500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

Cigs and Cough Drops

Cigarettes we knew not; food was scarce, so was ammunition. Consequently I was detailed on the eve of the retreat from Serbia to collect boxes of S.A.A. lying near the front line.

On the way to report my arrival to the infantry officer I found a Cockney Tommy badly wounded in the chest. "It's me chest, ain't it, mate?" he asked. I nodded in reply. "Then I'll want corf drops, not them," and with that he handed me a packet of cigarettes. How he got them and secretly saved them up so long is a mystery.

I believe he knew that he would not require either cough drops or cigarettes, and I took a vow to keep the empty packet to remind me of the gallant fellow. —H. R. (late R.F.A.), 10th Division, London, N.3.

"Smiler" to the End

When Passchendaele started on July 31, 1917, we who were holding ground captured in the Messines stunt of June 7 carried out a "dummy" attack.

One of the walking wounded coming back from this affair of bluff, I struck a hot passage, for Jerry was shelling the back areas with terrific pertinacity. Making my way to the corduroy road by Mount Kemmel, I struck a stretcher party. Their burden was a rifleman of the R.B.'s, whose body was a mass of bandages. Seeing me ducking and dodging every time a salvo burst near he called out:

"Keep wiv me, mate, 'cos two shells never busts in the same 'ole – and if I ain't a shell 'ole 'oo is?"

Sheer grit kept him alive until after we reached Lord Derby's War Hospital outside Warrington, and the nickname of "Smiler" fitted him to the last. —W. G. C., 2 Avonly Road, S.E.14.

"The Bishop" and the Bright Side

A fully-qualified chartered accountant in the City, my pal, "The Bishop" – so called because of his dignified manner – was promoted company-clerk in the Irish Rifles at Messines in 1917.

Company headquarters were in a dark and dismal barn where the Company Commander and "The Bishop" were writing under difficulties one fine morning – listening acutely to the shriek and crash of Jerry's whizz-bangs just outside the ramshackle door.

The betting was about fifty to one on a direct hit at any moment. The skipper had a wary eye on "The Bishop" – oldish, shortish, stoutish, rather comical card in his Tommy's kit. Both were studiously preserving an air of outward calm.

Then the direct hit came – high up, bang through the rafters, and blew off the roof. "The Bishop" looked up at the sky, still clutching his fountain-pen.

"Ah, that's better, sir," he said. "Now we can see what we are doing." —P. J. K., Westbourne Grove, W.2.

"Chuck yer Blinkin' 'Aggis at 'im!"

The Cockney inhabitants of "Brick Alley," at Carnoy, on the Somme in 1916, had endured considerable attention from a German whizz-bang battery situated a mile or so away behind Trones Wood.

During a lull in the proceedings a fatigue party of "Jocks," each carrying a 40-lb. sphere, the business end of a "toffee-apple" (trench mortar bomb), made their appearance, and were nicely strung out in the trench when Jerry opened out again.

The chances of a direct hit made matters doubly unpleasant.

The tension became a little too much for one of the regular billetees, and from a funk-hole in the side of the trench a reproachful voice addressed the nearest Highlander: "For the luv o' Mike, Jock, get up and chuck yer blinkin' 'aggis at 'em." —J. C. Whiting (late 8th Royal Sussex Pioneers), 36 Hamlet Gardens, W.6.

Back to Childhood

I had been given a lift in an A.S.C. lorry going to Jonchery on May 27, 1918, when it was suddenly attacked by a German plane. On getting a burst of machine-gun bullets through the wind-screen the driver, a stout man of about forty, pulled up, and we both clambered down.

The plane came lower and re-opened fire, and as there was no other shelter we were obliged to crawl underneath the lorry and dodge from one side to the other in order to avoid the bullets.

After one hurried "pot" at the plane, and as we dived for the other side, my companion gasped: "Lumme! Fancy a bloke my age a-playin' 'ide an' seek!" —H. G. E. Woods, "The Willows," Bridge Street, Maidenhead.

The Altruist

One afternoon in July 1917 our battalion was lying by a roadside on the Ypres front waiting for night to fall so that we could proceed to the front line trenches.

"Smiffy" was in the bombing section of his platoon and had a bag of Mills grenades to carry.

Fritz began to get busy, and soon we had shrapnel bursting overhead. "Smiffy" immediately spread his body over his bag of bombs like a hen over a clutch of eggs.

"What the 'ell are you sprawling over them bombs for?" asked the sergeant.

"Well," replied Smiffy, "it's like this 'ere, sergeant. I wouldn't mind a little Blighty one meself, but I'd jest 'ate for any of these bombs ter get wounded while I'm wiv 'em." —T. E. M. (late London Regt.), Colliers Wood, S.W.19.

"Minnie's Stepped on my Toe!"

We were lying in front of Bapaume in August 1918 awaiting reinforcements. They came from Doullens, and among them was a Cockney straight from England. He greeted our sergeant with the words, "Wot time does the dance start?" The sergeant, an old-timer, replied, "The dance starts right now."

So over the top we went, but had not gone far when the Cockney was bowled over by a piece from a minnenwerfer, which took half of one foot away.

I was rendering first aid when the sergeant came along. He looked down and said, "Hello, my lad, soon got tired of the dance, eh?"

The little Cockney looked up and despite his pain he smiled and said, "On wiv the dance, sergeant! I'm sitting this one aht, fer Minnie has stepped on my toe." —E. C. Hobbs (late 1st Royal Marine Battn.), 103 Moore Park Road, Fulham, S.W.

In the Dim Dawn

Jerry had made a surprise raid on our trenches one morning just as it was getting light. He got very much the worst of it, but when everything was over Cockney Simmonds was missing.

We hunted everywhere, but couldn't find him. Suddenly we saw him approaching with a hefty looking German whom he had evidently taken prisoner.

"Where did you get him from, Simmonds?" we asked.

"Well, d'yer see that shell-'ole over there 'alf full o' water?"

"Yes," we said, all craning our necks to look.

"Well, this 'ere Fritz didn't." —L. Digby (12th East Surreys), 10 Windsor Road, Holloway, N.7.

Beau Brummell's Puttees

March 1918. Just before the big German offensive. One night I was out with a reconnoitring patrol in "No Man's Land." We had good reason to believe that Jerry also had a patrol in the near vicinity.

Suddenly a burst of machine-gun fire in our direction seemed to indicate that we had been spotted. We dived for shell-holes and any available cover, breathlessly watching the bullets knock sparks off the barbed wire. When the firing ceased and we attempted to re-form our little party, a Cockney known as "Posh" Wilks was missing.

Fearing the worst, we peered into the darkness. Just then a Verey light illuminated the scene, and we saw the form of "Posh" Wilks some little distance away. I went over to see what was wrong, and to my astonishment he was kneeling down carefully rewinding one of his puttees. "Can't get these ruddy things right anyhow to-day," he said. —H. W. White (late Royal Sussex Regt.), 18 Airthrie Road, Goodmayes, Essex.

Plenty of Room on Top

On December 4, 1917, we made a surprise attack on the enemy in the Jabal Hamrin range in Northern Mesopotamia.

We wore our winter clothing (the same as in Europe), with tin hats complete. After stumbling over the rocks in extended order for some time, the platoon on my left, who were on higher ground, sighted a Turkish camp fire on the right.

We swung round in that direction, to find ourselves up against an almost blank wall of rock, about 20 ft. high, the enemy being somewhere on top.

At last we found a place at which to scale it, one at a time. We began to mount, in breathless silence, expecting the first man to come tumbling down on top of all the rest.

I was the second, and just as I started to climb I felt two sharp tugs at my entrenching tool and a hoarse Cockney voice whispered, "Full up inside; plenty o' room on top." I was annoyed at the time, but I have often laughed over it since. —P. V. Harris, 89 Sherwood Park Road, S.W.16.

Nearly Lost His Washing-Bowl

In March 1917 we held the front line trenches opposite a sugar refinery held by the Germans. We got the order to stand to as our engineers were going to blow up a mine on the German position.

Up went the mine. Then Fritz started shelling us. Shells were bursting above and around us. A piece of shrapnel hit a Cockney, a lad from Paddington, on his tin hat.

When things calmed down another Cockney bawled out, "Lumme, that was a near one, Bill." "Blimey, not 'arf," was the reply. "If I 'adn't got my chin-strap dahn I'd 'ave lost my blooming washing-bowl." —E. Rickard (late Middlesex Regt.), 65 Apsley End, Hemel Hempstead, Herts.

Bath Night

The trenches on the Somme were very deep and up to our knees in mud, and we were a pretty fine sight after being in the front line several days over our time.

I shall never forget the night we passed out of the trenches – like a lot of mud-larks. The O.C., seeing the state we were in, ordered us to have a bath. We stopped at an old barn, where the R.E.'s had our water ready in wooden tubs. Imagine the state of the water when, six to a tub, we had to skim the mud off after one another!

Just as we were enjoying the treat, Jerry started sending over some of his big stuff, and one shell took the back part of the barn off.

Everybody began getting out of the tubs, except a Cockney, who sat up in his tub and shouted out, "Blimey, Jerry, play the blinkin' game. Wait till I've washed me back. I've lorst me soap." —C. Ralph (late Royal Welch Fusiliers), 153d Guinness Buildings, Hammersmith, W.6.

Back to the Shack

Whilst on the Somme in October 1916 my pal Mac (from Notting Hill) and myself were sent forward to a sunken road just behind Les Bœufs to assist at a forward telephone post which was in communication with battalion H.Q. by wire and with the companies in the trenches by runner.

During the night a false "S O S" was sent up, and our guns opened out – and, of course, so did the German guns – and smashed our telephone wire.

It being "Mac's" turn out, he picked up his 'phone and went up the dug-out steps. When he had almost reached the top a big shell burst right in the dug-out entrance and blew "Mac" back down the stairs to the bottom, bruised, but otherwise unhurt.

Picking himself up slowly he removed his hat, placed his hand over his heart, and said, gazing round, "Back to the old 'ome agin – and it ain't changed a bit." —A. J. West (late Corpl., Signals), 1/13th London Regt., 212 Third Avenue, Paddington, W.10.

His Last Gamble

One night in July 1917, as darkness came along, my battalion moved up and relieved a battalion in the front line.

Next morning as dawn was breaking Jerry started a violent strafe. My platoon occupied three fire-bays, and we in the centre one could shout to those in the bays on either side, although we could not see them.

In one of the end bays was "Monte Carlo" Teddy, a true lad from London, a "bookie's tick-tack" before the war. He was called "Monte Carlo" because he would gamble on anything. As a shell exploded anywhere near us Teddy would shout, "Are you all right, sarge?" until this kind of got on my nerves, so I crawled into his bay to inquire why he had suddenly taken such an interest in my welfare. He explained, "I gets up a draw larst night, sarge, a franc a time, as to which of us in this lot stopped a packet first, and you're my gee-gee."

I had hardly left them when a shell exploded in their bay. The only one to stop a packet was Teddy, and we carried him into the next bay to await the stretcher-bearers. I could see he would never reach the dressing station.

Within five minutes I had stopped a lovely Blighty, and they put me alongside Teddy. When he noticed who it was he said, "Well I'm blowed, just my blinkin' luck; licked a short head and I shan't last long enough to see if there's a' objection."

Thus he died, as he always said he would, with his boots on, and my company could never replace him. Wherever two men of my old mob meet you can bet your boots that one or the other is sure to say, "Remember 'Monte Carlo' Ted?" —E. J. Clark (late Sergeant, Lincoln Regt.), c/o Sir Thomas Lipton, Bart., K.C.V.O., Osidge, Southgate, N.14.

That Infernal Drip-Drip-Drip!

We were trying to sleep in half a dug-out that was roofed with a waterproof sheet – Whale and I. It was a dark, wet night. I had hung a mess tin on a nail to catch the water that dripped through, partly to keep it off my head, also to provide water for an easy shave in the morning.

A strafe began. The night was illuminated by hundreds of vivid flashes, and shells of all kinds burst about us. The dug-out shook with the concussions. Trench mortars, rifle grenades, and machine-gun fire contributed to the din.

Whale, who never had the wind up, was shifting his position and turning from one side to the other.

"What's the matter?" I asked my chum. "Can't you sleep?"

"Sleep! 'Ow the 'ell can a bloke sleep with that infernal drip-drip-drip goin' on?" —P. T. Hughes (late 21st London Regiment, 47th Division), 12 Shalimar Gardens, Acton, W.

"A Blinkin' Vanity Box"

After the terrific upheaval of June 7, 1917, my brigade (the 111th) held the line beyond Wytschaete Ridge for some weeks. While my company was in support one day my corporal and I managed to scrounge into a pill-box away from the awful mud. We could not escape the water because the explosion of the mines on June 7 had cracked the foundation of our retreat and water was nearly two feet deep on the floor.

Just before dusk on this rainy July evening I was shaving before a metal mirror in the top bunk in the pill-box, while the corporal washed in a mess-tin in the bunk below. Just then Jerry started a severe strafe and a much-muddied runner of the 13th Royal Fusiliers appeared in the unscreened doorway.

"Come in and shelter, old man," I said. So he stepped on to an ammunition box that just failed to keep his feet clear of the water.

He had watched our ablutions in silence for a minute or so, when a shell burst almost in the doorway and flung him into the water below our bunks, where he sat with his right arm red and rent, sagging at his side.

"Call this a shelter?" he said. "Blimey, it's a blinkin' vanity box!" —Sgt., 10th R.F., East Sheen, S.W.14.

Playing at Statues

We were making our way to a detached post just on the left of Vimy, and Jerry was sending up Verey lights as we were going along. Every time one went up we halted, and kept quite still in case we should be seen.

It was funny indeed to see how some of the men halted when a light went up. Some had one foot down and one raised, and others were in a crouching position. "My missus orta see me nah playing at blinkin' statchoos," said one old Cockney. —T. Kelly (late 17th London Regt.), 43 Ocean Street, Stepney, E.1.

Bo Peep – 1915 Version

In 1915 at Fricourt "Copper" Kingsland of our regiment, the 7th Royal West Surreys, was on sentry on the fire-step in the front line. At this period of the war steel helmets were not in use. Our cap badge was in the form of a lamb.

A Fritz sniper registered a hit through Kingsland's hat, cutting the tail portion of the lamb away. After he had pulled himself together "Copper" surveyed his cap badge and remarked: "On the larst kit inspection I reported to the sargint that yer was lorst, and nah I shall 'ave ter tell 'im that when Bo Peep fahnd yer, yer wagged yer bloomin' tail off in gratitood." —"Spot," Haifu, Farley Road, Selsdon, Surrey.

Jerry's Dip in the Fat

We were out at rest in an open field on the Somme front when one morning, about 5 a.m., our cook, Alf, of Battersea, was preparing the company's breakfast. There was bacon, but no bread. I was standing beside the cooker soaking one of my biscuits in the fat.

Suddenly a Jerry airman dived down towards the cooker, firing his machine gun. I got under the cooker, Alf fell over the side of it, striking his head on the ground. I thought he was hit. But he sat up, rubbing his head and looking up at Jerry, who was then flying away.

"'Ere!" he shouted, "next time yer wants a dip in the fat, don't be so rough." —H. A. Redford (late 24th London Regt.), 31 Charrington Street, N.W.1.

Carried Unanimously

Some recently captured trenches had to be cleared of the enemy, and in the company told off for the job was a Cockney youth. Proceeding along the trench with a Mills bomb in his hand, he came upon a number of the enemy hiding in a dug-out.

"Nah then," he shouted, holding up the bomb in readiness to throw it if necessary, "all them as votes for coming along wiv me 'old up your 'ands."

All hands were held up, with the cry "Kamerad! Kamerad!" Upon which the Cockney shouted, "Look, mates, it's carried unanermously." —H. Morgan (late 4th Telegraph Construction Co., R.E. Signals), 26 Ranelagh Road, Wembley.

A Very Hot Bath

During the retreat of the remnants of the Fifth Army in March 1918 two of the six-inch howitzers of the Honourable Artillery Company were in action in some deserted horse-lines outside Péronne.

During a lull Gunner A – , a Londoner, like the rest of us, went "scrounging" in some nearby cottages recently abandoned by their inhabitants. He reappeared carrying a large zinc bath, and after filling it with water from the horse pond he made a huge bonfire with broken tables and other furniture, and set the bath on the fire.

Just when the water had been heated Fritz opened out with 5·9's. As we were not firing just then we all took cover, with the exception of Gunner A – , who calmly set his bath of hot water down by one of the guns, undressed, and got into the bath. A minute later a large piece of shell also entered the bath, passed through the bottom of it and into the ground.

The gunner watched the precious water running out, then he slowly rose and, beginning to dress, remarked, "Very well, Fritz, have it your way. I may not be godly, but I did want to be clean." —Edward Boaden (late H.A.C., 309 Siege Battery), 17 Connaught Gardens, Muswell Hill, N.10.

In Lieu of —

During a winter's night on the Somme a party of us were drawing rations just behind the front line trenches. A Cockney chum of mine was disgusted to hear the Q.M. say he was issuing hot soup in lieu of rum.

"Coo! What next?" he grumbled. "Soup in lieu of rum, biscuits in lieu of bread, jam in lieu – " While he spoke Jerry sent over two whizz-bangs which scattered us and the rations and inflicted several casualties.

My chum was hit badly. As he was being carried past the Q.M. he smiled and said, "Someone will have to be in lieu of me now, Quarter!" —T. Allen (late Plymouth Battn., R.N.D.), 21 Sydney Street, S.W.

Putting the Hatt on It

Two brothers named Hatt were serving together in France. The elder was always saying that he would never be hit, as the Germans, not being able to spell his name correctly, could not put it on any of their shells or bullets. (It was a common saying among the soldiers, of course, that a shell or bullet which hit a man had the victim's name on it.)

The younger brother was taken prisoner, and two days later the elder brother was shot through the finger. Turning to his mates he exclaimed, "Blimey, me brother's been an' split on me." —W. J. Bowes, 224 Devon's Road, Bow, E.3.

Tangible Evidence

We were at Levantie in 1915, just before the Battle of Loos, and the rumour was about that the Germans were running short of ammunition. It was very quiet in our sector, as we were opposite the Saxons, and we strolled about at ease.

A party of us was told off to get water just behind the trenches in an old farmhouse which had a pump. We filled all the water bottles and rum jars and then had a look round the ruins to see what we could scrounge, when suddenly Fritz sent a shell over. It hit the wall and sent bricks flying all over the place. One of the bricks hit my mate on the head and knocked him out. When we had revived him he looked up and said, "Strewth, it's right they ain't got no 'ammo.'; they're slinging bricks. It shows yer we've got 'em all beat to a frazzle, don't it?" —J. Delderfield, 54 Hampden Street, Paddington.

What the Cornwalls' Motto Meant

A platoon of my regiment, the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry, was engaged in carrying screens to a point about 200 yards behind the front line. The screens were to be set up to shield a road from German observation balloons, and they were made of brushwood bound together with wire. They were rolled up for convenience of transport, and when rolled they looked like big bundles of pea-sticks about ten feet long. They were very heavy.

Three men were told off to carry each screen. One of the parties of three was composed of two Cornishmen (who happened to be at the ends of the screen) and their Cockney pal (in the middle), the screen being carried on their shoulders.

When they had nearly reached the point in the communication trench where it was to be dumped, Jerry sent over a salvo of whizz-bangs. His range was good, and consequently the carrying party momentarily became disorganised. The Cornishman at the front end of the screen dashed towards the front line, whilst the man at the other end made a hurried move backwards.

This left the Cockney with the whole of the weight of the screen on his shoulder. The excitement was over in a few seconds and the Cornishmen returned to find the Cockney lying on the duckboards, where he had subsided under the weight of his burden, trying to get up. He stopped struggling when he saw them and said very bitterly, "Yus: One and All's yer blinkin' motter; one under the blinkin' screen and all the rest 'op it."

"One and All," I should mention, is the Cornwalls' motto. —"Cornwall," Greenford, Middlesex.

Atlas – On the Somme

During the Somme offensive we were holding the line at Delville Wood, and a Cockney corporal fresh from England came to our company.

He was told to take charge of a very advanced post, and our company officer gave him all important instructions as to bomb stores, ammunition, rifle grenades, emergency rations, S O S rockets, gas, and all the other numerous and important orders for an advanced post.

After the officer asked him if he understood it all, he said, "Blimey, sir, 'as 'Aig gone on leave?" —Ex-Sergt. Geary, D.C.M. (East Surrey Regt.), 57 Longley Road, Tooting.

Putting the Lid on It

On the Struma Front, Salonika, in September 1916, I was detailed to take a party of Bulgar prisoners behind the lines.

Two Bulgars, one of them a huge, bald-headed man, were carrying a stretcher in which was reposing "Ginger" Hart, of Deptford, who was shot through the leg.

The white bursts of shrapnel continued in our vicinity as we proceeded. One shell burst immediately in front of us, and we halted.

It was at this juncture that I saw "Ginger" leave his stretcher and hop away on one leg. Having picked up a tin hat, he hopped back to the big Bulgar prisoner and put the hat on his bald head, saying, "Abaht time we put the lid on the sooit puddin', corp: that's the fifth shot they've fired at that target." —G. Findlay, M.M. (late 81st Infantry Brigade, 27th Division), 3a Effie Place, Fulham, S.W.6.

Taffy was a – German!

In the confused fighting round Gueudecourt in 1916 a machine-gun section occupied a position in a maze of trenches, some of which led towards the German line. The divisional pioneer battalion was the Monmouthshire Regiment, all of whose men were Welsh and for the most part spoke Welsh.

A ration party of the M.G.C. had gone back one night and had been absent some time when two members rushed into the position, gasping: "We took the wrong turning! Walked into Jerry's line! They've got Smiffy – and the rations!"

We had hardly got over the shock of this news when Smiffy came staggering up, dragging the rations and mopping a bleeding face, at the same time cursing the rest of the ration party.

"Luv us, Smiffy, how did you get away? We thought the Germans had got you for sure!"

"Germans," gasped Smiffy. "GERMANS! I thought they was the Monmouths!" —S. W. Baxter (late 86th M.G.C.), 110 Bishopsgate, E.C.2.