500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

A "G.S." wagon was proceeding slowly along below us, the driver huddled in his coat, for the air was chill.

Suddenly he jumped from the wagon and ran in our direction – he had heard the shell before we had.

The next moment the wagon was proceeding skywards in many directions, and the horses were departing at top speed in different directions.

The driver surveyed the scene for a moment and then in a very matter-of-fact voice said: "Blimey! See that? Now I suppose I've got to walk back, and me up all night – wot a war!" And away he trudged! —C. J. A., N.W.11.

The Umpire

After a retreat in May 1915 we saw, lying between our fresh position and the German lines, an English soldier whom we took to be dead.

Later, however, we advanced again, and discovered that the man was not dead, but badly wounded.

On being asked who he was, he replied in a very weak voice, "I fink I must be the blinkin' umpire." —W. King (late Royal Fusiliers), 94 Manor Grove, Richmond, Surrey.

"Don't Tell 'Aig"

Little "Ginger" was the life and soul of our platoon until he was wounded on the Somme in 1918.

As he was carried off to the dressing-station he waved his hand feebly over the side of the stretcher and whispered, "Don't tell 'Aig! He'd worry somethin' shockin'." —G. E. Morris (late Royal Fusiliers), 368 Ivydale Road, Peckham Rye, S.E.15.

"… In Love and War"

During a most unpleasant night bombing raid on the transport lines at Haillecourt the occupants of a Nissen hut were waiting for the next crash when out of the darkness and silence came the Cockney voice of a lorry driver saying to his mate, "'Well,' I sez to 'er, I sez, 'You do as you like, and I can't say no fairer than that, can I?'" —F. R. Jelley, Upland Road, Sutton, Surrey.

"Afraid of Yer Own Shells"

I was on the Italian front in June 1918, and our battery was being strafed by the Austrians with huge armour-piercing shells, which made a noise like an express train coming at you, and exploded with a deafening roar.

An O.K. had just registered on one of our guns, blowing the wheels and masses of rock sky-high. A party of about twenty Austrian prisoners, in charge of a single Cockney, were passing our position at the time, and the effect of the explosion on the prisoners was startling. They scattered in all directions, vainly pursued by the Cockney, who reminded me of a sheep-dog trying to get his flock together.

At last he paused. "You windy lot o' blighters," he shouted as he spat on the ground in evident disgust, "afraid of yer own bloomin' shells!" —S. Curtis, 20 Palace Road, Upper Norwood, S.E.19.

The Leader of the Blind

In July 1918, at a casualty clearing station occupying temporary quarters in the old College of St. Vincent at ruined Senlis we dealt with 7,000 wounded in eight days. One night when we were more busy than usual an ambulance car brought up a load of gas-blinded men.

A little man whose voice proclaimed the city of his birth – arm broken and face blistered with mustard gas, though he alone of the party could see – jumped out, looked around, and then whispered in my ear, "All serene, guv'nor, leave 'em to me."

He turned towards the car and shouted inside, "Dalston Junction, change here for Hackney, Bow, and Poplar."

Then gently helping each man to alight, he placed them in a line with right hand on the shoulder of the man in front, took his position forward and led them all in, calling softly as he advanced, "Slow march, left, left, I had a good job and I left it." —Henry T. Lowde (late 63rd C.C.S., R.A.M.C.), 101 Stanhope Gardens, Harringay, N.4.

Pity the Poor Ducks

We were in the Passchendaele sector in 1917, and all who were there know there were no trenches – just shell-holes half-filled with water.

Jerry had been strafing us for two days without a stop and of our platoon of twenty-three men only seven came out alive. As we were coming down the duckboard track after being relieved Jerry started to put over a barrage. We had to dive for the best cover we could get.

Three of us jumped into a large shell-hole, up to our necks in water. As the shells dropped around us we kept ducking our heads under the water.

Bert Norton, one of us – a Cockney – said: "Strike, we're like the little ducks in 'Yde Park – keep going under."

After another shell had burst and we had just come up to breathe Bert chimed in again with: "Blimey, mustn't it be awful to have to get your living by ducking?" —J. A. Wood, 185 Dalston Lane, E.8.

Waiting Room Only

It was in No Man's Land, and a party of New Zealand troops were making for shelter in a disabled British tank to avoid the downpour of shrapnel. They were about to swarm into the tank when the head of a London Tommy popped out of an aperture, and he exclaimed, "Blimey. Hop it! This is a waiting room, not a blinkin' bee-hive." —A. E. Wragg, 1 Downs Road, Beckenham, Kent.

Not Yet Blasé

We arrived at the Cambrai front in 1917 – just a small bunch of Cockneys – and were attached to the Welsh Brigade of Artillery, being told to report to B.H.Q. up the sunken road in front of Bapaume.

En route our escort of Welshmen were telling us of the "terrible" shelling up the line. It was no leg pulling, for we quickly found out for ourselves that it was hot and furious.

Down we all went for cover as best we could, except one Cockney who stood as one spellbound watching the bursting of the shells. One of the Welshmen yelled out, "Drop down, Cockie!" The Cockney turned round, to the wonderment and amusement of the rest, with the retort, "Blimey! Get away with yer, you're windy. I've only just come out!" —Driver W. H. Allen (attached 1st Glamorgan R.H.A.), 8 Maiden Crescent, Kentish Town, N.W.1.

Paid with a Mills

During severe fighting in Delville Wood in August 1916 our regiment (the East Surreys) was cut off for about three days and was reduced to a mere handful of men, but still we kept up our joking and spirits.

A young Cockney, who was an adept at rhyming slang, rolled over, dead as I thought, for blood was streaming from his neck and head. But he sat up again and, wiping his hand across his forehead, exclaimed: "Strike me pink! One on the top of my loaf of bread (head), and one in the bushel and peck (neck)." Then, slinging over a Mills bomb, he shouted: "'Ere, Fritz, my thanks for a Blighty ticket." —A. Dennis, 9 Somers Road, Brixton Hill, S.W.2.

The Guns' Obligato

The day after the Canadians attacked Vimy Ridge my battalion of the Royal Fusiliers advanced from Bully Grenay to a château on the outskirts of Lieven under heavy shell fire.

At the back of the château a street led to the main road to the town. There, despite the bombardment, we found a Cockney Tommy of the Buffs playing "Tipperary" on a piano which had been blown out of a house into the road.

We joined in – until a shell took the top off the château, when we scattered! —L. A. Utton, 184 Coteford Street, Tooting, S.W.

In the Garden of Eden

We had reached the district in "Mespot" reputed to be the Garden of Eden. One evening I was making my way with six men to relieve the guard on some ammunition barges lying by the bank of the Tigris.

We had approached to within about one hundred yards of these, when the Turks started sending over some "long-rangers." The sixth shell scored a direct hit on the centre barge, and within a few seconds the whole lot went up in what seemed like the greatest explosion of all time. Apart from being knocked over with the shock, we escaped injury, with the exception of a Cockney in our company.

Most of his clothing, except his boots, had been stripped from his body, and his back was bleeding. Slowly he struggled to his hands and knees, and surveying his nakedness, said: "Now where's that blinkin' fig tree?" —F. Dennis, 19 Crewdson Road, Brixton, S.W.

Santa Claus in a Hurry

A forward observation officer of the Artillery was on duty keeping watch on Watling Crater, Vimy Ridge, towards the end of 1916.

The observation post was the remains of a house, very much battered. The officer had to crawl up what had once been a large fireplace, where he had the protection of the only piece of wall that remained standing.

He was engrossed on his task when the arrival of a "Minnie" shook the foundations of the place, and down he came in a shower of bricks and mortar with his shrapnel helmet not at the regimental angle.

A couple of Cockney Tommies had also made a dive for the shelter of this pile of bricks and were crouching down, when the officer crawled from the fireplace. "Quick, Joe," said one of the Cockneys, "'ang up yer socks – 'ere comes ole Santa Claus!" —A. J. Robinson (late Sergeant, R.F.A.), 21 Clowders Road, Catford, S.E.6.

What Paderewski was Missing

It was on the night of October 27, 1917, at Passchendaele Ridge. Both sides were "letting it go hell for leather," and we were feeling none too comfortable crouching in shell-holes and taking what cover we could.

The ground fairly shook – and so did we for that matter – with the heavy explosions and the din was ear-splitting.

Just for something to say I called out to the chap in the next shell-hole – a Brentford lad he was: "What d'you think of it, Alf?"

"Not much," he said, "I was just finkin' if Paderewski could get only this on 'is ol' jo-anner." —M. Hooker, 325A Md. Qrs., Henlow Camp, Bedford.

A Target, but No Offers

During the battle of the Somme, in September 1916, our Lewis gun post was in a little loop trench jutting out from the front line at a place called, I believe, Lone Tree, just before Combles. Jerry's front line was not many yards away, and it was a very warm spot.

Several casualties had occurred during the morning through sniping, and one enterprising chap had scored a bull's-eye on the top of our periscope.

Things quietened down a bit in the afternoon, and about 4 p.m. our captain, who already had the M.C., came along and said to our corporal, "I believe the Germans have gone."

A Cockney member of our team, overhearing this, said, "Well, it won't take long to find out," and jumping upon the fire-step exposed himself from the waist upwards above the parapet.

After a minute's breathless silence he turned to the captain and said, with a jerk of his thumb, "They've hopped it, sir."

That night we and our French friends entered Combles. —M. Chittenden (late "C" Coy., 1/16th London Regt., Q.W.R.), 26 King Edward Road, Waltham Cross, Herts.

Their own Lord Mayor's Show

In April 1918 our unit was billeted near Amiens in a small village from which the inhabitants had been evacuated two days earlier, owing to the German advance.

On the second day of our stay there Jerry was shelling the steeple of the village church, and we had taken cover in the cellars under the village school. All at once we heard roars of laughter coming from the street, and wondering what on earth anyone could find to laugh at, we tumbled up to have a look.

The sight that met our eyes was this: Gravely walking down the middle of the street were two of the "Hackney Ghurkas," the foremost of whom was dressed in a frock coat and top hat, evidently the property of the village maire, and leading a decorated mule upon the head of which was tied the most gaudy "creation" which ever adorned a woman's head.

The second Cockney was clad in the full garb of a twenty-stone French peasant woman, hat and all, and was dragging at the end of a chain a stuffed fox, minus its glass case, but still fastened to its baseboard.

They solemnly paraded the whole length of the street and back again, and were heard to remark that the village was having at least one Lord Mayor's Show before Jerry captured it!

And this happened at the darkest time of the war, when our backs were to the wall. —A. C. P. (late 58th London Division), Fulham, S.W.6.

Pill-Box Crown and Anchor

In the fighting around Westhoek in August 1917 the 56th Division were engaged in a series of attacks on the Nonne Boschen Wood, and owing to the boggy nature of the ground the position was rather obscure.

A platoon of one of the London battalions was holding a pill-box which had been taken from the Germans during the day. In the night a counter-attack was made in the immediate vicinity of the pill-box, which left some doubt as to whether it had again fallen to the enemy.

A patrol was sent out to investigate. After cautiously approaching the position and being challenged in a Cockney tongue, they entered the pill-box, and were astonished to see the occupants playing crown and anchor.

The isolated and dangerous position was explained to the sergeant in charge, but he nonchalantly replied, "Yes, I know all abaht that; but, yer see, wot's the use of frightenin' the boys any more? There's been enough row rahnd 'ere all night as it is." —N. Butcher (late 3rd Londons), 43 Tankerville Drive, Leigh-on-Sea.

"C.O.'s Paid 'is Phone Bill"

On the Somme, during the big push of 1916, we had a section of Signallers attached to our regiment to keep the communications during the advance. Of the two attached to our company, one was a Cockney. He had kept in touch with the "powers that be" without a hitch until his wire was cut by a shell. He followed his wire back and made the necessary repair. Three times he made the same journey for the same reason. His mate was killed by a shrapnel shell and he himself had his left arm shattered: but to him only one thing mattered, and that was to "keep in touch." So he stuck to his job.

The wire was broken a fourth time, and as he was about to follow it back, a runner came up from the C.O. wanting to know why the signaller was not in communication. He started back along his wire and as he went he said, "Tell 'im to pay 'is last account, an' maybe the telephone will be re-connected."

A permanent line was fixed before he allowed the stretcher-bearers to take him away. My chum had taken his post at the end of the wire, and as the signaller was being carried away he called out feebly, "You're in touch with H.Q. C.O.'s paid 'is bill, an' we'll win the war yet." —L. N. Loder, M.C. (late Indian Army), Streatham.

The "Garden Party Crasher"

In April 1917 two companies of our battalion were ordered to make a big raid opposite the sugar refineries at 14 Bis, near Loos. Two lines of enemy trenches had to be taken and the raiding party, when finished, were to go back to billets at Mazingarbe while the Durhams took over our trenches.

My batman Beedles had instructions to go back to billets with all my kit, and wait there for my return. I was in charge of the right half of the first wave of the raid, and after a bit of a scrap we got into the German front line.

Having completed our job of blowing up concrete emplacements and dug-outs, we were waiting for the signal to return to our lines when, to my surprise, Beedles came strolling through the German wire. When he saw me he called out above the row going on: "I 'opes yer don't mind me 'aving come to the garden party wivout an invertition, sir?"

The intrepid fellow had taken all my kit back to billets some four miles, made the return journey, and come across No Man's Land to find me, and see me safely back; an act which might easily have cost him his life. —L. W. Lees (Lieut.), late 11th Batt. Essex Regt., "Meadow Croft," Stoke Poges, Bucks.

Those Big Wasps

Salonika, 1918, a perfect summer's day. The 2/17th London Regiment are marching along a dusty road up to the Doiran Lake. Suddenly, out of the blue, three bombing planes appear. The order is given to scatter.

Meanwhile, up comes an anti-aircraft gun, complete with crew on lorry. Soon shells are speeding up, and little small puffs of white smoke appear as they burst; but the planes are too high for them. A Cockney of the regiment puts his hands to his mouth and shouts to the crew: "Hi, don't hunch 'em; let 'em settle." —A. G. Sullings (late 2/17th London Regiment), 13 °Cann Hall Road, Leytonstone, E.11.

Why he Looked for Help

On July 1, 1916, the 56th (London) Division attacked at Hebuterne, and during the morning I was engaged (as a lineman) in repairing our telephone lines between Battalion and Brigade H.Q. I had just been temporarily knocked out by a flat piece of shell and had been attended by a stretcher-bearer, who then left me and proceeded on his way back to a dressing station I had previously passed, whilst I went farther on down the trench to get on with my job.

I had not gone many yards when I met a very young private of the 12th Londons (the Rangers). One of his arms was hanging limp and was, I should think, broken in two or three places. He was cut and bleeding about the face, and was altogether in a sorry plight.

He stopped and asked me, "Is there a dressing station down there, mate?" pointing along the way I had come, and I replied, "Yes, keep straight on down the trench. It's a good way down. But," I added, "there's a stretcher-bearer only just gone along. Shall I see if I can get him for you?"

His reply I shall never forget: "Oh, I don't want him for me. I want someone to come back with me to get my mate. He's hurt!" —Wm. R. Smith, 231 Halley Road, Manor Park, E.12.

The Winkle Shell

Above the entrance to a certain dug-out somewhere in Flanders some wit had fixed a board upon which was roughly painted, "The Winkle Shell."

The ebb and tide of battle left the dug-out in German hands, but one day during an advance the British infantry recaptured the trench in which "The Winkle Shell" was situated.

Along the trench came a Cockney with his rifle ready and his bayonet fixed. Hearing voices coming from the dug-out he halted, looked reflectively at the notice-board, and then cautiously poking his bayonet into the dug-out called out, "Nah, then, come on aht of it afore I gits me blinkin' 'pin' busy." —Sidney A. Wood (late C/275 Battery, R.F.A.), 32 Lucas Avenue, Upton Park, E.13.

Forgot his Dancing Pumps

We were in a trench in front of Carnoy on the Somme when the Germans made a raid on us. It was all over in a few minutes, and we were minus eight men – taken away by the raiders.

Shortly afterwards I was standing in a bay feeling rather shaky when a face suddenly appeared over the top. I challenged, and was answered with these words:

"It's orl right. It's me. They was a-takin' us to a dance over there, but I abaht-turned 'arfway acrorst an' crawled back fer me pumps." —E. Smith (late Middlesex Regt.), 2 Barrack Road, Aldershot.

Lift Out of Order

One day in 1916 I was sitting with some pals in a German dug-out in High Wood. Like others of its kind, it had a steep, deep shaft. Suddenly a shell burst right in the mouth of the shaft above, and the next instant "Nobby," a Cockney stretcher-bearer, landed plump on his back in our midst. He was livid and bleeding, but his first words were: "Strike! I thought the lift were outer order!" —J. E., Vauxhall, S.W.8.

Lost: A Fly Whisk

During the very hot summer of 1916 in Egypt it was necessary, while eating, to keep on flicking one hand to keep the flies away from one's mouth.

One day a heavy shell came over and knocked down my Cockney chum, Tubby White. He got up, holding his wrist, and started looking round.

I said: "What have you lost, Tubby?"

"Blimey," he said, "can't you see I've lost me blooming fly whisk?" It was then I noticed he had lost his hand. —J. T. Marshall (Middlesex Regiment), 17 Evandale Road, Brixton, S.W.9.

Change at Wapping

When Regina Trench was taken in 1916 it was in a terrible state, being half full of thick liquid mud. Some of the fellows, sooner than wade through this, were getting up and walking along the top, although in view of the Germans.

The Cockney signaller who was with me at the time, after slithering along the trench for a time, said: "I've 'ad enough er this," and scrambled out of the trench.

He had no sooner got on top when —zipp– and down he came with a bullet through his thigh.

While bandaging his wound I said: "We're going to have a job to get you out of here, but we'll have a good try."

"That's all right," said the Cockney, "you carry on an' leave me. I'll wait for a blinkin' barge and change at Wapping." —H. Redford (late R.F.A.), 49 Anselm Road, Fulham.

"The Canary's Flowed Away!"

I was in charge of a party carrying material from the dump to the Engineers in the front line. One of the party, a man from Camberwell, was allotted a bulky roll of barbed wire.

After a desperate struggle through the muddy and narrow support trenches, we reached the front line. There was still another 400 yards to go, and our Cockney decided to continue the journey along the parapet.

He had not gone far before the German machine guns began to spit and he fell in a heap into the bottom of the trench with the coil of barbed wire on top of him.

Thinking he was wounded, I went back to him and inquired if he was hit.

"'It? 'It be blowed," he said, "but if somebody was to take this blinkin' birdcage orf me chest I might be able to get up."

The journey was completed through the trench, our friend being a sorry sight of mud and cut fingers and face.

On arriving at our destination he dropped the wire at the feet of the waiting corporal with the remark, "'Ere you are, mate; sorry the canary's flowed away." —A. S. G. (47th Division), Kent.

"Go it, Applegarf! I'll time yer!"

Our battalion was making a counter-attack at Albert on March 29, 1918, against a veritable hail of lead. Wounded in the thigh, I tumbled into a huge shell hole, already occupied by two officers of the Fusiliers (Fusiliers had been on our left), a lance-corporal of my own battalion, and three other men (badly wounded).

Whilst I was being dressed by the lance-corporal another man jumped in. He had a bullet in the chest. It didn't need an M.O. to see that he was "all in," and he knew it.

He proved to be the most heroic Cockney I have ever seen. He had only minutes to live, and he told us not to waste valuable bandages on him.

Thereupon one of the officers advised me to try to crawl back before my leg got stiff, as I would stand a poor chance of a stretcher later with so many badly-wounded men about. If I got back safe I was to direct stretcher-bearers to the shell hole.

I told the officer that our battalion stretcher-bearers were behind a ridge only about 100 yards in the rear, and as my wound had not troubled me yet I would make a sprint for it, as the firing was still too heavy to be healthy.

On hearing my remarks this heroic Cockney, who must also have been a thorough sportsman, grinned up at me and, with death written on his face, panted: "Go it, Applegarf, an' I'll time yer." [Applegarth was the professional sprint champion of the world.] The Cockney was dead when I left the shell hole. —F. W. Brown (late 7th Suffolks), 247 Balls Pond Road, Dalston, N.

That Other Sort of Rain

We were out doing a spot of wiring near Ypres, and the Germans evidently got to know about it. A few "stars" went up, and then the rat-tat-tat of machine guns told us more than we wanted to know.

We dived for shell holes. Anybody who knows the place will realise we did not have far to dive. I found myself beside a man who, in the middle of a somewhat unhealthy period, found time to soliloquise:

"Knocked a bit right aht me tin 'at. Thought I'd copped it that time. Look, I can get me little finger through the 'ole. Blimey, 'ope it don't rain, I shall git me 'ead all wet." —H. C. Augustus, 67 Paragon Road, E.9.

Better Job for Him

I was at Vimy Ridge in 1916. On the night I am writing about we were taking a well-earned few minutes' rest during a temporary lull. We were under one of the roughly-built shelters erected against the Ridge, and our only light was the quivering glimmer from a couple of candles. A shell screeched overhead and "busted" rather near to us – and out went the candles.

"Smith, light up those candles," cried the sergeant-major to his batman. "Smithy," who stuttered, was rather shaken and took some time to strike a match and hold it steadily to the candles. But no sooner were the candles alight than another "whopper" put them out again.

"Light up those ruddy candles!" cried the S.M. again, "and don't dawdle about it!"

"Smithy," muttering terrible things to himself, was fumbling for the matches when the order came that a bombing party was required to clear "Jerry" out of a deep shell-hole.