500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

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We landed in North Russia in June 1918. We were piloted in on the City of Marseilles to a jetty. We did not know the name of the place. On the jetty we saw from the boat a British marine on sentry duty. We shouted down to him, "Where are we, mate?" He answered "Murmansk."

We asked, "What sort of place," and he shouted, "Lumme, you've come to a blighted 'ole 'ere. They 'ave one picture palace and the price of admission is a bar of soap." —M. C. Oliver (late Corporal R.A.F.), 99, Lealand Road, Stamford Hill, N.16.

Sherlock Holmes in the Desert

In the autumn of 1917, when training for the attack on Beersheba, in Palestine, we were encamped in bivouacs in the desert.

The chief meal of the day was served in the cool of the evening and more often than not consisted of bully beef stew.

One evening the Orderly Officer approached the dixie, looked into it, and seeing it half full of the usual concoction, remarked, "H'm, stew this evening."

At once there came a voice, that of a Cockney tailor, from the nearest bivouac – "My dear Watson!" —R. S. H. (late 16th County of London Q.W.R.), Purley, Surrey.

The Army "Loops the Loop"

The road from Jerusalem to Jericho was very bad, and if you went too close to the edge you were likely to go over the precipice; indeed, many lives were lost in this way.

One day a lorry toppled over and fell at least a hundred feet. When the rescuers got down to it, expecting to find a mangled corpse, they were surprised to hear a well-known Cockney voice from under the debris, exclaiming: "Blimey, I'll bet I'm the first bloke in the whole Army wot's looped the loop in a motor-lorry." —Sidney H. Rothschild, York Buildings, Adelphi, W.C.2.

Repartee on the Ridge

While on the Vimy Ridge sector I was going one dark night across the valley towards the front line when I lost my way among the mud and shell-holes. Hearing voices, I shouted an inquiry as to the whereabouts of Gabriel Trench. Back came the reply: "Lummie, mate, I ain't the blinkin' harbourmaster!" —T. Gillespie (late Mining Company, R.E.), London.

A New Kind of "Missing"

A battalion of the 47th London Division was making its first journey to the front line at Givenchy.

As we were proceeding from Béthune by the La Bassée Canal we passed another crowd of the same Division who had just been relieved. We were naturally anxious to know what it was like "up there," and the following conversation took place in passing:

"What's it like, mate?"

"All right."

"Had any casualties?"

"Yes, mate, two wounded, and a bloke lost 'is 'at." —F. G. Nawton, (ex-Major 15th Batt. M.G.C., 2 Kenton Park Road, Kenton, Middlesex).

And it Started with a Hen Raid!

While we were behind the line in March 1918 some chickens were stolen from the next village and traced to our billet by the feathers.

As the culprits could not be found our O.C. punished the whole company by stopping our leave for six months.

A few days later we "moved up" just as Jerry broke through further south. The orderly sergeant one night read out orders, which finished up with Sir Douglas Haig's famous dispatch ending with the words: "All leave is now stopped throughout the Army till further orders." Thereupon a tousled head emerged from a blanket on the floor with this remark: "Blimey, they mean to find out who pinched those blinking chickens." —J. Slack, 157 Engadine Street, Southfields, S.W.18.

"I'm a Water-Lily"

This incident took place on the Neuve Chapelle front early in 1916.

Our platoon was known as the "Divisional Drainers," for it was our job to keep the trenches as free from water as possible.

One day, while we were working in a very exposed drain about three feet deep, Jerry was unusually active with his whizz-bangs, and we were repeatedly shelled off the job. During one of our periodical "dives" for cover, one of the boys (a native of Canning Town) happened to be "left at the post," and instead of gaining a dry shelter was forced to fling himself in the bottom of the drain, which had over two feet of weedy water in it.

Just as he reappeared, with weeds and things clinging to his head and shoulders, an officer came to see if we were all safe.

On seeing our weed-covered chum he stopped and said, "What's the matter, Johnson? Got the wind up?"

Johnson, quick as lightning, replied, "No, sir; camouflage. I'm a water-lily." —F. Falcuss (late 19th Batt. N.F.), 51, Croydon Grove, West Croydon.

Not Knowin' the Language

A team of mules in November 1916 was taking a double limber up to the line in pitch darkness on the Béthune-La Bassée road. A heavy strafe was on, and the road was heavily shelled at intervals from Beavry onwards.

On the limber was a newly-joined padre huddled up, on his way to join advanced battalion headquarters. A shell burst 60 yards ahead, and the mules reared; some lay down, kicked over the traces, and the wheel pair managed to get their legs over the centre pole of the limber.

There was chaos for a few minutes. Then the padre asked the wheel driver in a very small voice, "My man, can I do anything to assist you?"

"Assist us," was the reply. "Yes, you can. Would you mind, sir, trekkin' off up the road, so as we can use language these blighters understand?" —L. C. Hoffenden (late 483rd Field Co. R.E.), "Waltonhurst," 16 Elmgate Gardens, Edgware.

Churning in the Skies

After returning from a night's "egg-laying" on Jerry's transport lines and dumps, my brother "intrepid airman" and I decided on tea and toast. To melt a tin of ration butter which was of the consistency of glue we placed it close to the still hot engine of the plane. Unknown to us, owing to the slant of the machine, the tin slipped backwards and spilled a goodly proportion of its melted contents over the propeller at the back. (Our planes were of the "pusher" type.)

Next day as we strolled into the hangar to look the bus over we found our Cockney mechanic, hands on hips, staring at the butter-splattered propeller.

"Sufferin' smoke, sir," he said to me, with a twinkle, "wherever was you flyin' lars' night —through the milky way?" —Ralph Plummer (late 102 Squadron R.A.F. Night-Bombers), Granville House, Arundel Street, Strand.

Larnin' the Mule

On the Somme I saw a Cockney driver having trouble with an obstinate mule. At last he got down from his limber and, with a rather vicious tug at the near-side rein said, "That's your left," and, tugging the off rein, "that's your right – now p'raps you'll know!" —E. B. (late Gunner, R.G.A.), Holloway Road, N.7.

"Dr. Livingstone, I Presoom"

Early in 1915 one of our Q.M. Sergeants was sent to Cairo to collect a gang of native labourers for work in the brigade lines. Whilst at breakfast one morning we saw him return from the train at Ismailia, leading a long column of fellaheen (with their wives and children) all loaded with huge bundles, boxes, cooking pots, etc., on their heads.

The Q.M.S., who was wearing a big white "solar topi" of the mushroom type instead of his regulation military helmet, was greeted outside our hut by the R.S.M., and as they solemnly shook hands a Cockney voice behind me murmured: "Doctor Livingstone, I presoom?" The picture was complete! —Yeo Blake (1st County of London Yeomanry), Brighton.

The Veteran Scored

One morning, while a famous general was travelling around the Divisional Headquarters, his eagle eye spotted an old war hero, a Londoner, whose fighting days were over, and who now belonged to the Labour Corps, busy on road repairs. The fact was also noticed that although within the gas danger-zone the old veteran had broken standing orders by not working with his gas mask in position.

Accordingly the Corps Commander stopped his car and, getting out, started off in his own familiar way as follows:

C. C.: Good morning, my man; do you know who is speaking to you?

O. V.: No, sir!

C. C.: I am your Corps Commander, Sir – , etc.

O. V.: Yes, sir.

C. C.: I'm pleased to have this opportunity of talking to one of my men.

O. V.: Yes, sir.

C. C.: I see you are putting your back into your work.

O. V.: Yes, sir.

C. C.: I also notice that you have evidently left your gas mask behind.

O. V.: Yes, sir.

C. C.: Now supposing, my man, a heavy gas cloud was now coming down this road towards you. What would you do?

O. V. (after a few moments' pause): Nothing, sir.

C. C.: What! Why not, my good man?

O. V.: Because the wind is the wrong way, sir.

Exit C. C. —T. J. Gough, Oxford House, 13 Dorset Square, N.W.1.

Old Moore Was Right

One of my drivers, a Cockney, called one of his horses Old Moore – "'cos 'e knows every blinkin' fing like Old Moore's Almanac."

One evening, as we were going into the line, we were halted by a staff officer and warned of gas. Orders were given at once to wear gas helmets. (A nose-bag gas-mask had just been issued for horses.)

After a while I made my way to the rear of the column to see how things were. I was puffing and gasping for breath, when a cheery voice called out, "Stick it, sargint."

Wondering how any man could be so cheery in such circumstances, I lifted my gas helmet, and lo! there sat my Cockney driver, with his horses' masks slung over his arm and his own on top of his head like a cap-comforter.

"Why aren't you wearing your gas helmet?" I asked.

He leaned over the saddle and replied, in a confidential whisper, "Old Moore chucked his orf, so there ain't no blinkin' gas abaht —'e knows."

We finished the rest of that journey in comfort. Old Moore had prophesied correctly. —S. Harvey (late R.F.A.), 28 Belmont Park Road, Leyton, E.10.

He Wouldn't Insult the Mule

One day, while our Field Ambulance was on the Dorian front, Salonika, our new colonel and the regimental sergeant-major were visiting the transport lines. They came across a Cockney assiduously grooming a pair of mules – rogues, both of them.

Said the R.S.M.: "Well, Brown, what are the names of your mules?"

Brown: "Well, that one is Ananias, because his looks are all lies. This one is Satan, but I nearly called him something else. It was a toss-up."

With a smile at the C.O., the sergeant-major remarked: "I would like to know what the other name was. Tell the colonel, what was it?"

Brown: "Well, I was going to call him 'Sergeant-Major,' but I didn't want to hurt his feelings." —"Commo" (ex-Sergeant, R.A.M.C.), London, N.1.

"Don't Touch 'em, Sonny!"

We had just come back from Passchendaele, that land of two options – you could walk on the duck boards and get blown off or you could step off them yourself and get drowned in the shell-holes.

A draft from home had made us up to strength, and when Fritz treated us to an air raid about eight miles behind the line I am afraid he was almost ignored. Anyway, our Cockney sergeant was voicing the opinion that it wasn't a bad war when up rushed one recruit holding the chin strap of his tin hat and panting, "Aero – aero – aeroplanes." The sergeant looked at him for a second and said, "All right, sonny, don't touch 'em."

A flush came to the youngster's face, and he walked away – a soldier. —R. C. Ida, D.C.M. (late 2nd Royal Berks), 39 Hoylake Road, East Acton, W.3.

"Ze English – Zey are all Mad!"

Early in 1915 an Anti-Aircraft Brigade landed at Dunkirk. Their guns were mounted in armoured cars, the drivers for which were largely recruited from London busmen.

By arrangement with the French staff it was decided that the password to enable the drivers to pass the French lines should be the French word aviation.

The men were paraded and made to repeat this word, parrot fashion, with orders to be careful to use it, as it was said that French sentries had a nasty habit of shooting first and making any inquiries afterwards.

About a month later I asked my lorry driver how he got on with the word. "Quite easy, sir," said he. "I leans aht over the dash and yells aht 'ave a ration,' and the Frenchies all larfs and lets me by."

A bit worried about this I interviewed the French Staff Officer and asked him if the men were giving the word satisfactorily.

"Oh," he said, "zose men of yours, zey are comique. Your man, he says somezing about his dinner, and ze ozzers zey say 'Ullo, Charlie Chaplin,' and 'Wotcher, froggy' – all sorts of pass-words."

I apologised profusely. "I will get fresh orders issued," I said, "to ensure that the men say the correct word."

"No," replied the French officer, "it ees no use. We know your men now. Ze English will never alter —zey are all mad." —G. H. Littleton (Lieut. – Col.), 10 Russell Square Mansions, Southampton Row, W.C.1.

Mixed History

The Scene: Qurnah, Mesopotamia.

Cockney Tommy – obviously an old Sunday school boy – fed up with Arabs, Turks, boils, scorpions, flies, thirst, and dust: "Well, if this is the Garden of Eden, no wonder the Twelve Apostles 'opped it!" —G. T. C., Hendon, N.W.4.

Got His Goat!

We, a Field Company of the R.E.'s in France, were on the move to a new sector, and amongst our "properties" was a mobile "dairy" – a goat.

"Nanny" travelled on top of a trestle-wagon containing bridging gear, with a short rope attached to her collar to confine her activities. But a "pot-hole" in the narrow road supplied a lurch that dislodged her, with the result that she slid overboard, and the shortness of the rope prevented her from reaching the ground.

The driver of the wagon behind saw her predicament, and, dismounting, ran to her assistance, shouting for the column to halt. Then he took Nanny in his arms to relieve the weight on her neck, whilst others clambered aboard and released the rope.

Nanny was then put on her legs while her rescuer stood immediately in front, watching her recover.

This she speedily did, and, raising her head for a moment, apparently discerned the cause of her discomfiture peering at her. At any rate, lowering her head, she sprang and caught Bermondsey Bill amidships, sending him backwards into a slimy ditch at the side of the road.

As he lay there amidst the undergrowth he yelled, "Strike me pink, Nanny! You'll hang next time." —E. Martin, 78 Chelverton Road, Putney, S.W.15.

A Difficult Top Note

Somewhere in Palestine the band of a famous London division had been called together for very much overdue practice. The overture "Poet and Peasant" called for a French horn solo ending on a difficult top note.

After the soloist had made many attempts to get this note the bandmaster lost his temper and gave the player a piece of his mind.

Looking at the battered instrument, which had been in France, the Balkans, and was now in the Wilderness, and was patched with sticking-plaster and soap, the soloist, who hailed from Mile End, replied: "Here, if you can do it better you have a go. I don't mind trying it on an instrument, but I'm darned if I can play it on a cullender." —D. Beland, 17 Ridgdale Street, London, E.3.

Home by Underground

A cold, wet night in France. My company was making its way up a communication trench on the right of the Arras-Cambrin road. It was in some places waist deep in mud. I was in front next to my officer when the word was passed down that one of the men had fallen into the mud and could not be found. The officer sent me back to find out what had happened.

On reaching the spot I found that the man had fallen into the mouth of a very deep dug-out which had not been used for some time.

Peering into the blackness, I called out, "Where are you?"

Back came the reply: "You get on wiv the blinkin' war. I've fahnd the Channel Tunnel and am going 'ome."

I may say it took us six hours to get him out. —H. F. B. (late 7th Batt. Middlesex Regt.), London, N.W.2.

A Job for Samson

During Allenby's big push in Palestine the men were on a forced night march, and were tired out and fed up. An officer was trying to buck some of them up by talking of the British successes in France and also of the places of interest they would see farther up in Palestine.

He was telling them that they were now crossing the Plains of Hebron where Samson carried the gates of Gaza, when a deep Cockney voice rang out from the ranks, "What a pity that bloke ain't 'ere to carry this pack of mine!" —C. W. Blowers, 25 Little Roke Avenue, Kenley, Surrey.

Jerry Wins a Bet

In the Salient, 1916: Alf, who owned a Crown and Anchor board of great antiquity, had it spread out on two petrol cans at the bottom of a shell-hole.

Around it four of us squatted and began to deposit thereon our dirty half and one franc notes, with occasional coins of lesser value. The constant whistle of passing fragments was punctuated by the voice of Alf calling upon the company to "'ave a bit on the 'eart" or alternately "to 'ave a dig in the grave" when a spent bullet crashed on his tin hat and fell with a thud into the crown square. "'Struth," gasped Alf, "old squarehead wants to back the sergeant-major." He gave a final shake to the cup and exposed the dice – one heart and two crowns. "Blimey," exclaimed Alf, "would yer blinkin' well believe it? Jerry's backed a winner. 'Arf a mo," and picking up the spent bullet he threw it with all his might towards the German lines, exclaiming, "'Ere's yer blinking bet back, Jerry, and 'ere's yer winnings." He cautiously fired two rounds. —G. S. Raby (ex-2nd K.R.R.C.), Shoeburyness, Essex.

Lucky he was Born British

Many ex-soldiers must remember the famous Major Campbell, who (supported by the late Jimmy Driscoll), toured behind the lines in France giving realistic demonstrations of bayonet fighting.

I was a spectator on one occasion when the Major was demonstrating "defence with the naked hands." "Now," he shouted as Jimmy Driscoll (who acted the German) rushed upon him with rifle and bayonet pointed for a thrust, "I side-step" (grasping his rifle at butt and upper band simultaneously); "I twist it to the horizontal and fetch my knee up into the pit of his stomach, so! And then, as his head comes down, I release my right hand, point my fore and third fingers, so! and stab at his eyes."

"Lor'!" gasped a little Cockney platoon chum squatting beside me, "did yer see that lot? Wot a nice kind of bloke he is! Wot a blinkin' stroke of luck he was born on our side!" —S. J. Wilson (late 1/20th County London Regt.), 27 Cressingham Road, Lewisham.

You Never Can Tell

Scene: Turk trench, Somme, on a cold, soaking night in November, 1916. A working party, complete with rifles, picks, and spades, which continually became entangled in the cats' cradle of miscellaneous R.E. wire, is making terribly slow progress over irregular trench-boards hidden under mud and water. Brisk strafing ahead promising trouble.

Impatient officer (up on the parapet): "For heaven's sake, you lads, get a move on! You're not going to a funeral!"

Cockney voice (from bottom of trench): "'Ow the dooce does 'e know!" —W. Ridsdale, 41 Manor Road, Beckenham, Kent.

The Window Gazer

In the early part of 1915, when the box periscope was in great use in the trenches, we received a draft of young recruits. One lad, of a rather inquisitive nature, was always looking in the glass trying to find Jerry's whereabouts.

An old Cockney, passing up and down, had seen this lad peeping in the glass. At last he stopped and addressed the lad as follows:

"You've been a-looking in that bloomin' winder all the die, an' nah yer ain't bought nuffink." —E. R. Gibson (late Middlesex Regt.), 42 Maldon Road, Edmonton, N.9.

"I Don't Fink"

After we landed in France our officer gave us a lecture and told us that our best pal in this world was our rifle. He warned us that on no account must we part with it. A couple of nights later Gunner Brown, a Cockney, was on guard. When the visiting officer approached him and said, "Your rifle is dirty, gunner," he replied, "I don't fink so sir, 'cos I cleaned it." "Give it to me," said the officer sternly, which Brown did. Then the officer said, "You fool, if I were an enemy in English uniform I could shoot you." To which Brown replied, "I don't fink you could, sir, 'cos I've got the blinkin' bolt in my pocket." —E. W. Houser (late 41st Division, R.F.A.) 22 Hamlet Road, Southend.

Why the Attack Must Fail

November 1918. The next day we were to move up in readiness for the great advance of the 3rd Army.

Some of us were trying to sleep in a cellar when the silence was broken by a small voice: "I'm sure this attack will go wrong, you chaps! I feel it in my bones!"

It can be imagined how this cheerful remark was received, but when the abuse had died down, the same voice was heard again: "Yes, I knows it. Some blighter will step orf wi' the wrong foot and we'll all 'ave to come back and start again!" —"D" Coy., M.G.C. (24th Batt.), Westcliff.

The "Shovers"

During the retreat of 1918 I was standing with my company on the side of the road by Outersteene Farm, outside Bailleul, when three very small and youthful German Tommies with helmets four sizes too large passed on their way down the line as prisoners for interrogation. As they reached us I heard one of my men say to another: "Luv us, 'Arry, look what's shovin' our Army abaht!" —L. H. B., Beckenham.

Rehearsal – Without the Villain

A small party with a subaltern were withdrawn from the line to rehearse a raid on the German line. A replica of the German trenches had been made from aircraft photographs, and these, with our own trench and intervening wire, were faithfully reproduced, even to shell-holes.

The rehearsal went off wonderfully. The wire was cut, the German trenches were entered, and dummy bombs thrown down the dug-outs.

Back we came to our own trenches. "Everything was done excellently, men," said the subaltern, "but I should like to be sure that every difficulty has been allowed for. Can any man think of any point which we have overlooked?"

"Yus," came the terse reply – "Jerry." —Edward Nolan (15th London Regt.), 41 Dalmeny Avenue, S.W.16.

Poetry Before the Push

During February and March 1918 the 1/13th Battalion London Regiment (the Kensingtons), who were at Vimy Ridge, had been standing-to in the mornings for much longer than the regulation hour because of the coming big German attack. One company commander – a very cheery officer – was tired of the general "wind up" and determined to pull the legs of the officers at Battalion H.Q. It was his duty to send in situation reports several times a day. To vary things he wrote a situation report in verse, sent it over the wire to B.H.Q., where, of course, it was taken down in prose and read with complete consternation by the C.O. and adjutant!

It showed the gay spirit which meant so much in the front line at a time when everyone's nerves were on edge. It was written less than two days before the German offensive of March 21. Here are the verses:

(C Company Situation Report 19/3/18)There is nothing I can tell youThat you really do not know —Except that we are on the RidgeAnd Fritz is down below.I'm tired of "situations"And of "wind" entirely "vane."The gas-guard yawns and tells me"It's blowing up for rain."He's a human little fellow.With a thoughtful point of view,And his report (uncensored)I pass, please, on to you."When's old Fritzie coming over?Does the General really know?The Colonel seems to think so,The Captain tells us 'No.'"When's someone going to tell usWe can 'Stand-to' as before?An hour at dawn and one at dusk,Lor' blimey, who wants more?"

The word "vane" in the second verse refers, of course, to the weather-vane used in the trenches to indicate whether the wind was favourable or not for a gas attack. —Frederick Heath (Major), 1/13th Batt. London Regt. (Kensingtons).

'Erb's Consolation Prize

A narrow communication trench leading up to the front line; rain, mud, shells, and everything else to make life hideous.

Enter the ration party, each man carrying something bulky besides his rifle and kit.

One of the party, a Londoner known as 'Erb, is struggling with a huge mail-bag, bumping and slipping and sliding, moaning and swearing, when a voice from under a sack of bread pipes: "Never mind, 'Erb; perhaps there's a postcard in it for you!" —L. G. Austin (24th London Regiment), 8 Almeida Street, Upper Street, Islington, N.1.