500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

A Tea-time Story

At the Battle of Cambrai in November 1917 my regiment, the London Irish Rifles, was undergoing a terrific bombardment in Bourlon Wood.

The Germans had been plastering us for about 12 hours with "all calibres," to say nothing of continual gassing.

As we had been wearing gas-masks almost all day without respite, we were nearly "all in" as the afternoon wore on.

I was attending to a man with a smashed foot, when I felt a touch on my shoulder, and, blinking up through my sweat-covered mask, I saw our mess-orderly with his hand over a mess-tin (to keep the gas out, as he said).

I could hardly believe my eyes, but when I heard him say, "Tea is ready, Sarg. Blimey, what a strafe!" I lifted my mask and drank deeply.

From that day till this it has been a wonder to me how he made it. —S. Gibbons,130 Buckhold Road, Southfields, S.W.18.

A Tip to a Prisoner

The object of our raiding party near Gouzeaucourt in 1917 was to obtain a prisoner.

One plucky, but very much undersized, German machine gunner blazed away at us until actually pounced upon. A Cockney who was well among the leaders jumped down beside him, and heaving him up said:

"Come on, old mate, you're too blinkin' good for this side!" – and then, noticing his lack of inches, "and if yer wants ter make the 'old man' larf tell him you're a 'Prussian Guard.'" —Walter S. Johnson (late R.W.F.), 29 Southwold Road, Upper Clapton, E.5.

Cockney Logic

Early in the war aeroplanes were not so common as they were later on, and trench "strafing" from the air was practically unheard of. One day two privates of the Middlesex Regiment were engaged in clearing a section of front line trench near the La Bassée road when a German plane came along and sprayed the trenches with machine-gun bullets.

One of the men (both were typical Cockneys) looked up from his digging and said: "Strike, there's a blinkin' aeroplane."

The other took no notice but went on digging.

By-and-by the machine came back, still firing, whereupon the speaker again looked up, spat, and said: "Blimey, there's annuver of 'em."

"No, 'tain't," was the reply, "it's the same blighter again."

"Blimey," said the first man, "so 'tis." And both went on digging. —W. P. (late Middlesex Regt. and R.A.F.), Bucks.

"Penalty, Ref!"

It was a warm corner on the Givenchy front, with whizz-bangs dealing out death and destruction. But it was necessary that communication be maintained between the various H.Q.'s, and in this particular sector "Alf," from Bow, and myself were detailed to keep the "lines" intact.

Suddenly a whizz-bang burst above us as we were repairing some shattered lines. We ducked instinctively, but friend "Alf" caught a bit of the shell and was thrown to the bottom of the slushy trench.

Being a football enthusiast he at once raised his arm in appeal, and, with the spirit that wins wars, shouted, "Penalty, ref!"

He was dazed, but unhurt. —W. G. Harris (late Sergt., R.E.), 34 Denmark Street, Watford.

An Appointment with his Medical Adviser

During the battle of the Ancre in November 1916 the 51st Division were going over the top on our left while our battalion kept Jerry engaged with a raid. Every inch of the rain-sodden landscape seemed to be heaving beneath the combined barrages of the opposing forces.

My sergeant, a D.C.M., had been lying in the trench badly wounded for some hours waiting for things to ease up before he could be got down to the dressing-station. Presently our raiding party returned with six prisoners, among them an insignificant-looking German officer (who, waving a map about, and jabbering wildly, seemed to be blaming his capture to the faulty tactics of his High Command).

The wounded sergeant watched these antics for a while with a grin, driving the pain-bred puckers from his face, and then called out, "Oi, 'Indenburg! Never mind abaht ye map o' London; wot time does this 'ere war end, 'cos I've got an appointment wiv my medical adviser!"

Dear, brave old chap. His appointment was never kept. —S. T. (late 37th Div.), Fulham, S.W.6.

One Up, and Two to Go

On the Struma front in 1917 a bombing plane was being put back into its hangar. Suddenly there was a terrific bang. A dozen of us ran up to see what had happened, but a Cockney voice from inside the hangar cried out, "Don't come in. There's two more bombs to go off, and I can't find 'em." —A. Dickinson, Brixton.

On the Parados

Dawn of a very hot day in September 1916 on the Balkan front. We were in the enemy trenches at "Machine Gun Hill," a position hitherto occupied by the Prussian Guards, who were there to encourage the Bulgars.

We had taken the position the previous evening with very little loss. As the day broke we discovered that we were enfiladed on all sides and overlooked by the Prussians not more than forty yards away. It was impossible to evacuate wounded and prisoners or for reserves to approach with food, water, and ammunition. The enemy counter-attacked in overwhelming numbers; shells rained on us; our own were falling short; it was suicide to show one's head. Towards noon, casualties lying about. The sun merciless. Survivors thoroughly exhausted. Up jumped a Cockney bomber. "Blimey, I can't stick this," and perched himself on the parados. "I can see 'em; chuck some 'Mills' up." And as fast as they were handed to him he pitched bombs into the Prussians' midst, creating havoc. He lasted about three minutes, then fell, riddled with bullets. He had stemmed the tide.

Shortly afterwards we retired. His pluck was never recorded or recognised, but his feat will never be forgotten by at least one of the few who got through. —George McCann, 50 Guilford Street, London, W.

Not Croquet

We were occupying a support line, early in 1918, and a party of us was detailed to repair the barbed wire during the night.

A Cockney found himself holding a stake while a Cornish comrade drove it home with a mallet.

Suddenly a shell exploded a few yards from the pair and both were very badly wounded.

When the Cockney recovered consciousness he was heard to remark to his comrade in misfortune, "Blimey, yer wants to be more careful wiv that there mallet; yer nearly 'it my 'and wiv it when that there firework exploded." —A. A. Homer, 16 Grove Place, Enfield Wash, Middlesex.

Sausages and Mashed

At the end of 1914 we were in the trenches in the Ypres Salient. As we were only about 30 yards from the enemy lines, bombing went on all day. The German bombs, shaped like a long sausage, could be seen coming through the air. Our sentries, on the look-out for these, would shout: "Sausage right!" or "Sausage left!" as they came over.

One night we were strengthened by reinforcements, including several Cockneys. The next morning one of our sentries saw a bomb coming over and shouted "Sausage right!" There followed an explosion which smothered two of our new comrades in mud and shreds of sandbag. One of the two got up, with sackcloth twisted all round his neck and pack. "'Ere, Bill, wot was that?" he asked one of our men.

"Why, one of those sausages," Bill replied.

"Lumme," said the new man, as he freed himself from the sacking, "I don't mind the sausages, but," he added as he wiped the mud from his eyes and face, "I don't like the mash." —H. Millard (late East Surrey Regt.), 3 Nevill Road, Stoke Newington, N.

Cheery to the End

We were lining up to go over in the Battle of Arras on April 9, 1917. Ours being a Lancashire regiment, there were only two of us Cockneys in our platoon. We were standing easy, waiting for the rum issue, and Tom, my pal (we both came from Stratford), came over to me singing "Let's all go down the Strand…"

Most of the Lancashire lads were looking a bit glum, but it cheered them up, and they all began to sing. I was feeling a bit gloomy myself, and Tom, seeing this, said: "What's the matter with you, Jimmy?"

"I suppose I'll see you in London Hospital next week, Tom," I said.

"Oh, shut up," says he. "If Jerry sends one over and it's got our names on it, why worry? And if we get a bad Blighty one, then I hopes they buries us at Manor Park. Here, Jim, tie this disc round me neck."

Then the rum came up, and he started them singing, "And another little drink wouldn't do us any harm!"

Off we went – and only ten minutes later he was gone. He was buried at Blany, Arras, not Manor Park. —J. Pugh (late 1st King's Own Royal Lancasters), 27 Lizban Street, Blackheath, S.E.5.

Souvenirs First

The following incident took place during the Battle of Loos, September 1915. I had been to Battalion H.Q. with a message and whilst awaiting a reply stood with others on "Harrow Road" watching our wounded go by.

We frequently recognised wounded pals on the stretchers and inquired as to the nature of their wounds. The usual form of inquiry was: "Hullo – what have you got?" In reply to this query one wounded man of our battalion, ignoring his wound as being of lesser importance, proudly answered: "Two Jerry helmets and an Iron Cross!" —A. H. Bell (late Private, 15th London Regt., T.F.), 31 Raeburn Avenue, Surbiton, Surrey.

Seven Shies a Tanner!

It was near Hebuterne and very early in the morning of July 1, 1916. A terrific bombardment by both the Germans and ourselves was in progress just prior to the launching of our Somme offensive. We were in assembly trenches waiting for the dread zero hour.

Away on our right some German guns were letting us have it pretty hot, and in consequence the "troops" were not feeling in the best of spirits.

With us was a very popular Cockney corporal. He took his tin hat from off his head when the tension was high and, banging on it with his bayonet, cried: "Roll up, me lucky lads! Seven shies a tanner! Who'll 'ave a go!" That bit of nonsense relieved the tension and enabled us to pull ourselves together. —A. V. B. (late 9th Londons), Guildford.

Bill Hawkins Fights Them All

Whilst on the Ypres front during the fighting in 1918 we made an early-morning attack across the railway line in front of Dickebusch. After going about fifty yards across No Man's Land my Cockney pal (Bill Hawkins, from Stepney), who was running beside me, got a slight wound in the arm, and before he had gone another two yards he got another wound in the left leg.

Suddenly he stopped, lifted his uninjured arm at the Germans and shouted, "Blimey, wot yer all firing at me for? Am I the only blinkin' man in this war?" —S. Stevens (late Middlesex Regt., 2nd Battn.), 7 Blenheim Street, Chelsea, S.W.

Hide and Seek with Jerry

To get information before the Somme offensive, the new idea of making daylight raids on the German trenches was adopted. It fell to our battalion to make the first big raid.

Our objective was the "brick-fields" at Beaurains, near Arras, and our orders were to take as many prisoners as possible, hold the trench for half an hour, do as much damage as we could, and then return. A covering barrage was put down, and over we went, one hundred strong.

We got into Jerry's trench all right, but, owing to the many dug-outs and tunnels, we could only find a few Germans, and these, having no time to bolt underground, got out of the trench and ran to take cover behind the kilns and brick-stacks.

And then the fun began. While the main party of us got to work in the trench, a few made after the men who had run into the brick-fields, and it was a case of hide and seek, round and round and in and out of the kilns and brick-stacks.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, one chap, a Cockney, entered so thoroughly into the spirit of the thing that when, after a lengthy chase, he at last clapped a German on the shoulder, he shouted, "You're 'e!" —E. W. Fellows, M.M. (late 6th D.C.L.I.), 35 Dunlace Road, Clapton, E.5.

Too Much for his Imagination

In the platoon of cyclists I was posted to on the outbreak of war was a Cockney – a "Charlie Chaplin" without the funny feet. If there was a funny side to a thing, he saw it.

One day, on the advance, just before the battle of the Marne, our platoon was acting as part of the left flank guard when a number of enemy cavalry were seen advancing over a ridge, some distance away. We were ordered to dismount and extend. We numbered about sixteen, so our line was not a long one.

A prominent object was pointed out to us, judged at about 150 yards away, and orders were given not to fire until the enemy reached that spot.

We could see that we were greatly outnumbered, and having to wait for them to reach that spot seemed to double the suspense. Our leader was giving commands one second and talking like a father the next. He said, "Keep cool; each take a target; show them you are British. You have as good a chance as they, and although they are superior in numbers they have no other superior quality. I want you just to imagine that you are on the range again, firing for your pay." Then our Cockney Charlie chimed in with: "Yes, but we ain't got no bloomin' markers." —S. Leggs (late Rifle Brigade and Cyclists), 33 New Road, Grays, Essex.

"Currants" for Bunn

After we had taken part in the advance on the Somme in August 1916 my battalion was ordered to rest at Bazentin.

We had only been there a day or so when we were ordered to relieve the Tyneside Scottish who were badly knocked about. Hardly had we reached the front lines, when a little Cockney named Bunn (we never knew how he carried his pack, he was so small) got hit. We called for stretcher-bearers.

When they put him on the stretcher and were carrying him down the line, a doctor asked him his name. The Cockney looked up with a smile and answered: "Bunn, sir, and the blighters have put some currants into me this time." This gallant Cockney died afterwards. —J. E. Cully (late 13th King's Royal Rifles), 76 Milkwood Road, S.E.24.

The Driver to his Horse

The artillery driver's affection for his own particular pair of horses is well known. Our battery, in a particularly unhealthy spot in front of Zillebeke, in the Salient, had run out of ammunition, and the terrible state of the ground thereabout in the autumn of 1917 necessitated the use of pack-horses to "deliver the goods," and even then it was accomplished with difficulty.

A little Cockney driver with a pair named Polly and Bill had loaded up and was struggling through the mire. Three times Bill had dragged him on to his knees and up to his waist in the slush when a big Fritz shell dropped uncomfortably near. Polly, with a mighty rear, threw the Cockney on to his back and, descending, struck him with a hoof.

Fed up to the teeth and desperate, he struggled to his feet, covered from head to feet in slime, and, clenching his fist, struck at the trembling and frightened horse, unloading a brief but very vivid description of its pedigree and probable future.

Then, cooling off, he began to pacify the mare, apologised, and pardoned her vice by saying, "Never mind, ole gal – I didn't mean ter bash yer! I fought the uvver one was hot stuff, but, strike me pink, you don't seem 'ooman!" —G. Newell (ex-Sergt., R.F.A.), 22 Queen Road, St. Albans.

Two Kinds of "Shorts"

August 1916, Delville Wood. We had been brought specially from rest camp to take the remainder of the wood, which was being stoutly contested by the Germans and was holding up our advance. The usual barrage, and over we went, and were met by the Germans standing on top of their trenches. A fierce bombing fight began. The scrap lasted a long time, but at last we charged and captured the trench.

One of our men, quite a small Cockney, captured a German about twice his own size. The German was so surprised at being captured by a person so insignificant looking that he stood and stared. Our Cockney, seeing his amazement, said: "Yus, yer needn't stare, I'm real, and wot's more, I got a good mind ter punch yer under the blinkin' ear fer spoiling me rest!" —F. M. Fellows, M.M. (late Corporal, 6th Batt. D.C.L.I), 33 Dunlace Road, Clapton, E.5.

Mespot – On 99 Years' Lease

I was in Mesopotamia from 1916 till 1920, and after the Armistice was signed there was still considerable trouble with the Arabs.

In the summer of 1919 I, with a party of 23 other R.A.S.C. men, was surrounded by the Arabs at an outpost that was like a small fort. We had taken up supplies for troops stationed there. There were about 100 Indian soldiers, and a few British N.C.O.'s in charge.

It was no use "running the gauntlet." We were on a hill and kept the Arabs at bay all day, also the next night.

The next day all was quiet again, but in the afternoon an Arab rode into the camp on horseback with a message, which he gave to the first Tommy he saw. It happened to be one of our fellows, a proper Cockney. He read the message – written in English – requesting us to surrender.

Our Cockney pal said a few kind words to the Arab, and decided to send a message back.

He wrote this on the back of the paper: "Sorry, Mr. Shake. We have only just taken the place, and we have got it on 99 years' lease. Yours faithfully, Old Bill and Co., Ltd., London." —W. Thurgood (late R.A.S.C., M.T.), 46 Maldon Road, Southend-on-Sea, Essex.

"Fro Something at Them!"

There was a certain divisional commander in France who enjoyed a popularity that was almost unique. He was quite imperturbable, whatever the situation.

Unfortunately, he had an impediment in his speech, and when first one met him he was difficult to understand. But heaven help anyone who asked him to repeat anything. A light would come into his eye, and he would seize hold of his victim by the shoulder-strap and heave and tug till it came off.

"You'll understand me," he would say, "when I tell you your shoulder-strap is undone!"

The Division he commanded had just put up a wonderful fight just south of Arras in the March '18 show, and, having suffered very heavy casualties, were taken out of the line and put into a cushy front next door to the Portuguese.

The morning after they took over the Germans launched a heavy attack on the Portuguese, who withdrew somewhat hurriedly, so that the whole flank of the British division was open.

The general was sitting eating his breakfast – he had been roused at six by the bombardment – when an excited orderly came into the room and reported that the Germans had got right in behind the Division and were now actually in the garden of the general's château.

The general finished drinking his cup of coffee, the orderly still standing to attention, waiting instructions.

"Then you had better 'fro' something at them – or shoo them away," said the general. —F. A. P., Cavalry Club, Piccadilly, W.

Missed his Mouth-organ

During the Battle of the Somme our trench-mortar battery was going back after a few days' rest. It was very dark and raining. As we neared our destination it appeared that Jerry and our chaps were having a real argument.

We were going up a road called "Queen's Hollow." Jerry was enfilading us on both sides, and a rare bombing fight was going on at the farther end of the Hollow – seventy or a hundred yards in front of us. We were expecting to feel the smack of a bullet any moment, and there was a terrible screeching and bursting of shells, with a few "Minnies" thrown in. We were in a fine pickle, and I had just about had enough when my pal (a lad from "The Smoke") nearly put me on my back by stopping suddenly.

"I don't like this, Bomb," he said.

"What's wrong with you? Get on," I replied, "or we'll all be blown sky high."

"Oh, all right," he said, "but I wish I'd brought me mouf orgin. I could then have livened fings up a bit." —"Bombardier" (R.A.), late T.M.B., 7th Division.

Water-cooled

There must be at least six men still alive who remember a certain affair at Kemmel. During the latter part of April 1918 our machine gunners had been having a bad time, and one old Cockney sergeant found himself and his party isolated miles in front of our line.

The cool way in which he gave orders, as he told his men to make their way back – lying down for a bit, then making a run for another shelter – would have been humorous if conditions had not been so terrifying.

He himself kept his gun working to protect their retreat, and when he saw they had reached a place of safety he picked up his gun and rejoined them unhurt.

One of his men, describing the action afterwards, said, "Carried his gun three miles – wouldn't part with it – and the first thing he did when he was able to settle down quietly was to start cleaning the blessed thing!" —H. R. Tanner, "Romsdal," Newton Ferrers, S. Devon.

Top-hatted Piper of Mons

During the retreat from Mons it was a case of "going while the going was good" until called upon to make a stand to harass the enemy's advance.

After the stand at Le Cateau, bad and blistered feet caused many to stop by the wayside. Among these, in passing with my little squad, I noticed a piper belonging to a Scottish regiment sitting with his blistered feet exposed and his pipes lying beside him. Staff officers were continually riding back and urging the parties of stragglers to make an effort to push on before they were overtaken.

In the late afternoon of this same day, having myself come up with my unit, I was resting on the roadside when I heard the skirl of bagpipes. Before long there came into sight, marching with a fair swing, too, as motley a throng as one ever saw in the King's uniform. Headed by a staff officer were about 150 men of all regiments with that same piper, hatless and with one stocking, in front.

Beside him was a Cockney of the Middlesex Regiment, with a silk hat on his head, whose cheeks threatened to burst as he churned out the strains of "Alexander's Rag-time Band" on the bagpipes. Being a bit of a piper himself, he was giving "Jock" a lift and was incidentally the means of fetching this little band away from the clutches of the enemy. —"Buster" Brown (late Bedfordshire Regt.), Hertford.

Two Heads and a Bullet

Early in 1916 ten of us were going up with rations – chiefly bread and water. In one part of the trench there were no duckboards and the vile mud was thigh-deep.

Here we abandoned the trench and stumbled along, tripping over barbed wire and falling headlong into shell-holes half-full of icy water.

A German sniper was at work. Suddenly a bullet pinged midway between the last two of the party.

"Hear that?" said No. 9. "Right behind my neck!"

"Yes," replied No. 10, "right in front of my bloomin' nose!" —C. A. Davies (late 23rd R. Fusiliers), 85 Saxton Street, Gillingham, Kent.

Spoiling the Story

We were billeted in the upper room of a corner house north of Albert, and were listening to "Spoofer's" memories of days "dahn Walworf way."

"Yus," he said, "I ses to the gal, 'Two doorsteps an' a bloater.'"

At that moment a "coal-box" caught the corner of the house, bringing down the angle of the wall and three-parts of the floor on which we had squatted.

Except for bruises, none of us was injured, and when the dust subsided we saw "Spoofer" looking down at us from a bit of the flooring that remained intact.

"Yus," he continued, as though nothing had happened, "as I was saying, I'd just called fer the bloater…"

Came another "coal-box," which shook down the remainder of the floor and with it "Spoofer."

Struggling to his hands and knees, he said, "Blimey, the blinkin' bloater's cold nah." —F. Lates, 62 St. Ervan's Road, North Kensington.

Afraid of Dogs

Towards the end of October 1918 I was out on patrol in front of Tournai on a dark, windy night. I had a Cockney private with me, and we were some distance from our lines when we heard a dog barking. All at once, before I could stop him, the Cockney whistled it.

I threw the Cockney down and dropped myself. A German Verey light went up – followed by a hail of machine-gun bullets in our direction. As the light spread out, we saw the dog fastened to a German machine-gun! We lay very still, and presently, when things had quietened down, we slid cautiously backwards until it was safe to get up.

All the Cockney said was, "Crikey, corp, I had the wind up. A blinkin' good job that there dawg was chained up. Why? 'Cause 'e might 'ave bitten us. I allus was afeard o' dawgs." —J. Milsun (late 1/5th Battn., The King's Own 55th Div.), 31 Collingwood Road, Lexden, Colchester.

The Song of Battle

At the first Gaza battle we had to advance 1,700 yards across a plain in full view of the Turks, who hurled a terrific barrage at us. We were in artillery formation, and we marched up until within rifle range. With machine guns and artillery the Turks were depleting our ranks, so that less than half of us were still marching on at 500 yards range.