High Necks and Low

After the first Battle of Ypres in 1914 the Scots Guards were being relieved by a well-known London regiment.

A diminutive Cockney looked up at a six-foot Guardsman and asked him what it was like in the front line.

"Up to your neck in mud," said the Guardsman.

"Blimey, oo's neck?" asked the little chap. —H. Rogers (late 116th Battery, 1st Div. R.F.A.), 10 Ashley Road, Richmond, Surrey.

Too Light – by One Rissole

During the night before my Division (21st) attacked, on October 4, 1917, my unit was in the tunnel under the road at "Clapham Junction," near Hooge.

Rations having failed to arrive, each man was given a rissole and a packet of chewing-gum. We went over about 6 a.m., and, despite rather severe losses, managed to push our line forward about 1,300 yards.

When we were back in "rest" dug-outs at Zillebeke, our officer happening to comment on our "feed" prior to the attack, my mate said: "Yus. Blinkin' good job for old Jerry we never had two rissoles a man – we might have shoved him back to Berlin!" —C. Hartridge, 92 Lancaster Street, S.E.1.

Psyche – "at the Barf!"

I was billeting at Witternesse, near Aire, for a battery coming out of the line for rest and training prior to the August 1918 push.