500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

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

On one occasion when the Diligence was "somewhere in the North Sea," shore leave was granted.

One of the sailors, a Cockney, returned to the ship with his jumper "rather swollen." The officer of the watch noticed something furry sticking out of the bottom of his jumper, and at once asked where he had got it from, fearing, probably, that he had been poaching.

The Cockney thought furiously for a moment and then said: "I chased it round the Church Army hut, sir, until it got giddy and fell over, and so I picked it up and brought it aboard to nurse it back to 'ealth and strength." —J. S. Cowland, 65 Tylney Road, Forest Gate, E.7.

Margate In Mespot

October 29, 1914 – England declares war on Turkey and transports laden with troops sail from Bombay.

One evening, within a week, these transports anchor off the flat Mesopotamian coast at the top of the Persian Gulf. In one ship, a county regiment (95 per cent. countrymen, the remainder Cockney) is ordered to be the first to land. H.M.S. Ocean sends her cutters and lifeboats, and into these tumble the platoons at dusk, to be rowed across a shallow "bar."

Under cover of an inky darkness they arrive close to the beach by midnight. It is very cold, and all feel it the more because the kit worn is shorts and light khaki shirts.

In the stone-cold silence a whisper passes from boat to boat – "Remove puttees; tie boots round the neck; at signal, boats to row in until grounded; platoons to disembark and wade ashore."

So a shadowy line of strange-looking waders is dimly to be seen advancing through the shallow water and up the beach – in extended order, grim and frozen stiff. As dawn breaks they reach the sandy beach, and a few shots ring out from the distant Fort of Fas – but no one cares. Each and all are looking amazedly at the grotesque appearance of the line – silent, miserable figures, boots wagging round their necks, shorts rolled as high as possible, while their frozen fingers obediently cling to rifles and ammunition.

It is too much for one soul, and a Cockney voice calls out: "'Ere, wot price this fer Margate?"

The spell is broken. The Mesopotamian campaign begins with a great laugh! —John Fiton, M.C., A.F.C., 9 High Grove, Welwyn Garden City, Herts.

Urgent and Personal!

The ss. Oxfordshire, then a hospital ship, was on her way down from Dar-es-salaam to Cape Town when she received an S.O.S. from H.M.T. Tyndareus, which had been mined off Cape Agulhas, very near the spot where the famous Birkenhead sank.

The Tyndareus had on board the 26th (Pioneer) Battalion, Middlesex Regiment, under the command of Colonel John Ward, then on their way to Hong Kong.

As the hospital boat drew near it was seen that the Tyndareus was very low in the water, and across the water we could hear the troops singing "Tipperary" as they stood lined up on the decks.

The lifeboats from both ships were quickly at work, every patient capable of lending a hand doing all he could to help. Soon we had hundreds of the Middlesex aboard, some pulled roughly up the side, others climbing rope-ladders hastily thrown down. They were in various stages of undress, some arriving clad only in pants.

On the deck came one who, pulled up by eager hands, landed on all fours with a bump. As he got up, hands and toes bleeding from contact with the side of the vessel, I was delighted to recognise an old London acquaintance. The following dialogue took place:

Myself: Hallo, Bill! Fancy meeting you like this! Hurt much?

Bill: Not much. Seen Nobby Clark? Has he got away all right?

Myself (not knowing Nobby Clark): I don't know. I expect so; there are hundreds of your pals aboard.

Bill: So long. See you later. Must find Nobby; he collared the "kitty" when that blinking boat got hit! —J. P. Mansell (late) 25th Royal Fusiliers.

Victoria! (Very Cross)

While I was an A.B. aboard H.M.S. Aboukir somewhere in the North Sea we received a signal that seven German destroyers were heading for us at full speed. We were ordered at the double to action stations.

My pal, a Cockney, weighing about 18 stone, found it hard to keep up with the others, and the commander angrily asked him, "Where is your station?"

To which the Cockney replied, "Victoria – if I could only get there." —J. Hearn, 24 Christchurch Street, S.W.3.

He Saw the Force of It

In February 1915 we beat out our weary patrol near the Scillies. Our ship met such heavy weather that only the bravest souls could keep a cheery countenance. Running into a growing storm, and unable to turn from the racing head seas, we beat out our unwilling way into the Atlantic.

Three days later we limped back to base with injured men, hatches stove in, winch pipes and boats torn away. Our forward gun was smashed and leaned over at a drunken angle.

Early in the morning the crew were taking a well-earned rest, and the decks were deserted but for the usual stoker, taking a breath of air after his stand-by watch. A dockyard official, seeing our damage, came on board, and, after viewing the wrecked gun at close quarters, turned to the stoker with the remark: "Do you mean to say that the sea smashed a heavy gun like that, my man?"

The stoker, spitting with uncanny accuracy at a piece of floating wood overside, looked at the official: "Nah," he said, "it wasn't the blinking sea; the ryne done it!" —A. Marsden (Engineer-Lieutenant-Commander, R.N.), Norbrook Cottage, Leith Park Road, Gravesend.

New Skin – Brand New!

Two mines – explosion – many killed – hundreds drowned. We were sinking fast. I scrambled quickly out of my hammock and up the hatchway. On deck, leaning against the bulkhead, was a shipmate, burned from head to foot. More amazing than fiction was his philosophy and coolness as he hailed me with, "'Cher, Darby! Got a fag? I ain't had a 'bine since Pa died." I was practically "in the nude," and could not oblige him. Three years later I was taking part at a sports meeting at Dunkirk when I was approached by – to me – a total stranger. "What 'cher, Darby – ain't dead yet then. What! Don't you remember H.M.S. Russell? Of course I've altered a bit now – new skin – just like a two-year-old – brand new." Brand new externally, but the philosophy was unaltered. —"Darby," 405 Valence Avenue, Chadwell Heath, Essex.

A Zeebrugge Memory

During the raid on Zeebrugge, one of our number had his arms blown away. When things quietened a little my chum and I laid him on a mess table and proceeded to tend his wounds. My chum tried to light the mess-deck "bogey" (fire), the chimney of which had been removed for the action. After the match had been applied, we soon found ourselves in a fog. Then the wounded man remarked: "I say, chum! If I'm going to die, let's die a white man, not a black 'un." The poor fellow died before reaching harbour. —W. A. Brooks, 14 Ramsden Road, N.11.

Another Perch in the Roost

On the morning of September 22, 1914, when the cruisers Aboukir, Hogue, and Cressy were torpedoed, we were dotted about in the water, helping each other where possible and all trying to get some support. When one piece got overloaded it meant the best swimmers trying their luck elsewhere.

Such was my position, when I saw a piece of wreckage resembling a chicken coop, large enough to support four men. I reached it just ahead of another man who had been badly scalded.

We were both exhausted and unable to help another man coming towards us. He was nearly done, and my companion, seeing his condition, shouted between breaths: "Come along, ole cock. Shake yer bloomin' feavers. There's a perch 'ere for anover rooster."

Both were stokers on watch when torpedoed, and in a bad state from scalds. Exposure did the rest. I was alone, when picked up. —W. Stevens (late R.M.L.I.), 23 Lower Range Road, Denton, near Gravesend.

Uncomfortable Cargo

(A 12-in. shell weighs about 8 cwt. High explosives were painted yellow and "common" painted black.)

In October 1914 H.M.S. Venerable was bombarding the Belgian coast and Thames tugs were pressed into service to carry ammunition to ships taking part in the bombardment.

The sea was pretty rough when a tug came alongside the Venerable loaded with 12-in. shells, both high explosive and common. Deck hands jumped down into the tug to sling the shells on the hoist. The tug skipper, seeing them jumping on the high explosives, shouted: "Hi! dahn there! Stop jumping on them yaller 'uns"; and, turning to the Commander, who was leaning over the ship's rail directing operations, he called out: "Get them yaller 'uns aht fust, guvnor, or them blokes dahn there 'll blow us sky high." —A. Gill, 21 Down Road, Teddington, Middlesex.

Good Old "Vernon"

Several areas in the North Sea were protected by mines, which came from the torpedo depot ship, H.M.S. Vernon. The mines floated several feet below the surface, being kept in position by means of wires attached to sinkers.

In my submarine we had encountered very bad weather and were uncertain of our exact position. The weather got so bad that we were forced to cruise forty feet below the surface.

Everything was very still in the control room. The only movements were an occasional turn of the hydroplanes, or a twist at the wheel, at which sat "Shorty" Harris, a real hard case from Shadwell.

Suddenly we were startled by a scraping sound along the port side. Before we could put our thoughts into words there came an ominous bump on the starboard side. Bump! … bump! … seven distinct thuds against the hull. No one moved, and every nerve was taut. Then "Shorty" broke the tension with, "Good old Vernon, another blinkin' dud." —T. White, 31 Empress Avenue, Ilford.

Any Time's Kissing Time!

A torpedo-boat destroyer engaged on transport duty in the Channel in 1916 had been cut in two by collision whilst steaming with lights out. A handful of men on the after-part, which alone remained afloat, were rescued after several hours by another destroyer, just as the after-part sank.

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?"

"Abaht coming back for me."

"What do you take us for," said the lad from Battersea; "do yer fink we all want the sack fer overcrowdin'?"

"Tubby" was, of course, picked up after a slight immersion. —C. Phelps (late R.M.L.I.), 36 Oxford Road, Putney, S.W.15.

Water on the Watch

I was one of the crew of a patrol boat at the Nore in the winter of 1915. Most of the crew had gone to the dockyard to draw stores and provisions, and I was down in the forecastle when I heard a shout for help. I nipped up on deck and discovered that our Cockney stoker had fallen overboard. He was trying to swim for dear life, though handicapped by a pair of sea boots and canvas overalls over his ordinary sailor's rig. A strong tide was running and was carrying him away from the boat.

I threw a coil of rope to him, and after a struggle I managed to haul him aboard. I took him down to the boiler room and stripped off his clothes.

Around his neck was tied a bootlace, on the end of which was hanging a metal watch, which he told me he had bought the day before for five shillings. The watch was full of sea water, and there was an air bubble inside the glass. As he held it in his hand he looked at it with disgust. When I said to him what a wonderful escape his wife had had from being left a widow, he replied, "Yes, it was a near fing, ole' mate, but wot abaht me blinkin' bran' noo watch? It's gone and turned itself into a perishin' spirit level, and I've dipped five bob." —W. Carter, 55 Minet Avenue, Harlesden, N.W.10.

A Gallant Tar

An awe-inspiring sight met the eyes of the 29th Division as they came into view of Gallipoli on the morning of April 25, 1915. Shells from our ships were bursting all over that rugged coast, and those from the enemy bespattered the water around us.

While I gazed at the scene from the deck of the Andania, carried away by the grandeur of it all, my reverie was broken by a Cockney voice from the sailor in charge of the small boat that was to take us ashore. "'Op in, mate," said the sailor. "I've just lorst three boats. I reckon I'll soon have to take the blooming island meself."

His fourth trip was successfully accomplished, but the fifth, alas! was fatal both to this gallant tar and to the occupants of his boat. —G. Pull (late 1st R. Innis. Fus.), 20 Friars Place Lane, Acton, W.3.

A Cap for Jerry

Dawn, September 1, 1917, H.M. destroyer Rosalind was engaged with enemy ships off Jutland. I was serving on one of the guns, and we were approaching the enemy at full speed. The ship was vibrating from end to end, and the gun fire, the bursting of shells, and the smell of the cordite had got our nerves at high tension.

When we were very near the enemy one of the German ships blew up completely in a smothering cloud of smoke.

At this time something went wrong with our ammunition supply, and we had used up all that we usually carried on the gun platform. One of the gun's crew, a Cockney, put his cap in the breech, and said "Quick! Send 'em this to put the lid on that blinkin' chimney." We all had to laugh, and carried on. —W. E. M. (late H.M.S. "Rosalind"), 19 Kimberley Road, Leytonstone, E.11.