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500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

by Various · English · Gutenberg #44263 · 451,688 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: 500 of the Best Cockney War Stories

Author: Various

Contributor: Ian Hamilton

Illustrator: Bert Thomas


        
Release date: November 23, 2013 [eBook #44263]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 500 OF THE BEST COCKNEY WAR STORIES ***

    500 OF THE BEST
    COCKNEY
    WAR
    STORIES

    REPRINTED FROM THE LONDON
    Evening News

    AND ILLUSTRATED BY
    BERT THOMAS

    WITH AN OPENING YARN BY
    GENERAL
    SIR IAN HAMILTON
    G.C.B., G.C.M.G., D.S.O., etc.
    Vice-President of the British Legion
    President of the Metropolitan Area of the
    British Legion

    ASSOCIATED NEWSPAPERS LTD.
    LONDON, E.C.4




EDITOR'S FOREWORD


In the remembering, and in the retelling, of those war days when
laughter sometimes saved men's reason, Cockneys the world over have
left to posterity a record of noble and imperishable achievement.

From the countless tales collected by the London _Evening News_ these
five hundred, many of them illustrated by the great war-time artist,
Bert Thomas, have been chosen as a fitting climax and perpetuation.

Sir Ian Hamilton's story of another war shows that, however much
methods of fighting may vary from generation to generation, there is no
break in continuity of a great tradition, that the spirits of laughter
and high adventure are immortal in the make-up of the British soldier.

Sir Ian's story is doubly fitting. As President of the Metropolitan
Area of the British Legion he is intimately concerned with the
after-war welfare of just that Tommy Atkins who is immortalised in
these pages. In the second place, all profits from the sale of this
book will be devoted to the cause which the Higher Command in every
branch of the Services is fostering--the British Legion.

[Illustration]




CONTENTS


    SIR IAN HAMILTON'S STORY
    1. ACTION
    2. LULL
    3. HOSPITAL
    4. HIGH SEAS
    5. HERE AND THERE #/




SIR IAN HAMILTON'S STORY


The Great War was a matrix wherein many anecdotes have sprouted.
They are short-lived plants--fragile as mushrooms--none too easy to
extricate either, embedded as they are in the mass.

To dig out the character of a General even from the plans of his
General Staff is difficult; how much more difficult to dig out the
adventures of Number 1000 Private Thomas Atkins from those of the other
999 who went "like one man" with him over the top? In the side-shows
there was more scope for the individual and in the Victorian wars
much more scope. To show the sort of thing I mean I am going to put
down here for the first time an old story, almost forgotten now, in
the hopes that it may interest by its contrast to barrages and barbed
wire. Although only an old-fashioned affair of half a dozen bullets and
three or four dead men it was a great event to me as it led to my first
meeting with the great little Bobs of Kandahar.

On the morning of September 11, 1879, I lay shivering with fever and
ague at Alikhel in Afghanistan. So sick did I seem that it was decided
I should be carried a day's march back to G.H.Q. on the Peiwar Kotal to
see if the air of that high mountain pass would help me to pull myself
round. Polly Forbes, a boy subaltern not very long from Eton, was sent
off to play the part of nurse.

We reached the Peiwar Kotal without any adventure, and were allotted
a tent in the G.H.Q. camp pitched where the road between the Kurram
Valley and Kabul ran over the high Kotal or pass. Next morning,
although still rather weak in the knees, I felt game for a ride to the
battlefield. So we rode along the high ridge through the forest of
giant deodars looking for mementoes of the battle. The fact was that we
were, although we knew it not, in a very dangerous No Man's Land.

We had reached a point about two miles from camp when we were startled
by half a dozen shots fired in quick succession and still more startled
to see some British soldiers rushing down towards us from the top of a
steep-sided knoll which crowned the ridge to our immediate front.

Close past us rushed those fugitives and on, down the hillside, where
at last, some hundred yards below us, they pulled up in answer to our
shouts. But no amount of shouts or orders would bring them up to us,
so we had to get off our ponies and go down to them. There were seven
of them--a Corporal and three men belonging to one of the new short
service battalions and three signallers--very shaky the whole lot. Only
one was armed with his rifle; he had been on sentry-go at the moment
the signalling picquet had been rushed--so they said--by a large body
of Afghans.

What was to be done? I realised that I was the senior. Turning to the
Corporal I asked him if he could ride. "Yes, sir," he replied rather
eagerly. "Well, then," I commanded, "you get on to that little white
mare up there and ride like hell to G.H.Q. for help. You others go up
with him and await orders." Off they went, scrambling up the hill,
Forbes and I following rather slowly because of my weakness. When we
got up to the path, ponies, syces, all had disappeared except that one
soldier who had stuck to his rifle.

All was as still as death in the forest where we three now stood alone.
"Where are the others?" I asked the man. "I think they must be killed."
"Do you think they are up there?" "Yessir!" So I turned to Forbes and
said, "If there are wounded or dead up there we must go and see what we
can do."

Where we stood we were a bit far away from the top of the wooded hill
for a jezail shot to carry and once we began to climb the slope we
found ourselves in dead ground. Nearing the top, my heart jumped into
my mouth as I all but put my foot on a man's face. Though I dared not
take my eyes off the brushwood on the top of the hill, out of the
corner of my eye I was aware he was a lascar and that he must be dead,
for his head had nearly been severed from his body.

At that same moment we heard a feeble cry in Hindustani, "_Shabash,
Sahib log, chello!_" "Bravo, Gentlemen, come along!" This came from
another lascar shot through the body--a plucky fellow. "_Dushman kahan
hain?_"--"Where are the enemy?" I whispered. "When the sahibs shouted
from below they ran away," he said, and at that, side by side with the
revolvers raised to fire, Forbes and I stepped out on to the cleared
and levelled summit of the hill, a space about fifteen feet by twenty.

All was quiet and seemed entirely normal. There stood the helio and
there lay the flags. Most astonishing of all, there, against a pile
of logs, rested the priceless rifles of the picquet guard with their
accoutrements and ammunition pouches lying on the ground beside them.
Making a sign to Forbes we laid down our revolvers ready to hand, took,
each of us, a rifle, loaded it, fixed the bayonet and stood at the
ready facing the edge of the forest about thirty yards away.

Even in these days when my memory is busy chucking its seventy years or
so of accumulations overboard, the memory of that tense watch into the
forest remains as fresh as ever. For the best part of half an hour it
must have lasted. At last we heard them--not the Afghans but our own
chaps, coming along the ridge and now they were making their way in
open order up the hill--a company of British Infantry together with a
few Pathan auxiliaries, the whole under command of Captain Stratton of
the 22nd Foot, head Signaller to the Force.

In few words my story was told and at once bold Stratton determined
to pursue down the far side of the hill. Stratton had told me to go
back to camp, but I did not consider that an order and, keeping on the
extreme left of the line so that he should not see me, I pushed along.

I noticed that the young soldier of the picquet who had stuck to his
rifle was still keeping by me as the long line advanced down the slope,
which gradually bifurcated into two distinct spurs. The further we went
the wider apart drew the spurs and the deeper became the intervening
nullah. Captain Stratton, Forbes, and the Regimental Company commander
were all on the other or eastern spur and the men kept closing in
towards them, until at last everyone, bar myself and my one follower,
had cleared off the western spur. I did not want to cross the
nullah, feeling too weak and tired to force my way through the thick
undergrowth. Soon we could no longer hear or see the others.

Suddenly I heard Click! "Take cover!" I shouted and flung myself behind
a big stone. Sure enough, the moment often imagined had come! Not more
than twenty paces down the slope an old, white-bearded, wicked-looking
Enemy was aiming at me with his long jezail from behind a fallen log.
Click! again. Another misfire.

Now I was musketry instructor of my regiment, which had been the best
shooting regiment in India the previous year. My revolver was a rotten
little weapon, but I knew its tricks. As the Afghan fumbled with his
lock I took aim and began to squeeze the trigger. Another instant and
he would have been dead when bang! went a rifle behind me; my helmet
tilted over my eyes, my shot went where we found it next day, about six
feet up into a tree. The young soldier had opened rapid fire just over
my head.

At the same time, I saw another Afghan come crouching through the
brushwood below me towards a point where he would be able to enfilade
my stone. I shouted to my comrade, "I'm coming back to you," and turned
to make for his tree. Luck was with me. At that very moment bang went
the jezail and when we dug out the bullet next morning and marked the
line of fire, it became evident that had I not so turned I would never
have sat spinning this yarn.

That shot was a parting salute. There were shouts from the right of the
line, and as I was making for my tree the Afghans made off in the other
direction. I shouted to Stratton and his men to press down to the foot
of the hill, working round to the north so as to cut off the raiders.
Then, utterly exhausted, I began my crawl back to the camp.

Soon after I had got in I was summoned into the presence of the
redoubtable Bobs. Although I had marched past him at Kohat this was
my first face-to-face meeting with one who was to play the part
of Providence to my career. He made me sit in a chair and at once
performed the almost incredible feat of putting me entirely at my ease.
This he did by pouring a golden liquid called sherry into a very large
wine-glass. Hardly had I swallowed this elixir when I told him all
about everything, which was exactly what he wanted.

A week later the Commander of the Cavalry Brigade, Redan Massy, applied
to Headquarters for an Aide-de-Camp. Sir Fred Roberts advised him to
take me. That billet led to unimaginable bliss. Surrounding villages
by moonlight, charging across the Logar Valley, despising all foot
sloggers--every sort of joy I had longed for. The men of the picquet
who had run away were tried by Court Martial and got long sentences,
alas--poor chaps! The old Mullah was sent to his long account by
Stratton.

But that is the point of most war stories; when anyone gets a lift up
it is by the misfortune or death of someone else.

    IAN HAMILTON.




COCKNEY WAR STORIES


1. ACTION


The Outside Fare

During the third battle of Ypres a German field gun was trying to hit
one of our tanks, the fire being directed no doubt by an observation
balloon.

On the top of the tank was a Cockney infantryman getting a free ride
and seemingly quite unconcerned at Jerry's attempts to score a direct
hit on the tank.

[Illustration: "Hi, conductor! Any room inside?--it's rainin'!"]

As the tank was passing our guns a shrapnel shell burst just behind it
and above it.

We expected to see the Cockney passenger roll off dead. All he did,
however, was to put his hand to his mouth and shout to those inside the
tank: "Hi, conductor! Any room inside?--it's rainin'!"--_A. H. Boughton
(ex "B" Battery, H.A.C.), 53 Dafforne Road, S.W.17._


"Barbed Wire's Dangerous!"

A wiring party in the Loos salient--twelve men just out from home.
Jerry's Verey lights were numerous, machine-guns were unpleasantly
busy, and there were all the dangers and alarms incidental to a sticky
part of the line. The wiring party, carrying stakes and wire, made its
way warily, and every man breathed apprehensively. Suddenly one London
lad tripped over a piece of old barbed wire and almost fell his length.

"Lumme," he exclaimed, "that ain't 'arf dangerous!"--_T. C. Farmer,
M.C., of Euston Square, London (late of "The Buffs")._


Tale of an Egg

I was attached as a signaller to a platoon on duty in an advanced post
on the Ypres-Menin Road. We had two pigeons as an emergency means of
communication should our wire connection fail.

One afternoon Fritz put on a strafe which blew in the end of the
culvert in which we were stationed. We rescued the pigeon basket from
the debris and discovered that an egg had appeared.

That evening, when the time came to send in the usual evening
"situation report," I was given the following message to transmit:

"Pigeon laid one egg; otherwise situation normal."--_D. Webster, 85
Highfield Avenue, N.W.11._


"No Earfkwikes"

On a bitterly cold, wet afternoon in February 1918 four privates and
a corporal were trying to take what shelter they could. One little
Cockney who had served in the Far East with the 10th Middlesex was
complaining about everything in general, but especially about the
idiocy of waging war in winter.

"Wot yer grumblin' at?" broke in the corporal, "you with yer fawncy
tyles of Inja? At any rate, there ain't no blinking moskeeters 'ere nor
'orrible malyria."

There was a break in the pleasantries as a big one came over. In the
subsequent explosion the little Cockney was fatally wounded.

"Corpril," the lad gasped, as he lay under that wintry sky, "you fergot
to menshun there ain't no bloomin' sun-stroke, _nor no earfkwikes,
neither_."

And he smiled--a delightful, whimsical smile--though the corporal's
"Sorry, son" was too late.--_V. Meik, 107 King Henry's Road, N.W.3._


A "Bow Bells" Heroine

For seven hours, with little intermission, the German airmen bombed a
camp not a hundred miles from Etaples. Of the handful of Q.M.A.A.C.s
stationed there, one was an eighteen-year-old middle-class girl,
high-strung, sensitive, not long finished with her convent school.
Another was Kitty, a Cockney girl of twenty, by occupation a
machine-hand, by vocation (missed) a comédienne, and, by heaven, a
heroine.

The high courage of the younger girl was cracking under the strain
of that ordeal by bombs. Kitty saw how it was with her, and for five
long hours she gave a recital of song, dialogue, and dance--most of it
improvised--while the bombs fell and the anti-aircraft guns screamed.
In all probability she saved the younger girl's reason.

When the last raider had dropped the last bomb, Kitty sank down, all
but exhausted, and for long cried and laughed hysterically. Hers was
not the least heroic part played upon that night.--_H. N., London, E._


Samson, but Shorn

During the German attack near Zillebeke in June 1916 a diminutive
Cockney, named Samson, oddly enough, received a scalp wound from a
shell splinter which furrowed a neat path through his hair.

The fighting was rather hot at the time, and this great-hearted little
Londoner carried on with the good work.

Some hours later came the order to fall back, and as the Cockney was
making his way down the remains of a trench, dazed and staggering, a
harassed sergeant, himself nearly "all in," ordered him to bear off a
couple of rifles and a box of ammunition.

This was the last straw. "Strike, sergeant," he said, weakly, "I
can't 'elp me name being Samson, but I've just 'ad me perishin' 'air
cut!"--"_Townie," R.A.F._


"What's Bred in the Bone----!"

When we were at Railway Wood, Ypres Salient, in 1916, "Muddy Lane,"
our only communication trench from the front line to the support line,
had been reduced to shapelessness by innumerable "heavies." Progress
in either direction entailed exposure to snipers in at least twelve
different places, and runners and messengers were, as our sergeant put
it, "tickled all the way."

In the support line one afternoon, hearing the familiar "Crack! Crack!
Crack!" I went to Muddy Lane junction to await the advertised visitor.
He arrived--a wiry little Cockney Tommy, with his tin hat dented in two
places and blood trickling from a bullet graze on the cheek.

In appreciation of the risk he had run I remarked, "Jerry seems to be
watching that bit!"

"Watching!" he replied. "'Struth! I felt like I was walking darn
Sarthend Pier naked!"--_Vernon Sylvaine, late Somerset L.I., Grand
Theatre, Croydon._


A Very Human Concertina

In March 1918, when Jerry was making his last great attack, I was in
the neighbourhood of Petit Barisis when three enemy bombing planes
appeared overhead and gave us their load. After all was clear I
overheard this dialogue between two diminutive privates of the 7th
Battalion, the London Regiment ("Shiny Seventh"), who were on guard
duty at the Q.M. Stores:

"You all right, Bill?"

"Yes, George!"

"Where'd you get to, Bill, when he dropped his eggs?"

"Made a blooming concertina of meself and got underneaf me blinkin' tin
'at!"--_F. A. Newman, 8 Levett Gardens, Ilford, Ex-Q.M.S., 8th London
(Post Office Rifles)._


A One-Man Army

The 47th London Division were holding the line in the Bluff sector,
near Ypres, early in 1917, and the 20th London Battalion were being
relieved on a very wet evening, as I was going up to the front line
with a working party.

Near Hell Fire Corner shells were coming over at about three-minute
intervals. One of the 20th London Lewis gunners was passing in full
fighting order, with fur coat, gum boots, etc., carrying his Lewis gun,
several drums of ammunition, and the inevitable rum jar.

One of my working party, a typical Cockney, surveyed him and said:

"Look! Blimey, he only wants a field gun under each arm and he'd be a
bally division."--_Lieut.-Col. J. H. Langton, D.S.O._


"Nah, Mate! Soufend!"

During the heavy rains in the summer of 1917 our headquarters dug-out
got flooded. So a fatigue party was detailed to bale it out.

"Long Bert" Smith was one of our baling squad. Because of his abnormal
reach, he was stationed at the "crab-crawl," his job being to throw the
water outside as we handed the buckets up to him.

It was a dangerous post. Jerry was pasting the whole area unmercifully
and shell splinters pounded on the dug-out roof every few seconds.

Twenty minutes after we had started work Bert got badly hit, and it was
some time before the stretcher-bearers could venture out to him. When
they did so he seemed to be unconscious.

"Poor blighter!" said one of the bearers. "Looks to be going West."

Bert, game to the last, opened his eyes and, seeing the canvas bucket
still convulsively clutched in his right fist, "Nah, mate!" he
grunted--"Soufend!"

But the stretcher-bearer was right.--_C. Vanon, 33 Frederick Street,
W.C.I._


"I Got 'Ole Nelson Beat!"

Several stretcher cases in the field dressing station at the foot of
"Chocolate Hill," Gallipoli, awaited removal by ambulance, including a
Cockney trooper in the dismounted Yeomanry.

He had a bandage round his head, only one eye was visible, and his left
arm was bound to his breast with a sandbag.

His rapid-fire of Cockney witticisms had helped to keep our spirits up
while waiting--he had a comment for everything. Suddenly a "strafe"
started, and a shrapnel shell shot its load among us.

Confusion, shouts, and moans--then a half-hysterical, half-triumphant
shout from the Cockney: "Lumme, one in the blinkin' leg this time. I
got 'ole Nelson beat at last!"--_J. Coomer (late R.E.), 31 Hawthorn
Avenue, Thornton Heath._


Two Kinds of Fatalist

A German sniper was busy potting at our men in a front-line trench at
Cambrai in March 1918. A Cockney "old sweat," observing a youngster
gazing over the parapet, asked him if he were a fatalist.

The youngster replied "Yes."

"So am I," said the Cockney, "but I believes in duckin'."--"_Brownie,"
Kensal Rise, N.W.10._


Double up, Beauty Chorus!

One summer afternoon in '15 some lads of the Rifle Brigade were
bathing in the lake in the grounds of the château at Elverdinghe, a
mile or so behind the line at Ypres, when German shells began to land
uncomfortably near. The swimmers immediately made for the land, and,
drawing only boots on their feet, dashed for the cellar in the château.

As they hurried into the shelter a Cockney sergeant bellowed, "Nah
then, booty chorus: double up an' change for the next act!"--_G E.
Roberts, M.C. (late Genl. List, att'd 21st Divn. Signal Co.), 28
Sunbury Gardens, Mill Hill, N.W.7._


The Theatre of War

During the battle of Arras, Easter 1917, we were lying out in front
of our wire in extended order waiting for our show to begin. Both our
artillery and that of Fritz were bombarding as hard as they could. It
was pouring with rain, and everybody was caked in mud.

Our platoon officer, finding he had a good supply of chocolate, and
realising that rations might not be forthcoming for some time, crept
along the line and gave us each a piece.

As he handed a packet to one cheerful Cockney he was asked, "Wot abaht
a programme, sir?"--_W. B. Finch (late London Regiment), 155 High Road,
Felixstowe._


"It's the Skivvy's 'Arf Day Orf"

Easter Monday, April 9, 1917. Night. Inches of snow and a weird silence
everywhere after the turmoil of the day. Our battalion is held up in
front of Monchy-le-Preux during the battle of Arras. I am sent out with
a patrol to reconnoitre one of our tanks that is crippled and astride
the German wire 300 yards out.

[Illustration: "I'll have to let yer in meself ... it's the skivvy's
'arf day orf!"]

It is ticklish work, because the crew may be dead or wounded and Fritz
in occupation. Very warily we creep around the battered monster and
presently I tap gingerly on one of the doors. No response. We crawl to
the other side and repeat the tapping process. At last, through the
eerie silence, comes a low, hoarse challenge.

"Oo are yer?"

"Fusiliers!" I reply, as I look up and see a tousled head sticking
through a hole in the roof.

"Ho!" exclaims the voice above, "I'll 'ave ter come dahn and let yer in
meself, it's the skivvy's 'arf day orf!"

The speaker proved to have a shattered arm--among other things--and was
the sole survivor of the crew.--_D. K., Fulham, S.W.6._


Cricket on the Somme

"Spider" Webb was a Cockney--from Stepney, I believe--who was with us
on the Somme in 1916. He was a splendid cricketer.

We had had a very stiff time for six or seven hours and were resting
during a lull in the firing. Then suddenly Jerry sent over five shells.
After a pause another shell came over and burst near to "Spider" and
his two pals.

When the smoke cleared I went across to see what had happened.
"Spider's" two pals were beyond help. The Cockney was propping himself
up with his elbows surveying the scene.

"What's happened, Webb?" I said. "Blimey! What's happened?" was the
reply. "One over--two bowled" (and, looking down at his leg)--"and I'm
stumped." Then he fainted.--_George Franks, M.C. (late Lieut., Royal
Artillery), Ilford, Essex._


M'Lord, of Hoxton

We called him "M'lord." He came from Hoxton--"That's where they
make 'em," he used to say. He was a great asset to us, owing to the
wonderful way in which he went out and "won" things.

One night, near Amiens, in 1916, "M'lord" said, "I'm going aht to see
wot some uvver mob has got too much of." One or two of us offered to
accompany him, but he refused, saying, "You bloomin' elephants 'ud be
bahnd to give the gime away."

About three hours later, when we were beginning to get anxious, we
saw him staggering in with a badly wounded German, who was smoking a
cigarette.

Seeing us, and very much afraid of being thought soft-hearted, "M'lord"
plumped old Fritz down on the fire-step and said very fiercely, "Don't
you dare lean on me wif impunity, or wif a fag in your mouf."

Jerry told us later that he had lain badly wounded in a deserted
farmhouse for over two days, and "M'lord" had almost carried him for
over a mile.

"M'lord" was killed later on in the war. Our battalion was the 7th
Batt. Royal Fusiliers (London Regt.)--_W. A., Windsor._


The Tall Man's War

In our platoon was a very tall chap who was always causing us great
amusement because of his height. Naturally he showed his head above the
parapet more often than the rest of us, and whenever he did so _ping_
would come a bullet from a sniper and down our tall chum would drop in
an indescribably funny acrobatic fashion.

The climax came at Delville Wood in August 1916, when, taking over the
line, we found the trench knocked about in a way that made it most
uncomfortable for all of us. Here our tall friend had to resort to his
acrobatics more than ever: at times he would crawl on all fours to
"dodge 'em." One shot, however, caused him to dive down more quickly
than usual--right into a sump hole in the trench.

Recovering himself, he turned to us and, with an expression of
unutterable disgust, exclaimed, "You blokes can laugh; anybody 'ud fink
I was the only blighter in this war."--_C. Bragg (late Rifle Brigade,
14th Division), 61 Hinton Road, Herne Hill, S.E.24._


Germany Didn't Know This

One night in June 1916, on the Somme, we were ordered to leave our line
and go over and dig an advance trench. We returned to our trench before
dawn, and shortly afterwards my chum, "Pussy" Harris, said to me, "I
have left my rifle in No Man's Land."

"Never mind," I said, "there are plenty more. Don't go over there: the
snipers are sure to get you."

But my advice was all in vain; he insisted on going. When I asked him
why he wanted that particular rifle he said, "Well, the barrel is bent,
_and it can shoot round corners_."

He went over....

That night I saw the regimental carpenter going along the trench with
a roughly-made wooden cross inscribed "R.I.P. Pte. Harris."--_W. Ford,
613 Becontree Avenue, Chadwell Heath, Essex._


Better than the Crystal Palace

One night, while going round the line at Loos, I was accompanied by
Sergeant Winslow, who was a London coster before the war.

We were examining the field of fire of a Lewis gun, when the Germans
opened up properly on our sector. Clouds of smoke rose from the
surrounding trenches, crash after crash echoed around the old Loos
crassier, and night was turned into day by Verey lights sent up by both
sides.

Suddenly a lad of 18, just out, turned to Sergeant Winslow, and in a
quivering voice said: "My God, sergeant, this is awful!"

Sergeant Winslow replied: "Now, look 'ere, me lad, you'd have paid 'alf
a dollar to take your best gal to see this at the Crystal Palace before
the war. What are yer grousing abaht?"--_A. E. Grant (late 17th Welch
Regt.), 174 Broom Road, Teddington._


A Short Week-end

One Saturday evening I was standing by my dug-out in Sausage Valley,
near Fricourt, when a draft of the Middlesex Regt. halted for the guide
to take them up to the front line where the battalion was. I had a chat
with one of the lads, who told me he had left England on the Friday.

They moved off, and soon things got lively; a raid and counter-raid
started.

Later the casualties began to come down, and the poor chaps were lying
around outside the 1st C.C.S. (which was next to my dug-out). On a
stretcher was my friend of the draft. He was pretty badly hit. I gave
him a cigarette and tried to cheer him by telling him he would soon be
back in England. With a feeble smile he said, "Blimey, sir, this 'as
been a short week-end, ain't it?"--_Pope Stamper (15th Durham L.I.),
188A Upper Richmond Road, East Sheen, S.W.14._


Simultaneous Chess

At Aubers Ridge, near Fromelles, in October 1918, my chum and I were
engrossed in a game of chess, our chessboard being a waterproof sheet
with the squares painted on it, laid across a slab of concrete from a
destroyed pill-box.

The Germans began to drop 5·9's with alarming regularity about 150
yards to our rear, temporarily distracting our attention from the game.

Returning to the game, I said to my chum, "Whose move, Joe?"

Before he could reply a shell landed with a deafening roar within a few
yards of us, but luckily did not explode (hence this story).

His reply was: "Ours"--and we promptly did.--_B. Greenfield, M.M. (late
Cpl. R.F.A., 47th (London) Division), L.C.C. Parks Dept., Tooting Bec
Common, S.W._


Fire-step Philosophy

On July 1, 1916, I happened to be among those concerned in the
attack on the German line in front of Serre, near Beaumont Hamel.
Our onslaught at that point was not conspicuously successful, but we
managed to establish ourselves temporarily in what had been the Boche
front line, to the unconcealed indignation of the previous tenants.

During a short lull in the subsequent proceedings I saw one of my
company--an elderly private whose melancholy countenance and lank black
moustache will ever remain engraved on my memory--seated tranquilly on
the battered fire-step, engrossed in a certain humorous journal.

Meeting my astonished eye, he observed in a tone of mild resentment:
"This 'ere's a dud, sir. 'S not a joke in it--not what _I_ calls a
joke, anyway."

So saying, he rose, pocketed the paper, and proceeded placidly to get
on with the war.--_K. R. G. Browne, 6B Winchester Road, N.W.3._


"Teddie" Gets the Last Word

Sergeant "Teddie" was rather deaf, but I am inclined to think that this
slight affliction enabled him to pull our legs on occasions.

[Illustration: "A quarter to seven, sir."]

Our company of the London Regiment had just taken over a part of the
line known as the Paris Redoubt, and on the first evening in the sector
the company commander, the second in command, Sergeant "Teddie," and
myself had a stroll along the observation line, which was just forward
of the front line, in order to visit the various posts.

Suddenly a salvo of shells came over and one burst perilously near us.
Three of the party adopted the prone position in record time, but on
our looking round "Teddie" was seen to be still standing and apparently
quite unconcerned.

"Why the dickens didn't you get down?" said one of the party, turning
to him. "It nearly had us that time."

"Time?" said "Teddie," looking at his watch. "A quarter to seven,
sir."--_J. S. O. (late C.S.M., 15th London Regt.)._


"Nobbler's" Grouse

Just before the battle of Messines we of the 23rd Londons were holding
the Bluff sector to the right of Hill 60. "Stand down" was the order,
and the sergeant was coming round with the rum.

"Nobbler," late of the Mile End Road, was watching him in joyful
anticipation when ... a whizz-bang burst on the parapet, hurling men
in all directions. No one was hurt ... but the precious rum jar was
shattered.

"Nobbler," sitting up in the mud and moving his tin hat from his
left eye the better to gaze upon the ruin, murmured bitterly:
"Louvain--Rheims--the _Lusitania_--and now our perishin' rum issue.
Jerry, you 'eathen, you gets worse and worse. But, my 'at, won't you
cop it when 'Aig knows abaht this!"--_E. H. Oliver, Lanark House,
Woodstock, Oxford._


Dust in 'Indenburg's Sauerkraut!

To all those thousands who remember Shrapnel Corner and the sign:
"DRIVE SLOWLY! SPEED CAUSES DUST WHICH DRAWS THE ENEMY'S SHELL FIRE"
this incident will appeal.

I had rounded the corner into Zillebeke Road with a load of ammunition,
and had gone about 200 yards along the road, when Fritz let go with a
few shells.

"Rum Ration" (my mate's nick-name) looked out of the lorry to observe
where the shells were falling.

"Nah we're for it," he exclaimed, "our dust must 'ave gorn into ole
'Indenberg's blinkin' sauerkraut."--_J. H. Clarke, ex-Pte., M.T.A.S.C._


A Valiant Son of London

Crack! Crack! Crack!--and men falling with each crack. It is terrible;
we are faced with mud, misery, and despair. A German machine-gun is
taking its toll.

It seems impossible to get at the gunners, and we spend hours lying
in wait. This waiting proves too much for one of us; single-handed
he takes a chance and crawls away from my side. I keep him covered;
minutes roll by; they seem hours, days; and, as he is now out of sight,
I begin to give up hope for him, my Cockney pal.

Some instinct warns me to keep watch, and I am rewarded. I feel my eyes
start from my head as I see the approaching procession--four Germans,
hands above their heads, and my pal following, carrying the machine-gun
across his shoulders. I marvel at his courage and wonder how it was
done ... but this I am never to know. As I leap from the trench to give
him assistance I realise his number is nearly up. He is covered with
blood.

I go to relieve him of his burden, and in that moment one of the
Germans, sensing that my pal is almost out, turns on us with his
revolver. We are held at the pistol-point and I know I must make a
desperate bid to save my pal, who has done his best in an act which
saved a portion of our line.

I drop the gun and, with a quick movement, I am able to trip the
nearest German, but he is quick too and manages to stick me (and I
still carry the mark of his bayonet in my side).

The realisation I am still able to carry on, that life is sweet, holds
me up, and, with a pluck that showed his determination and Cockney
courage, my pal throws himself into a position in which he can work the
gun. _Crack!_ and _Crack!_ again: the remaining Germans are brought
down.

I am weak with loss of blood, but I am still able to drag my pal with
me, and, aided by his determination, we get through. It seems we are at
peace with the world. But, alas, when only five yards from our trenches
a shell bursts beside us; I have a stinging pain in my shoulder and
cannot move! Machine-guns and rifles are playing hell.

My pal, though mortally wounded, still tries to drag me to our trench.
He reaches the parapet ... _Zip_ ... _Zip_. The first has missed, but
the second gets him. It is a fatal shot, and, though in the greatest
agony, he manages to give me a message to his folks....

He died at my side, unrewarded by man. The stretcher-bearer told me
that he had five bullet-holes in him. He lies in France to-day, and I
owe my life to him, and again I pay homage to his memory and to him
as one of England's greatest heroes--a Valiant Son of London.--_John
Batten (late Rifleman, 13 Bn., K.R.R.C.), 50 Sussex Gardens, Hyde Park,
W.2._


A Hint to the Brigadier

Alec Lancaster was a showman at the White City in pre-war days. Short
in stature, he possessed a mighty heart, and in the ghastly days in
front of Poelcapelle he made history as the sergeant who took command
of a brigadier.

The brigadier had been on a visit to the front line to inspect a new
belt of wire and, passing the ---- headquarters, paused to look around.

Just then a few shells came over in quick succession and things looked
nasty.

Alec Lancaster took command and guided the brigadier somewhat forcibly
into a dug-out with the laconic, "Nah, then. We don't want any dead
brigadiers rahnd 'ere."--_Geo. B. Fuller, 146 Rye Road, Hoddesdon,
Herts._


"Salvage? Yus, Me!"

On the third day of the German offensive in March 1918 a certain
brigade of the R.F.A. was retiring on Péronne.

A driver, hailing from London town, was in charge of the cook's cart,
which contained officers' kits belonging to the headquarters' staff.

As he was making his way along a "pip-squeak" came over and burst
practically beneath the vehicle and blew the whole issue to pieces. The
driver had a miraculous escape.

When he recovered from the shock he ruefully surveyed the debris, and
after deciding that nothing could be done, continued his journey on
foot into Péronne.

Just outside that town he was met by the Adjutant, who said, "Hullo,
driver, what's happened--where's cook's cart with the kits?"

DRIVER: Blown up, sir.

ADJUTANT (_anxiously_): Anything salved?

DRIVER: Yus, sir, me!--_F. H. Seabright, 12 Broomhill Road, Goodmayes,
Essex._


Almost Self-inflicted

The London (47th) Division, after a strenuous time on the Somme in
September 1916, were sent to Ypres for a quiet (?) spell, the depleted
ranks being made up by reserves from home who joined us _en route_.

The 18th Battalion (London Irish), were informed on taking the line
that their opponents were men of the very same German regiment as they
had opposed and vanquished at High Wood.

Soon after "stand down" the following morning Rifleman S---- mounted
the fire-step and, cupping his hands to his mouth, shouted, "Compree
'Igh Wood, Fritz?"

The words had hardly left his lips when _zip_, a sniper's bullet
knocked his tin hat off his head and Rifleman S---- found himself lying
on the duckboards with blood running down his face.

Picking himself up, he calmly gathered his souvenirs together and said
as he made his way out, "Cheerio, boys, I've got a Blighty one, but
don't tell the colonel it was self-inflicted."--_A. C. B., Ilford,
Essex._


Nobby's 1,000 to 1 Chance

Our division (the Third) was on its way from the line for the
long-looked-for rest. We were doing it by road in easy stages.

During a halt a pack animal (with its load of two boxes of "·303")
became restive and bolted. One box fell off and was being dragged
by the lashing. Poor old Nobby Clarke, who had been out since Mons,
stopped the box with his leg, which was broken below the knee.

As he was being carried away one of the stretcher-bearers said, "Well,
Nobby, you've got a Blighty one at last."

"Yus," said Nobby; "but it took a fousand rahnds to knock me
over."--_H. Krepper (late 5th Fusiliers), 62 Anerley Road, Upper
Norwood, S.E. 19._


That Derby Scheme

The Commanding Officer of a Territorial battalion was wounded in both
hands during the third battle of Gaza in 1917. He had much service to
his credit, was a lieutenant-colonel of over two years' standing, had
been wounded twice before, and held the D.S.O.

He pluckily remained with his unit for thirty-six hours. Then, worn
out with lack of sleep, pain, and loss of blood, and filled with
disappointment at having to leave his battalion still in the fight, he
trudged back to the field ambulance.

His sufferings, which had aged his appearance, and the Tommy's tunic
which he wore in action, apparently misled a party of 10th London men
whom he passed. They looked sympathetically at him, and one said, "Poor
old blighter, _'e ought never to 'ave been called up_."--_Captain J.
Finn, M.C., Constitutional Club, W.C.2._


"Shoo-Shoo-Shooting"

There were no proper trenches in front of Armentières in early December
1914, and a machine gun section was doing its best to build an
emplacement and cover. It was in the charge of a young Londoner who in
times of excitement stuttered badly.

Not being satisfied with the position of one sandbag, he hopped over
those already in place, and in full view of Jerry (it was daylight
too), began to adjust the sandbag that displeased him.

Jerry immediately turned a machine gun on him, but the young officer
finished his work, and then stood up.

Looking towards Jerry as the section yelled to him to come down,
he stuttered angrily. "I b-b-be-lieve the bli-bli-blighters are
shoo-shoo-shoo-shoo-ting at me." At that moment someone grabbed his
legs and pulled him down. It was a fine example of cool nerve.--_T. D.,
Victoria, S.W.1._


Ancient Britons?--No!

It happened late in 1917 in Tank Avenue, just on the left of
Monchy-le-Preux. It was a foul night of rain, wind, sleet, and
whizz-bangs.

My battalion had just been relieved, and we were making our way out as
best we could down the miry communication trench. Every now and again
we had to halt and press ourselves against the trench side to allow a
straggling working party of the K.R.R.s to pass up into the line.

Shells were falling all over the place, and suddenly Fritz dropped one
right into the trench a few bays away from where I was.

I hurried down and found two of the working party lying on the
duckboards. They were both wounded, and one of them had his tunic
ripped off him by the force of the explosion. What with his tattered
uniform--and what remained of it--and his face and bare chest smothered
in mud, he was a comical though pathetic sight. He still clung to his
bundle of pickets he had been carrying and he sat up and looked round
with a puzzled expression.

One of our sergeants--a rather officious fellow--pushed himself forward.

"Who are you?" he asked. "K.R.R.s?"

"'Course," retorted the half-naked Cockney. "Oo d'ye fink we
was--Ancient Britons?"--_E. Gordon Petrie (late Cameron Highlanders),
"Hunky-Dory," Demesne Road, Wallington, Surrey._


Desert Island--Near Bullecourt

Between Ecoust and Bullecourt in January 1918 my platoon was passing
a mine crater which was half-full of water when suddenly Jerry sent
one over. Six of our fellows were wounded, and one of them, a Bow Road
Cockney, was hurled into the crater.

[Illustration: "Robinson Crusoe."]

He struggled to his feet and staggered towards a pile of rubble that
rose above the muddy water like an island. Arrived there, he sat down
and looked round him in bewilderment. Then: "Blimey," he muttered,
"Robinson ruddy Crusoe!"--_E. McQuaid (late R.S.F.), 22 Grove Road,
S.W.9._


"Tiger's" Little Trick

On October 11-12, 1914, during the Mons retreat, a small party of 2nd
Life Guards were told off as outpost on the main road, near Wyngene,
Belgium. After we had tied our horses behind a farmhouse at the side of
the road, we settled down to await the arrival of "Jerry."

Time went slowly, and one of our troopers suggested that we all put a
half-franc into an empty "bully" tin, and the first one of us who shot
a German was to take the lot. To this we all agreed.

It was about midnight when, suddenly, out of the shadows, rode a German
Death's-head Hussar. We all raised our rifles as one man, but before we
could shoot "Tiger" Smith, one of our real Cockney troopers, shouted,
"_Don't shoot! Don't shoot!_" During our momentary hesitation "Tiger's"
rifle rang out, and off rolled the German into the road.

Upon our indignant inquiry as to why he had shouted "Don't shoot,"
"Tiger" quietly said, "Nah, then, none of your old buck; just hand
over that tin of 'alf francs I've won."--_Fred Bruty (late Corporal
of Horse, 2nd Life Guards), City of London Police Dwellings, No. 3,
Ferndale Court, Ferndale Road, S.W.9._


Raffle Draw To-night!

Near St. Quentin, in October 1918, I was in charge of a section that
was detailed to cross a railway to establish communication with troops
on the other side. Unfortunately we were spotted by a German machine
gunner, who made things very hot for us, two men being quickly hit. We
managed, however, to reach a small mound where, by lying quite flat, we
were comparatively safe.

Glancing in the direction from which we had come, I saw a man whom I
recognised as "Topper" Brown, our company runner, dashing as hard as he
could for the cover where we had sheltered.

"How do, corp?" he said when he came up. "Any of your blokes like to go
in a raffle for this watch?" (producing same). "'Arf a franc a time;
draw to-night in St. Quentin."--_S. Hills (late Rifle Brigade), 213,
Ripple Road, Barking._


Exit the General's Dessert

In the early part of the War we were dug in between the Marne and the
Aisne with H.Q. situated in a trench along which were growing several
fruit trees which the troops were forbidden to touch.

The Boche were shelling with what was then considered to be heavy
stuff, and we were all more or less under cover, when a large one hit
the back of the trench near H.Q.

After the mess staff had recovered from the shock it was noticed
that apples were still falling from a tree just above, and the mess
corporal, his ears and eyes still full of mud, was heard to say: "Thank
'eaven, I shan't have to climb that perishin' tree and get the old
man's bloomin' dessert to-night."--_E. Adamson, Overseas Club, St.
James's._


"Try on this Coat, Sir"

In September 1916, while with the 17th K.R.R.C., I lost my overcoat
in a billet fire at Mailly-Maillet and indented for a new one, which,
however, failed to turn up.

We moved to Hebuterne, where the line was very lively and the working
parties used to be strafed with "Minnies" all night.

One night, while on patrol, with nerves on the jump, I was startled to
hear a voice at my elbow say, "Try this on."

It was the Q.M.'s corporal with the overcoat!

I solemnly tried it on there and then in No Man's Land, about 300 yards
in front of our front line and not very far from the German line.

The corporal quite casually explained that he had some difficulty in
finding me out there in the dark, but he did not want the trouble of
carrying stuff out of the line when we moved!--_S. W. Chuckerbutty,
(L.R.B. and K.R.R.C.), 3 Maida Hill West, London, W.2._


On the Kaiser's Birthday

In the Brickstacks at Givenchy, 1916. The Germans were celebrating the
Kaiser's birthday by putting a steady succession of "Minnies" into and
around our front line trench.

Just when the strain was beginning to tell and nerves were getting
jumpy, a little Cockney corporal jumped on the fire-step and, shaking
his fist at the Germans forty yards away, bawled, "You wait till it's
_my_ ruddy birthday!"

Fritz didn't wait two seconds, but the little corporal had got his
laugh and wasn't taking a curtain.--_"Bison" (late R.W.F.)._


"Chuck us yer Name Plate!"

In June 1917 we were ordered to lay a line to the front line at "Plug
Street". Fritz started to bombard us with whizz-bangs, and my pal and
I took cover behind a heap of sandbags, noticing at the same time that
all the infantrymen were getting away from the spot.

When things quietened down we heard a Cockney voice shouting, "Hi,
mate! Chuck us yer name plate (identification disc). Y're sitting up
against our bomb store."--_S. Doust (late Signal Section, "F" Battery,
R.H.A.), 53 Wendover Road, Well Hall, Eltham, S.E.9._


To Hold His Hand

While on our way to relieve the 1st R.W.F.s, who were trying their
utmost to hold a position in front of Mametz Wood, it was necessary to
cross a road, very much exposed to Jerry's machine guns.

A burst of firing greeted our attempt, and when we succeeded, a Cockney
who had a flesh wound caused a smile by saying, "Go back? Not me. Next
time I crosses a road I wants a blinking copper ter 'old me 'and?"--_G.
Furnell, 57a Southwold Road, Upper Clapton, E.5._


The New Landlord

During an advance on the Somme in 1916 my company was rushed up to the
captured trenches to search the dug-outs and to bring in the prisoners.

My Cockney pal was evidently enjoying himself. As he went from one
dug-out to another he was singing:

    "Orl that I want is lo-ove,
     Orl that I want is yew."

Entering one dug-out, however, his voice suddenly changed. In the
dug-out were three Germans. Showing them the point of his bayonet,
the Cockney roared: "Nah, then, aht of it; 'op it. I'm lan'lord 'ere
nah."--_C. Grimwade, 26 Rotherhithe New Road, Rotherhithe, S.E.16._


"Out of Bounds" in the Line

One night in October '14, in the neighbourhood of Herlies, "Ginger," a
reservist, was sent out to call in the men of a listening post.

Dawn came, but no "Ginger" returned, and as he did not turn up during
the day he was given up for lost.

Soon after dusk, however, a very worn and fed-up "Ginger" returned. We
gathered that he had suddenly found himself in the German lines, had
had a "dust-up," had got away, and had lain out in No Man's Land until
dusk allowed him to get back.

The company officer was inclined to be cross with him, and asked him,
"But what made you go so far as the enemy position?"

"Ginger" scratched his head, and then replied, "Well, sir, nobody said
anyfink to me abaht it being aht o' bahnds."--_T. L. Barling (late
Royal Fusiliers), 21 Lockhart Street, Bow, E.3._


Epic of the Whistling Nine

On May 14, 1917, the 2/2nd Battalion of the London Regiment occupied
the support lines in front of Bullecourt. "A" company's position was
a thousand yards behind the front line trenches. At 2 p.m. the enemy
began to subject the whole area to an intense bombardment which lasted
more than thirteen hours.

In the middle of the bombardment (which was described by the
G.O.C.-in-Chief as "the most intense bombardment British troops had had
to withstand"), No. 3 platoon of "A" company was ordered to proceed to
the front line with bombs for the battalion holding it. The platoon
consisted of 31 N.C.O.s and men and one officer.

       *       *       *       *       *

The only means of communication between the support and front lines was
a trench of an average depth of two feet. Along this trench the platoon
proceeded, carrying between them forty boxes of Mills bombs. Every few
yards there were deep shell holes to cross; tangled telephone wires
tripped the men; M. G. bullets swept across the trench, and heavy
shells obtained direct hits frequently, while shrapnel burst overhead
without cessation.

A man was hit every few minutes; those nearest him rendered what aid
was possible, unless he was already dead; his bombs were carried on by
another.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of the thirty-one who started, twenty-one were killed or wounded; the
remainder, having taken an hour and a half to cover the 1,000 yards,
reached the front line _with the forty boxes of bombs intact_.

They were ordered to remain, and thus found themselves assisting in
repulsing an attack made by the 3rd Lehr Regiment of Prussian Guards,
and two of the men succeeded in wounding and capturing the commanding
officer of the attacking regiment.

Of the ten N.C.O.s and men who were left, a lance-corporal was blown
to pieces in the trench; the remainder stayed in the front line until
they were relieved four days later. On their way back, through Vaux
Vraucourt, they picked clusters of May blossom, and with these in
their equipment and rifle barrels, marched into the transport lines
whistling.--_Captain, London Regiment._


Tale of a Cook and a "Crump"

Our cook was having the time of his life. The transition from trench
warfare to more or less open warfare in late October 1918 brought with
it a welcome change of diet in the form of pigs and poultry from the
deserted farms, and cook had captured a nice young porker and two brace
of birds.

From the pleasant aroma which reached us from the cottage as we lay on
our backs watching a German aeroplane we knew that cook would soon be
announcing the feast was ready.

Suddenly from the blue came a roar like that of an express train. We
flung ourselves into the ditch.... _K-k-k-k-r-r-r-ump!_

When the smoke and dust cleared away the cottage was just a rubbish
heap, but there was cook, most miraculously crawling out from beneath a
debris of rafters, beams, and bricks!

"Ruddy 'orseplay!" was the philosopher's comment.--_I. O., 19 Burnell
Road, Sutton, Surrey._


"---- Returns the Penny"

When my husband commanded the 41st Division in France he was much
struck by the ready wit of a private of the Royal Fusiliers (City of
London Regiment) in a tight corner.

A bomb landed in a crowded dug-out while the men were having a meal.
Everyone stared aghast at this ball of death except one Tommy, who
promptly picked it up and flung it outside saying: "Grite stren'th
returns the penny, gentlemen!" as he returned to his bully beef.--_Lady
Lawford, London, S.W.1._


"In Time for the Workman's?"

A night wire-cutting party in the Arras sector had been surprised by
daylight. All the members of the party (21st London Regiment) crawled
back safely except one Cockney rifleman.

When we had reached the trenches and found that he was missing, we were
a bit upset. Would he have to lie out in No Man's Land all day? Would
he be spotted by snipers?

After a while our doubts were answered by a terrific burst from the
German machine guns. Some of the bolder spirits peered over the top of
the "bags" and saw our Cockney pal rushing, head down, towards our line
while streams of death poured around him.

He reached our parapet, fell down amongst us in the mud, uninjured,
and immediately jumped to his feet and said, "Am I in time for the
workman's?"--_D. F., Acton, W.3._


A Lovely Record

The Time: March 1916.

The Scene: The Talus des Zouaves--a narrow valley running behind Vimy
Ridge from Neuville St. Vaast through Souchez. The weather is bleak,
and there is a sticky drizzle--it is towards dusk.

The Man: A native of "somewhere just awf the 'Bricklayers Arms'--you
know where that is, sir." Height, just over 5 feet; complexion, red;
hair, red and not over tidy; appearance, awkward; clothes don't seem
to fit quite. Distinguishing marks--a drooping red moustache almost
concealing a short clay pipe, stuck bowl sideways in the corner of the
mouth. On the face there is a curious--whimsical--wistful, in fact, a
Cockney expression.

The Occasion: The Boche is putting down his evening "strafe"--an
intense and very accurate barrage laid like a curtain on the southern
slope of the valley. Our hero, his hands closed round the stock of
his rifle held between his knees, is squatting unconcernedly on the
wet ground in the open on the northern side of the valley, where only
a shell with a miraculous trajectory could have scored a direct hit,
watching the shells burst almost every second not a great distance
away. The din and pandemonium are almost unbearable. Fragments of H.E.
and shrapnel are dropping very near.

The Remark: Removing his pipe to reveal the flicker of a smile, he
remarked, in his inimitable manner: "_Lor' blimey, guv'nor, wouldn't
this sahnd orl rite on a grammerphone?_"--_Gordon Edwards, M.C.
(Captain, late S.W.B.), "Fairholm," 48 Alexandra Road, Wimbledon,
S.W.19._


Logic in No Man's Land

Fritz had been knocking our wire about, and a party of us were detailed
to repair it. One of our party, a trifle more windy than the rest, kept
ducking at the stray bullets that were whistling by. Finally, 'Erb,
who was holding the coil of wire, said to him, "Can't yer stop that
bobbin' abaht? They won't 'urt yer unless they 'its yer."--_C. Green,
44 Monson Road, New Cross, S.E.14._


Fousands ... and Millions

It was on the Mons-Condé Canal, on the afternoon of August 23, 1914.
Our artillery had just opened up when a tiny Cockney trumpeter, who
could not have been more than 15 years old, came galloping up to us
with a message.

[Illustration: "They're coming on in millions."]

"How are the gunners going on, boy?" said my captain.

"Knocking 'em down in fousands, sir," replied the lad.

"Good," said the captain.

"Yus, and they're coming on in millions," replied the boy as he rode
away to his battery.

A plucky kid, that.--_W. H. White, 29 Clive Road, Colliers Wood,
S.W.19._


Lost: A Front Line

Two or three American officers were attached to our brigade H.Q. on the
Somme front.

We were doing our usual four days in the front line when one morning
an American officer emerged from the communication trench. Just then
the Germans opened out with everything from a 5·9 to rifle grenade. We
squeezed into funk-holes in the bottom of the trench. Presently there
was a lull, and the American officer was heard to ask, "Say, boys,
where is the front line in these parts?"

"Tich," a little Cockney from Euston way, extracted himself from
the earth, and exclaimed, "Strike! j'ear that? Wot jer fink this
is--a blinkin' rifle range?"--_W. Wheeler (late 23rd Battalion Royal
Fusiliers), 55 Turney Road, Dulwich, S.E._


"If Our Typist Could See Me Nah"

Imagine (if you can) the mud on the Somme at its worst. A Royal Marine
Artilleryman (a very junior clerk from "Lambeff") was struggling up the
gentle slope behind Trones Wood with a petrol tin of precious water
in either hand. A number of us were admiring his manly efforts from a
distance when the sudden familiar shriek was heard, followed by the
equally familiar bang.

We saw him thrown to the ground as the whizz-bang burst but a few feet
from him, and we rushed down, certain that he had "got his." Imagine
our surprise on being greeted by an apparition that had struggled to
a sitting posture, liberally plastered with mud, and a wound in the
shoulder, who hoarsely chuckled and said: "If our typist could see me
_nah_!"--_C. H. F. (W/Opr. attached R.M.A. Heavy Brigade)._


Q! Q! Queue!

The scene was an observation post in the top of a (late) colliery
chimney, 130 ft. up, on the outskirts of Béthune, during the last
German offensive of the War.

A great deal of heavy shelling was in progress in our immediate
vicinity, and many of Fritz's "high-velocities" were screaming past our
lofty pinnacle, which was swaying with the concussion. At any moment a
direct hit was possible.

My Cockney mate had located a hostile battery, and after some
difficulty with the field telephone was giving the bearing to
headquarters.

Faults in the line seemed to prevent him from finishing his message,
which consisted of giving the map square (Q 20) being "strafed." The
"Q" simply would not reach the ears of the corporal at headquarters,
and after many fruitless efforts, using "Q" words, I heard him burst
out in exasperation: "Q! Q! Queue! ... Blimey! you know--the blinkin'
thing wot the pore blighters at home wite abaht for 'mawgarine'
in."--_B. W. Whayman (late F.S.C., R.E.), 24 Oxford Street, Boston,
Lincolnshire._


"Fine 'eads er Salery!"

We were in a deep railway cutting near Gouzeancourt. Jerry's aeroplanes
had found us and his artillery was trying to shift us.

On the third day we had run out of cigarettes, so the sergeant-major
asked for a volunteer to go to a canteen four miles away.

Our Cockney, a costermonger well known in the East End, volunteered.
He could neither read nor write, so we fixed him up with francs, a
sandbag, and a list.

Hours passed, the strafe became particularly heavy, and we began to
fear our old pal had been hit.

Suddenly during a lull in the shelling far away along the ravine we
heard a voice shouting, "Ere's yer fine 'eads er salery 'orl white." He
was winning through.--_"Sparks," Lowestoft, Suffolk._


The Old Soldier Falls

After my battalion had been almost wiped out in the 1918 retirement, I
was transferred to the 1st Batt. Middlesex Regt. One old soldier, known
to us as "Darky," who had been out since '14, reported at B.H.Q. that
he wanted to go up the front line with his old mates instead of resting
behind the line.

His wish was granted. He was detailed to escort a party of us to the
front line.

All went well till we arrived at the support line, where we were told
to be careful of snipers.

We had only gone 20 yards further when the old soldier fell back into
my arms, shot through the head. He was dying when he opened his eyes
and said to me, "Straight on, lad. You can find your way now."--_A. H.
Walker, 59 Wilberforce Road, Finsbury Park, N.4._


Not Meant For Him

At the end of September 1917 my regiment (5th Seaforth Highlanders)
were troubled by bombing raids by enemy aircraft at the unhealthy
regularity of one raid per hour. We were under canvas at Siege Camp,
in the Ypres sector, and being near to a battery of large guns we were
on visiting terms with some of the gunners, who were for the most part
London men.

A Lewisham man was writing a letter in our tent one day when we
again had the tip that the Germans were flying towards us. So we all
scattered.

After the raid we returned to our tent and were surprised to see our
artillery friend still writing his letter. We asked him whether he
had stayed there the whole time and in reply he read us the following
passage from his letter which he had written during the raid:

"As I write this letter Jerry is bombing the Jocks, but although I am
in their camp, being a Londoner, I suppose the raid is not meant for
me, and I feel quite safe."--_W. A. Bull, M.M., 62 Norman Road, llford,
Essex._


An Extra Fast Bowler

During the defence of Antwerp in October 1914 my chum, who was
wicket-keeper in the Corps cricket team, got hit in the head.

I was with him when he came to, and asked him what happened.

"Extra fast one on the leg side," was his reply.--_J. Russell (late
R.M.L.I.), 8 Northcote Road, Deal, Kent._


"I'll Call a Taxi, Sir"

During an engagement in East Africa an officer was badly wounded. Bill,
from Bermondsey, rode out to him on a mule. Whilst he was trying to get
the officer away on his mule the animal bolted. Bill then said, "Me
mule 'opped it, sir. 'E's a fousand miles from 'ere, so I'll giv yer a
lift on my Bill and Jack (back)."

The officer was too heavy, so Bill put him gently on the ground saying,
"Sorry, sir, I'll 'ave ter call a taxi." Bill then ran 500 yards under
heavy machine-gun fire to where the armoured cars were under cover. He
brought one out, and thereby saved the officer's life.

After the incident, Bill's attention was drawn to a bullet hole in his
pith helmet. "Blimey," he said, "what a shot! If he 'adn't a missed me,
'e'd a 'it me." Bill was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal.--_W.
B. Higgins, D.C.M. (late Corpl. Mounted Infantry), 46 Stanley Road,
Ilford._


Attack in "Birthday Clothes"

We came out of the line on the night of June 14-15, 1917, to "bivvies"
at Mory, after a hot time from both Fritz and weather at Bullecourt.
When dawn broke we were astonished and delighted to see a "bath."
Whilst we were in the line our Pioneers had a brain wave, dug a hole in
the ground, lined it with a tarpaulin sheet, and filled it with water.

As our last bath was at Achiet-le-Petit six weeks before, there was a
tremendous crowd waiting "mit nodings on," because there was "standing
room only" for about twenty in the bath.

Whilst ablutions were in progress an aeroplane was heard, but no
notice was taken because it was flying so low--"one of ours" everybody
thought. When it came nearer there was a shout, "Strewth, it's a Jerry
plane."

Baths were "off" for the moment and there was a stampede to the
"bivvies" for rifles. It was the funniest thing in the world to see
fellows running about in their "birthday suits" plus only tin hats,
taking pot shots at the aeroplane.

Even Fritz seemed surprised, because it was some moments before he
replied with his machine gun.

We watched him fly away back to his own lines and a voice broke the
silence with, "Blinkin' fools to put on our tin 'ats. Uvverwise 'ole
Fritz wouldn't a known but what we might be Germans."

I often wonder if any other battalion had the "honour" of "attacking
the enemy" clad only in tin hats.--_G. M. Rampton (late 12th London
Regt., "Rangers"), 43 Cromwell Road, Winchester._


His Good-bye to the Q.M.

Scene, Ypres, May 1915. The battalion to which I belonged had been
heavily shelled for many hours, and among the casualties was "Topper"
Brown, a Cockney, who was always in trouble for losing items of his
kit. Taken to the dressing station to have a badly shattered foot
amputated, he recovered consciousness to find the C.Q.M.S. standing by
the stretcher on which he lay.

The C.Q.M.S., not knowing the extent of Brown's injury, inquired,
"What's the trouble, Brown?"

In a weak voice the Cockney replied, "Lost one boot and one sock again,
Quarter."--_E. E. Daniels (late K.R.R.), 178 Caledonian Road, N.1._


From Bow and Harrow

We were in the line at Neuville St. Vaast in 1916. A raid had just been
carried out. In the party were two inseparable chums, one from Bow and
one from Harrow. (Of course they were known as Bow and Arrow.)

The bulk of the raiders had returned, but some were yet to come in.
Some time later three forms were seen crawling towards our line. They
were promptly helped in.

As their faces were blackened they were hard to recognise, and a
corporal asked them who they were.

"Don't yer know us?" said the chap from Bow. "We're Bow and Arrow."
"Blimey!" said another Cockney standing by. "And I suppose the other
bloke's Robin 'ood, aint 'e."--_G. Holloway (late London Regt. and 180
M.G.C.), 179 Lewis Buildings, West Kensington, W.14._


Piccadilly in the Front Line

Towards the end of September 1918 I was one of a party of nine men and
an officer taking part in a silent raid in the Ypres sector, a little
in front of the well-known spot called Swan and Edgar's Corner. The
raid was the outcome of an order from Headquarters demanding prisoners
for information.

Everything had been nicely arranged. We were to approach the German
line by stealth, surprise an outpost, and get back quickly to our own
trenches with the prisoners.

Owing perhaps to the wretchedness of the night--it was pouring with
rain, and intensely black--things did not work according to plan.
Instead of reaching our objective, our party became divided, and the
group that I was with got hopelessly lost. There were five of us,
including "Ginger," a Cockney.

We trod warily for about an hour, when we suddenly came up against a
barbed-wire entanglement, in the centre of which we could just make
out the figure of a solitary German. After whispered consultation, we
decided to take him prisoner, knowing that the German, having been
stationary, had not lost sense of direction and could guide us back
to our line. Noiselessly surmounting the barbed wire, we crept up to
him and in a second Ginger was on him. Pointing his bayonet in Fritz's
back, he said, "Nah, then, you blighter, show us the way 'ome."

Very coolly and without the slightest trace of fear, the German replied
in perfect English, "I suppose you mean me to lead you to the British
trenches."

"Oh!" said Ginger, "so yer speak English, do yer?"

"Yes," said the German, "I was a waiter at a restaurant in Piccadilly
before the War."

"Piccadilly, eh? You're just the feller we want. Take us as far as Swan
and Edgar's Corner."--_R. Allen (late Middlesex Regt., 41st Division),
7 Moreland Street, Finsbury Park, N.4._


"Wag's" Exhortation

On a bitterly cold night, with a thick fog settling, the Middlesex
Regt. set out on a raid on a large scale on the enemy's trenches.
Fritz must have got wind of it, for when they were about half-way
across the enemy guns opened fire and simply raked No Man's Land. The
air was alive with shrapnel and nearly two-thirds of the raiders were
casualties in no time.

Those that could tried to crawl back to our lines, but soon lost
all direction in the fog. About half a dozen of them crawled into a
shell-hole and lay there wounded or exhausted from their efforts, and
afraid to move while the bombardment continued.

Meanwhile "Wag" Bennett, a Cockney, though badly wounded, had dragged
himself out of a shell-hole, and was crawling towards what proved later
to be the enemy lines when he saw the forms of the other fellows in the
darkness. As he peered down upon them he called out, "Strike me pink!
Lyin' abaht dahn there as if you was at the 'Otel Cissle, while there's
a ruddy war agoin' on. Come on up aht of it, else you'll git us all a
bad name."

In a moment they were heartened, and they crawled out, following "Wag"
on their hands and knees and eventually regained our lines. Poor "Wag"
died soon afterwards from his wounds.--_H. Newing, 1 Park Cottages,
Straightsmouth, Greenwich, S.E.10._


Making a King of Him

Our company of the Middlesex Regiment had captured a hill from Johnny
Turk one evening, and at once prepared for the counter-attack on the
morrow. My platoon was busy making a trench. On the parapet we placed
large stones instead of sandbags.

During these operations we were greeted with machine-gun fire from
Johnny and, our numbers being small, we had to keep firing from
different positions so as to give the impression that we were stronger
than we really were.

It was while we were scrambling from one position to another that
"Smudger" Smith, from Hammersmith, said: "Love us, Sarge, 'ow's this
for a blinkin' game of draughts?" The words were hardly out of his
mouth when Johnny dropped a 5·9 about thirty yards away. The force of
the explosion shook one of the stones from the parapet right on to
"Smudger's" head, and he was knocked out.

When he came round his first words were: "Blimey, they must 'ave 'eard
me to crown me like that."--_W. R. Mills (late Sergt., 2/10th Middlesex
Regt.), 15 Canterbury Road, Colchester, Essex._


"Peace? Not wiv you 'ere!"

Two Cockney pals who were always trying to get the better of one
another in a battle of words by greeting each other with such remarks
as "Ain't you blinkin' well dead yet?" earned for themselves the
nick-names of Bill and Coo.

One evening they were sent to fetch water, and on the return journey
the Germans started to shell rather heavily.

Coo ran more quickly than Bill and fell into a shell-hole. He scrambled
out in time to see his pal blown sky high by what appeared to be a
direct hit.

Coo was heard to remark: "I always told 'im 'e ought to be reported
missing, and blimey if 'e ain't."

He then went to see if he could find the body: instead he found Bill
alive, though badly wounded.

When finally Coo got his pal back to the trench, Bill opened his eyes.
Seeing Coo bending over him, he said: "Lumme, I thought peace 'ad come
at last, but it ain't--not wiv you 'ere."--_William Walker, 30 Park
Road, Stopsley Road, Luton, Beds._


An Expert on Shells

We were billeted in the vaults of Ypres Post Office. Towards dusk of
a summer's day in 1916 four of us were lounging at the top of the
vault stairs, discussing the noise made by different shells. Jerry,
a Cockney, was saying, "Yes, yer can always tell big 'uns--they
shuffles," and went on to demonstrate with _Shsh-shsh-shsh_, when
someone said "Listen!"

There was the real sound, and coming straight for us. We dived or fell
to the bottom of the stairs. Followed a terrific "crump" right in the
entrance, which was completely blocked up.

Every candle and lamp was blown out; we were choking with dust and
showered with bricks and masonry.

There was a short silence, and Jerry's voice from the darkness said,
"There y'are; wot did I tell yer?"--_H. W. Lake, London._


A Camel "on the Waggon"

During the battle of Gaza in April 1917 camels were used for the
conveyance of wounded. Each camel carried a stretcher on either side
of its hump. Travelling in this manner was something akin to a rough
Channel crossing.

[Illustration: "I believe he was drunk before we set eyes on him."]

I was wounded in the leg. My companion was severely wounded in both
legs. Some very uncomplimentary remarks were passed between us
concerning camels, particularly the one which was carrying us.

When we arrived at a field dressing-station a sergeant of the R.A.M.C.
came along with liquid refreshments.

"Sergeant," said my chum, "if you give this bloke (indicating the
camel) anything to drink I'm going to walk, 'cos I believe the blighter
was drunk before we ever set eyes on him."--_Albert J. Fairall, 43
Melbourne Road, Leyton, E.10._


Parting Presents

It was on Passchendaele Ridge in 1917. Jerry had been giving us a hot
time with his heavies. Just before daybreak our telephone line went
west and we could not get through to our O.P.

I was detailed to go out and repair the line with a young Cockney from
Hackney. He had only been with us a few days and it was his first time
up the line.

We had mended one break when shells dropped all round us. When I got
to my feet, I saw my pal lying several feet away. I escaped with a few
splinters and shock. I dragged my chum to a shell-hole which was full
of water and found he was badly hit about the shoulder, chest, and leg.
I dressed him as best I possibly could, when, _bang_, a shell seemed
to drop right on us and something came hurtling into our hole with a
splash.

It turned out to be a duckboard. I propped my chum against it to stop
him slipping back into the water. After a few minutes he opened his
eyes, and though in terrible pain, smiled and said, "Lummy, Jeff, old
Jerry ain't so bad, after all. He has given me a nice souvenir to take
to Blighty and now he has sent me a raft to cross the Pond on." Then he
became unconscious.

It was now daybreak and quiet. I pulled him out of the hole and went
and repaired the line. We got him away all right, but I never heard
from him. I only hope he pulled through: he showed pluck.--_Signaller
H. Jeffrey (late Royal Artillery), 13 Bright Road, Luton, Chatham,
Kent._


Bluebottles and Wopses

We had just gone into the front line. Two of us had not been there
before.

During a conversation with a Cockney comrade, an old hand, we told him
of our dislike of bombs. He tried to re-assure us something like this:
"Nah, don't let them worry you. You treat 'em just like blue-bottles,
only different. With a blue-bottle you watch where it settles an' 'it
it, but with bombs, you watch where they're goin' to settle and 'op it.
It's quite simple."

A short time after a small German bomb came over and knocked out our
adviser. My friend and I picked him up and tried to help him. He was
seriously hurt. As we lifted him up my friend said to him, "You didn't
get your blue-bottle that time, did you?" He smiled back as he replied:
"'Twasn't a blue-bottle, mate; must 'ave been a blinkin' wopse."--_C.
Booth, 5 Creighton Road, N.W.6._


The Cheerful "Card"

On that June morning in 1917 when Messines Ridge went up, a young chap
was brought in to our A.D.S. in Woodcote Farm. A piece of shell had
torn a great gap in each thigh. Whilst the sergeant was applying the
iodine by means of a spray the M.O. asked, "How are things going this
morning?" The lad was wearing a red heart as his battalion sign, and
despite his great pain he answered: "O.K. sir. Hearts were trumps this
morning."--_R. J. Graff, 3/5th L.F.A., 47th Division, 20 Lawrie Park
Road, Sydenham._


Great Stuff This Shrapnel

During the retreat from Mons it was the cavalry's work to hold up the
Germans as long as possible, to allow our infantry to get in position.

One day we had a good way to run to our horses, being closely pursued
by the Germans. When we reached them we were all more or less out of
breath. A little Cockney was so winded that he could hardly reach his
stirrup, which kept slipping from under his foot.

Just then a shrapnel shell burst directly overhead, and the Cockney,
without using his stirrup, vaulted clean into the saddle.

As we galloped off he gasped, "Blimey, don't they put new life in yer?
They're as good as Kruschens."--_E. H. (late R.H.G.), 87 Alpha Road,
Surbiton, Surrey._


Wot a War!

Three of us were sitting on the high ground on the Gallipoli Beach
watching shells dropping from the Turk positions.

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.

[Illustration: "Tipperary!"]

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), 130 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._

[Illustration: "'Ope it don't rain; I'd get me 'ead wet."]


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.

"'Ere!" said "Smithy" in his rich Cockney voice. "J-just m-my m-mark.
I'd r-rather f-frow 'eggs' t-than light c-c-candles!"--_W. C. Roberts,
5 Crampton Street, S.E.17._


Sentry's Sudden Relief

I was the next turn on guard at a battery position in Armentières one
evening in the summer of 1917. A Cockney chum, whom I was going to
relieve, was patrolling the position when suddenly over came a 5·9,
which blew him about four yards away.

As he scrambled to his feet our sergeant of the guard came along,
and my chum's first words were, "Sorry, sergeant, for deserting me
post."--_T. F. Smithers (late R.F.A.), 14 Hilda Road, Brixton, S.W.9._


The World Kept Turnin'

The Poperinghe-Ypres road. A large shell had just pitched. Among the
wounded was a Cockney who was noted for his rendering on every possible
occasion of that well-known song, "Let the Great Big World Keep
Turning."

He was lying on the roadway severely hurt. Another Cockney went up to
him and said "'Ello, matey, 'urt? Why ain't yer singin' 'Let the Great
Big World Keep Turnin',' eh?"

The reply came: "I _was_ a singin' on it, Bill, but I never thought it
would fly up and 'it me."--_Albert M. Morsley (late 85th Siege Battery
Am. Col.), 198 Kempton Road, East Ham, E.6._


That Blinkin' "Money-box"

I was limping back with a wounded knee after the taking of
Monchy-le-Preux on April 11, 1917, when a perky little Cockney of
the 13th Royal Fusiliers who had a bandaged head caught me up with a
cheery, "Tike me Chalk Farm (arm), old dear, and we'll soon be 'ome."

I was glad to accept his kindly offer, but our journey, to say the
least, was a hazardous one, for the German guns, firing with open
sights from the ridge in front of the Bois du Sart, were putting
diagonal barrages across the road (down which, incidentally, the
Dragoon Guards were coming magnificently out of action, with saddles
emptying here and there as they swept through that deadly zone on that
bleak afternoon).

Presently we took refuge in a sandbag shelter on the side of the road,
and were just congratulating ourselves on the snugness of our retreat,
when a tank stopped outside. Its arrival brought fresh gun-fire on us,
and before long a whizz-bang made a direct hit on our shelter.

When we recovered from the shock, we found part of our roof missing,
and my little pal, poking his bandaged head through the hole, thus
addressed one of the crew of the tank who was just visible through a
gun slit:

"Oi, why don't yer tike yer money-box 'ome? This ain't a pull-up fer
carmen!"

The spirit that little Cockney imbued into me that day indirectly
saved me the loss of a limb, for without him I do not think I would
have reached the advance dressing station in time.--_D. Stuart (late
Sergeant, 10th R.F., 37th Division) 103 St. Asaph Road, Brockley,
S.E.4._


"Oo, You Naughty Boy!"

In front of Kut Al-'Amarah, April 1916, the third and last attack
on the Sannaiyat position, on the day before General Townshend
capitulated. Days of rain had rendered the ground a quagmire, and lack
of rations, ammunition, and shelter had disheartened the relief force.

The infantry advanced without adequate artillery support, and were
swept by heavy machine-gun fire from the entrenched Turks. One fellow
tripped over a strand of loose barbed wire, fell down, and in rising
ripped the seat nearly off his shorts. Cursing, he rejoined the slowly
moving line of advancing men.

Suddenly one sensed one of those fateful moments when men in the mass
are near to breaking point. Stealthy looks to right and left were
given, and fear was in the men's hearts. The relentless tat-tat-tat of
machine guns, the "singing" of the driven bullets, and the dropping of
men seemed as if it never would end.

A Cockney voice broke the fear-spell and restored manhood to men. "Oo,
'Erbert, you naughty boy!" it said. "Look at what you've done to yer
nice trahsers! 'Quarter' won't 'arf be cross. He said we wasn't to play
rough games and tear our trahsers."--_L. W. Whiting (late 7th Meerut
Division), 21 Dale Park Avenue, Carshalton, Surrey._


Cool as a Cucumber

Early in 1917 at Ypres I was in charge of part of the advance party
taking over some trenches from another London battalion. After this
task had been completed I was told of a funny incident of the previous
night.

It appeared that the battalion we were due to relieve had been
surprised by a small party of the enemy seeking "information." During
the mêlée in the trench a German "under-officer" had calmly walked over
and picked up a Lewis gun which had been placed on a tripod on top
of the trench some little distance from its usual emplacement. (This
was done frequently when firing at night was necessary so as to avoid
betraying the regular gun position.)

A boyish-looking sentry of the battalion on the left jumped out of the
trench and went after the Jerry who was on his way "home" with the
gun in his arms. Placing his bayonet in dangerous proximity to the
"under-officer's" back, the young Cockney exclaimed, "Hi! Where the
'ell are yer goin' wiv that gun? Just you put the 'coocumber' back on
the 'barrer' and shove yer blinkin' 'ands up!"

The "under-officer" lost his prize and his liberty, and I understand
the young sentry received the M.M.--_R. McMuldroch (late 15th London
Regt., Civil Service Rifles), 13 Meadway, Bush Hill Park, Enfield._


The Sergeant's Tears

One afternoon on the Somme our battery received a severe strafe from
5·9's and tear-gas shells. There was no particular "stunt" on, so we
took cover in a trench behind the guns.

When the strafe had finished, we found our gun resting on one wheel,
with sights and shield smashed by a direct hit. There was tear gas
hanging about, too, and we all felt anything but cheerful.

Myself and detachment were solemnly standing around looking at the
smashed gun, and as I was wiping tears from my eyes, Smithy, our bright
Walworth lad, said: "Don't cry, Sarg'nt, they're bahnd ter give us
anuvver."--_E. Rutson (late Sergeant, R.F.A., 47th London Division),
43a Wardo Avenue, S.W.6._


"But yer carn't 'elp Laughin'"

There were a bunch of us Cockneys in our platoon, and we had just
taken over some supports. It being a quiet sector, we were mooning and
scrounging around, some on the parapet, some in the trenches, and some
at the rear.

All at once a shower of whizz-bangs and gas shells came over; our
platoon "sub." started yelling "Gas." We dived for the dug-outs.

Eight of us tried to scramble through a narrow opening at once, and we
landed in a wriggling mass on the floor. Some were kneeling and some
were sitting, all with serious faces, until one fellow said: "Phew,
it's 'ell of a war, but yer carn't 'elp laughin', can yer?"--_B. J.
Berry (late 9th Norfolk Regt.), 11 Rosemont Avenue, N. Finchley, N.12._


"Only an Orphan"

He came to the battalion about three weeks before going overseas, and
fell straight into trouble. But his Cockney wit got him out of trouble
as well as into it.

He never received a parcel or letter, but still was always the life of
our company. He never seemed to have a care.

We had been in France about a fortnight when we were ordered to the
front line and over the top. He was one of the first over, shouting
"Where's the blighters." They brought him in riddled with bullets.

When I asked if I could do anything for him, he said: "Are there many
hurt?" "Not many," I replied. "Thank Heaven for that," he replied.
"Nobody 'll worry over me. I'm only a blinkin' orphan."--_W. Blundell
(late N.C.O., 2nd East Surreys), Cranworth Gardens, S.W.9._


Joking at the Last

It was after the attack by the 2nd Londons on the village of Aubigny au
Bac. I was hit by shell splinters, and whilst I was looking for someone
to dress my wounds I came across one of the lads lying by the roadside
mortally wounded.

As I bent over him to give him a drink he noticed my blood-streaked
face and gasped: "Crikey! Your barber was blinkin' clumsy this
morning." So passed a gallant 2nd London man.--_E. C. Easts (M.M.),
Eliot Place, Blackheath, S.E.3._


Everybody's War

During the general advance on the Somme in August 1918 our platoon
became isolated from the rest of the company.

We had been under heavy shell-fire for about three hours, and when at
last things seemed to have quietened down, a German plane came over. We
immediately jumped for cover and were concealed from view.

The plane had only circled round a couple of times when a Cockney
private, unable to resist the temptation any longer, jumped up and had
a pot at it.

He had fired three rounds when the N.C.O. pulled him down and called
him a fool for giving away our position.

The Cockney turned round and replied, "Blimey, ain't I in this blinkin'
war as well as 'im?"--_E. Purcell (late 9th Royal Fusiliers), 4
Lyndhurst Grove, Peckham, S.E.15._


Orders is Orders

When I was with the 6th Dorsets at Hooge, a party of us under a Cockney
lance-jack were sent down the Menin Road to draw rations. It seemed as
though the Germans knew we were waiting at the corner, for they were
dropping shells all around us.

After a while a voice in the darkness cried: "Don't stay there, you
chaps; that's Hell Fire Corner!"

"Can't 'elp it, guv'nor," replied our lance-jack. "'Ell Fire Corner or
'Eaven's Delight, we gotta stop 'ere till our rations comes up."--_H.
W. Butler (late 6th Dorsets), 2 Flint Cottages, Stone, Kent._


Leaving the Picture

As we were going "over" at Passchendaele a big one dropped just behind
our company runner and myself. Our runner gave a shout and stumbling on
a little way, with his hand on his side, said: "Every picture tells a
story"--and went down.

I just stopped to look at him, and I am sorry to say his war had
finished. He came from Bow.--_G. Hayward (late Rifle Brigade), Montague
Street, W.C.1._


Ginger's Gun Stopped

I was in a Lewis gun section, and our sergeant got on our nerves while
we were learning the gun by always drumming in our ears about the
different stoppages of the gun when in action. My mate, Ginger Bryant,
who lived at Stepney, could never remember the stops, and our sergeant
was always rousing poor old Ginger.

Well, we found ourselves one day in the front line and Jerry had
started an attack. Ginger was No. 1 on the gun and I was lying beside
him as No. 2. We were giving Jerry beans with our gun when a bomb hit
it direct and blew Ginger and myself yards away.

Ginger had his hand blown off, but crawled back to the gun, which was
smashed to pieces. He gave one look at it and shouted to me: "Nah go
and ask that blinkin' sergeant what number stoppage he calls this one!"
Next thing he fainted.--_Edward Newson (late 1st West Surrey), 61
Moneyer Street, Hoxton, N.1._


A Careless Fellow

An officer with our lot was a regular dare-devil. He always boasted
that the German bullet had not yet been made which could find him.

One day, regardless of his own safety, he was on the parapet, and
though many shots came over he seemed to bear a charmed life.

One of the men happened to put his head just out of the trench when a
bullet immediately struck his "tin hat" sending him backwards into the
trench.

The officer, from the parapet, looked down and said, "You _are_ a
fool, I told you not to show yourself."--_A. Smith (Cameronians), 40
Whitechapel Road, E.1._


Standing Up to the Turk

In the second attempt to capture Gaza we were making our advance in
face of heavy machine-gun fire. In covering the ground we crouched
as much as possible, the Turks directed their fire accordingly, and
casualties were numerous, so our Cockney humorist shouted: "Stand up,
boys. It's best to be hit in yer props (legs) than in yer blinkin'
office (head)."--_W. Reed (late 7th Battn., Essex Regiment), 3
Shenfield Road, Woodford Green, Essex._


Lodging with the Bombs

I was driving a lorry along the road from Dickebusch to Ypres when the
Germans started shelling with shrapnel and high explosive.

By the side of the road was a cottage, partly ruined, with the
window-space boarded up: and, with some idea of seeking protection from
the flying fragments, I leaned up against one of the walls.

I hadn't been there long when a face appeared at a gap in the boards,
and a voice said: "Do yer fink y're safe there, mate, cos we're chock
full o' bombs in 'ere."--_Edward Tracey, c/o Cowley Cottage, Cowley,
Middlesex._


In Fine Feather

While on the Somme in 1916 my battery was sent to rest in a village
behind the line. The billet allotted to us had been an hotel, and all
the furniture, including bedsteads and feather mattresses, had been
stored in the room which did duty as an orderly room.

Returning one day from exercise, we saw a flight of enemy 'planes
coming over, and as we approached the billet a bomb was dropped
straight through the roof of our building, the sole occupant of which
at the time was a Cockney signaller on duty, in touch with Brigade
Headquarters.

[Illustration: "They must 'ave 'it a blinkin' sparrer."]

We hurried forward, expecting to find that our signaller had been
killed. The orderly room was a scene of indescribable chaos. Papers
were everywhere. Files and returns were mixed up with "iron rations,"
while in a corner of the room was a pile of feathers about 4 feet
deep--all that remained of the feather mattresses. Of our signaller
there was no sign.

As we looked around, however, his head appeared from beneath the
feather pile. His face was streaming with blood, and he looked more
dead than alive, but as he surveyed his temporary resting-place, a grin
spread over his features, and he picked up a handful of feathers.

"Blimey!" he observed, "they must 'ave 'it a blinkin'
sparrer."--_"Gunner," Oxford Street, W.1._


All the Fun of the Fair

At Neuve Eglise, March 1918, we were suddenly attacked by Jerry, but
drove him back. Every now and again we spotted Germans dodging across a
gap in a hedge. At once a competition started as to who could catch a
German with a bullet as he ran across the gap.

"Reminds me of shooting at the bottles and fings at the fair," said my
pal, another Cockney Highlander.

A second later a piece of shrapnel caught him in the hand. "Blimey, I
always said broken glass was dangerous," he remarked as he gazed sadly
at the wound.--_F. Adams (late H.L.I.), 64 Homestead Road, Becontree,
Essex._


Teacup in a Storm

We were in support trenches near Havrincourt Wood in September 1917. At
mid-day it was exceptionally quiet there as a rule.

Titch, our little Cockney cook, proceeded one day to make us some tea
by the aid of four candles in a funk-hole. To aid this fire he added
the usual bit of oily "waste," and thereby caused a thin trail of smoke
to rise. The water was just on the boil when Jerry spotted our smoke
and let fly in its direction everything he had handy.

Our trench was battered flat.... We threw ourselves into a couple of
old communication trenches. Looking around presently for our cook
we found him sitting beneath a waterproof sheet calmly enjoying his
sergeant-major's tea. "Ain't none of you blokes firsty?" was his
greeting.--_R. J. Richards (late 61st Trench Mortar Battery, 20th
London Division), 15 London Street, W.2._


Jack's Unwelcome Present

Our company were holding the line, or what _was_ a line of trenches a
short time before, when Jerry opened out with all kinds of loudspeakers
and musical instruments that go to make war real.

We were knocked about and nearly blinded with smoke and flying
sandbags. The best we could do was to grope our way about with arms
outstretched to feel just where we were.

Eventually someone clutched me, saying, "Is that you, Charlie--are you
all right?"

"Yes, Jack," I answer, "are you all right?"

"Well, I don't know fer sure," he says as he dives his hand through
his tunic to his chest and holds on to me with the other. I had a soft
place in my heart for Jack, for nobody ever sent him a parcel, so what
was mine was Jack's. But not the piece of shrapnel that came out when
he withdrew his hand from inside his tunic!

"The only thing that ever I had sent me--and that from Jerry!" says
Jack. "We was always taught to love our enemies!"

They sure loved us, for shortly after I received my little gift of
love, which put me to by-by for several months. But that Cockney lad
from East London never grumbled at his hard lot. He looked at me,
his corporal, and no wonder he clung round my neck, for he has told
me since the war that he was only sixteen then. A brave lad!--_D. C.
Maskell (late 20th Battn. Middlesex Regt.), 25 Lindley Road, Leyton,
E.10_.


Goalie Lets One Through

In September 1916 we landed in a portion of German trench and I was
given orders to hang on. Shells were bursting all around us, so we
decided to have a smoke.

My two Cockney pals--Nobby and Harry, who were a goalie and
centre-forward respectively--were noted for their zeal in keeping us
alive.

Nobby was eager to see what was going on over the top, so he had a
peep--and for his pains got shot through the ear. He fell back in a
heap and exclaimed, "Well saved, goalie! Couldn't been better if I'd
tried."

"Garn," said Harry, bending over him, "it's blinkin' well gorn right
frew, mate."--_Patrick Beckwith, 5 Duke Road, Chiswick, W.4._


A Good Samaritan Foiled

I was rather badly wounded near Bullecourt, on the Arras front, and was
lying on a stretcher outside the dressing station.

Nearby stood a burly Cockney with one arm heavily bandaged. In the
other hand he held his ration of hot coffee.

Noticing my distress, he offered me his drink, saying, "'Ere y'are,
mate, 'ave a swig at this." One of the stretcher-bearers cried: "Take
that away! He mustn't have it!"

The Cockney slunk off.

"All right, ugly," he said. "Take the food aht of a poor bloke's mouf,
would yer?"

Afterwards I learned the stretcher-bearer, by his action, had saved my
life. Still, I shan't forget my Cockney friend's generosity.--_A. P. S.
(late 5th London Regiment), Ilford._


Proof of Marksmanship

Poperinghe: a pitch-black night. We were resting when a party of the
West Indian Labour Company came marching past. Jerry sent one over.
Luckily, only one of the party was hit.

A voice from the darkness: "Alf! keep low, mate. Jerry 'as got his eye
in--'e's 'it a nigger in the dark!"--_C. Jakeman (late 4/4th City of
London Royal Fusiliers), 5 Hembridge Place, St. John's Wood, N.W.8._


"Well, He Ain't Done In, See!"

During the great German offensive in March 1918 our company was trying
to hold the enemy at Albert. My platoon was in an old trench in front
of Albert station, and was in rather a tight corner, the casualties
being pretty heavy. A runner managed to get through to us with a
message. He asked our sergeant to send a man to another platoon with
the message.

One of my pals, named Gordon, shouted, "Give it to me; I'll go."

He crept out of the trench and up a steep incline and over the other
side, and was apparently being peppered by machine-gun fire all the
way. We had little hope of him ever getting there. About a couple of
hours later another Cockney cried: "Blimey! He's coming back!"

We could see him now, crawling towards us. He got within a dozen yards
of our trench, and then a Jerry "coal-box" arrived. It knocked us into
the mud at the bottom of our trench and seemed to blow Gordon, together
with a ton or so of earth, twenty feet in the air, and he came down in
the trench.

"That's done the poor blighter in," said the other Cockney as we rushed
to him. To our surprise Gordon spoke:

"Well, he ain't done in--see!"

He had got the message to the other platoon, and was little the worse
for his experience of being blown skyward. I think that brave fellow's
deed was one of many that had to go unrewarded.--_H. Nachbaur (late 7th
Suffolks), 4 Burnham Road, St. Albans, Herts._


"Baby's Fell Aht er Bed!"

The day before our division (38th Welch) captured Mametz Wood on the
Somme, in July 1916, our platoon occupied a recently captured German
trench. We were examining in a very deep dug-out some of Jerry's
black bread when a heavy shell landed almost at the entrance with a
tremendous crash. Earth, filled sandbags, etc., came thundering down
the steps, and my thoughts were of being buried alive about forty feet
underground. But amid all the din, Sam (from Walworth) amused us with
his cry: "Muvver! Baby's fell aht er bed!"--_P. Carter (late 1st London
Welch), 6 Amhurst Terrace, Hackney, E.8._


Stamp Edging Wanted

During severe fighting in Cambrai in 1917 we were taking up position
in the front line when suddenly over came a "present" from Jerry,
scattering our men in all directions and causing a few casualties.

Among the unfortunate ones was a Cockney whose right hand was
completely blown off.

In a sitting position he calmly turned to the private next to him and
exclaimed "Blimey, they've blown me blinkin' German band (hand) off.
Got a bit of stamp edging, mate?"--_T. Evans, 24 Russell Road, Wood End
Green, Northolt, Greenford._


"Oo's 'It--You or Me?"

It was our fifth day in the front line in a sector of the Arras front.
In the afternoon, after a terrible barrage, Jerry came over the top on
our left, leaving our immediate front severely alone.

Our platoon Lewis gun was manned at that time by "Cooty," a Cockney, he
being "Number One" on the gun. We were blazing away at the advancing
tide when a shell exploded close to the gun.

"Cooty" was seen to go rigid for a moment, and then he quickly rolled
to one side to make way for "Number Two" to take his place. He took
"Number Two's" position beside the gun.

The new "Number One" saw that "Cooty" had lost three fingers, and told
him to retire. "Cooty" would not have that, but calmly began to refill
an empty magazine. "Number One" again requested him to leave, and a
sharp tiff occurred between them.

"Cooty" was heard to say, "Look 'ere, oo's _'it_--you or me?" "You
are," said "Number One."

"Then mind your own blinkin' business," said "Cooty," "and get on with
shelling these peas."

Poor "Cooty," who had lost his left foot as well, passed out shortly
after, was a Guardsman at one time.--_D. S. T., Kilburn, N.W._


The Stocking Bomb

We were a desert mobile column, half-way across the Sinai Peninsula
from Kantara to Gaza. Turkish aeroplanes paid us a daily visit and
pelted us with home-made "stocking-bombs" (old socks filled with nails,
old iron, and explosives).

On this particular day we were being bombed and a direct hit on one
gunner's shoulder knocked him to the ground, but failed to explode.

Sitting up in pain he blinked at the stocking-bomb and then at the
plane and shouted: "Nah chuck us yer blinkin' boots dahn!" He then
fainted and we helped him, but could not resist a broad smile.--_A.
Crose, 77 Caistor Park Road, West Ham, E.15._


Not an Acrobat

In a communication trench on the Somme, near Guillemont, in August
1916, we were halted for a "blow" on our way up when Jerry opened with
shrapnel.

Private Reynolds, from Marylebone, had his right hand cut off at the
wrist. We bound his arm as best we could, and whilst doing so one man
said to him, "A sure Blighty one, mate--and don't forget when you get
home, drop us a line to let's know how you are getting on in hospital."

"Yus! I'll write all right," said Reynolds, and then, suddenly, "'Ere,
wot d'yer fink I am, a blinkin' acrobat? 'Ow can I write wivout a right
arm ter write wiv?"--_A. Sharman (late 12th Royal Fusiliers), 177
Grenville Road, N.W.2._


Story Without an Ending

Our gun position lay just behind the Ancre, and Fritz generally strafed
us for an hour or two each day, starting about the same time. When the
first shell came over we used to take cover in a disused trench.

One day, when the strafe began, I grabbed two story magazines just
before we went to the trench, and, arrived there, handed one to my
Cockney pal.

We had both been reading for some time when a shell burst uncomfortably
near, and a splinter hit my pal's book and shot it right out of his
hand. At which he exclaimed: "Fritz, yer blighter, I'll never know nah
whether he was goin' to marry the girl or cut 'er bloomin' froat."--_G.
W. Wicheloe (late 138th Heavy Battery, R.G.A.), 162 Stevens Road,
Chadwell Heath, Essex._


Cause and Effect

A 5·9 had burst on the parados of our trench, and caused--as 5·9's
usually did--a bit of a mess.

A brand-new officer came around the trench, saw the damage, and asked:
"Whatever caused this mess?"

Without the slightest suspicion of a smile a Cockney private answered:
"An explosive bullet, sir!"--_C. T. Coates, 46 Hillingdon Street,
London, S.E.17._

[Illustration: "... an explosive bullet, sir!"]


The Cockney and the Cop

During the final push near Cambrai Jerry had just been driven from a
very elaborate observation post--a steel-constructed tower. Of course,
we soon occupied it to enable us to see Jerry's hasty retreat.

No sooner had we got settled when, crash, Jerry had a battery of
pipsqueaks trained on us, firing gas shells. A direct hit brought the
building down.

By the time we had sorted ourselves out our eyes began to grow dim,
and soon we were temporarily blind. So we took each other's hands, an
ex-policeman leading.

After a few moments a Cockney friend chimed out, "Say, Cop, do you
think you can find the lock-up now, or had you better blow your
whistle?"--_H. Rainford (late R.F.A.), 219 The Grove, Hammersmith,
W.6._


In the Drorin' Room

It was on "W" Beach, Gallipoli, some months after the historic landing.
It was fairly safe to picnic here, but for the attentions of "Beachy
Bill," a big Turkish gun. I was with six other R.F.A. details in a
dug-out which was labelled, or rather libelled, "The Ritz."

"Smiler" Smith gave it that name, and always referred to this verminous
hovel in terms of respect. Chalked notices such as "Wait for the Lift,"
"Card Room," "Buffet," were his work.

A dull thud in the distance--the familiar scream--and _plomp_ came one
from "Bill," a few yards from the Ritz. Only "Smiler" was really hurt.
He received a piece of shell on his arm. As they carried him away, he
called faintly for his tobacco tin.

"Where did you leave it, 'Smiler'?"

"In the drorin' room on the grand pianner," said "Smiler"
faintly.--_Gunner W. (late 29th Division, R.F.A.)._


Getting His Goat

Sandy was one of those whom nature seemed to have intended for a girl.
Sandy by colour, pale and small of features, and without the sparkling
wit of his Cockney comrades, he was the butt of many a joke.

One dark and dirty night we trailed out of the line at Vermelles and
were billeted in a barn. The farmhouse still sheltered its owner and
the remainder of his live-stock, including a goat in a small shed.

"Happy" Day, having discovered the goat, called out, "Hi, Sandy!
There's some Maconochie rations in that 'ere shed. Fetch 'em in, mate."

Off went Sandy, to return hastily with a face whiter than usual, and
saying in his high treble: "'Appy, I can't fetch them. There's two
awful eyes in that shed."

Subsequently Jerry practically obliterated the farm, and when we
returned to the line "Happy" Day appropriated the goat as a mascot.

We had only been in the line a few hours when we had the worst
bombardment I remember. Sandy and the goat seemed kindred spirits in
their misery and terror.

"Happy" had joined the great majority. The goat, having wearied of
trench life and army service, had gone over the top on his own account.
The next thing we knew was that Sandy was "over" after him, shells
dropping around them. Then the goat and "Sandy Greatheart" disappeared
behind a cloud of black and yellow smoke.--_S. G. Bushell (late Royal
Berks), 21 Moore Buildings, Gilbert Street, W._


Jennie the Flier

It was my job for about two months, somewhere in the summer of 1917, to
take Jennie the mule up to the trenches twice a day with rations, or
shells, for the 35th Trench Mortar Battery, to which I was attached. We
had to cover about 5 kilos. from the Q.M. stores at Rouville, Arras,
to the line. When Jerry put a few over our way it was a job to get
Jennie forward.

One night we arrived with a full load, and the officer warned me to get
unloaded quick as there was to be a big bombardment. No sooner had I
finished than over came the first shell--and away went Jennie, bowling
over two or three gunners.

Someone caught her and I mounted for the return journey. Then the
bombardment began in earnest.

You ought to have seen her go! Talk about a racehorse! I kept saying,
"Gee up, Jennie, old girl, don't get the wind up, we shall soon get
back to Rouville!"

I looked round and could see the flashes of the guns. That was the way
to make Jennie go. She never thought of stopping till we got home.--_W.
Holmes (9th Essex Regiment), 72 Fleet Road, Hampstead, N.W._


A Mission Fulfilled

On August 28, 1916, we were told to take over a series of food dumps
which had been formed in the front and support lines at Hamel, on the
Ancre, before a general attack came off.

On the following night Corporal W----, a true and gallant Cockney
who was in charge of a party going back to fetch rations, came to my
dug-out to know if there were anything special I wished him to bring.

I asked him to bring me a tin of cigarettes. On the return journey,
as the party was crossing a road which cut through one of the
communicating trenches, a shell struck the road, killing two privates
and fatally wounding Corporal W----.

Without a word the corporal put his hand into his pocket and, producing
a tin, held it out to an uninjured member of the party.

I got my smokes.--_L. J. Morgan (late Capt., The Royal Sussex
Regiment), 1 Nevern Square, S.W.5._


He Saved the Tea

On the night before our big attack on July 1, 1916, on the Somme, eight
of us were in a dug-out getting a little rest. Jerry must have found
some extra shells for he was strafing pretty heavily.

Two Cockney pals from Stratford were busy down on their hands and knees
with some lighted grease and pieces of dry sandbag, trying to boil a
mess-tin of water to make some tea.

The water was nearly on the boil when Jerry dropped a "big 'un" right
into the side of our dug-out.

The smoke and dust had hardly cleared, when one of the Stratfordites
exclaimed, looking down at the overturned mess-tin, "Blimey, that's
caused it." Almost immediately his pal (lying on his back, his face
covered with blood and dirt, and his right hand clasped tightly)
answered: "'S'all right. I ain't put the tea and sugar in."--_J. Russ
(Cpl., late 6th Battn. Royal Berkshire Regt.), 309 Ilford Lane, Ilford,
Essex._


Old Dutch Unlucky

After a week in Ypres Salient in February 1915 we were back at a place
called Vlamertinghe "resting," i.e. providing the usual working parties
at night. Going out with one of these parties, well loaded with barbed
wire, poles, etc., our rifles slung on our shoulders, things in general
were fairly quiet. A stray bullet struck the piling swivel of the rifle
of "Darkie," the man in front of me. "Missed my head by the skin of its
teeth," said "Darkie." "Good job the old Dutch wasn't here. She reckons
she's been unlucky ever since she set eyes on me--and there's another
pension for life gone beggin'."--_B. Wiseman (late Oxford and Bucks
L.I.), 12 Ursula Street, Battersea, S.W.11._


A Long Streak of Misery

Dusk was falling on the second day of the battle of Loos. I was
pottering about looking for the other end of our line at the entrance
to Orchard Street trench. A voice hailed me: "'Ere, mate! Is this the
way aht?"

It came from a little Cockney, a so-called "walking" wounded case.
Immediately behind him there hobbled painfully six feet of complete
abjection.

I gave them directions, and told them that in two or three hundred
yards they should be out of danger. Then Jerry dropped a "crump." It
tortured the sorely-tried nerves of the long fellow, and when the
bricks and dust had settled, he declared, with sudden conviction:
"We're going to lose this blinkin' war, we are!"

His companion gave him a look of contempt.

"You ain't 'arf a long streak of misery," he said. "If I fort that I'd
go back nah an' 'ave another shot at 'em--even if you 'ad to carry me
back."--_"Lines," (33 (S) Bty), 24 Clifton Road, Maida Vale, W.9._


"Smudger's" Tattoo

"Smudger" Smith, from Hoxton, had just returned off leave, and joined
us at Frankton Camp, near Ypres. Not long after his arrival "Jerry"
started strafing us with his long-range guns, but "Smudger" was more
concerned with the tattooing which he had had done on his arms on leave.

I said they were very disfiguring, and advised him to have them
removed, giving him an address to go to when he was again in London,
and telling him the probable price.

Not very long after our conversation "Jerry" landed a shell about forty
yards away from us and made us part company for a while. When I pulled
myself together and looked for "Smudger" he was half-buried with earth
and looked in much pain.

I went over to him and began to dig him out. Whilst I was thus engaged
he said to me in a weak voice, but with a smile on his face:

"How much did yer say it would corst to take them tattoos orf?" And
when I told him he replied: "I fink I can get 'em done at harf-price
nah."

When I dug him out I found he had lost one arm.--_E. R. Wilson (late
East Lancs Regt.), 22 Brindley Street, Shardeloes Road, New Cross,
S.E.14._


Importance of a "Miss"

Soon after the capture of Hill 70 an artillery observation post was
established near the new front line. A telephone line was laid to it,
but owing to persistent shelling the wire soon became a mere succession
of knots and joints. Communication was established at rare intervals,
and repairing the line was a full-time job. A Cockney signaller and I
went out at daybreak one morning to add more joints to the collection,
and after using every scrap of spare wire available made another
temporary job of it.

Returning, however, we found at a cross-over that the wire had fallen
from a short piece of board that had been stuck in the parapet to keep
it clear of the trench. As my pal reached up to replace it his head
caught the eye of a sniper, whose bullet, missing by a fraction, struck
and knocked down the piece of wood.

The signaller's exclamation was: "Blimey, mate, it's lucky he ain't
broke the blinkin' line again!"--_J. Hudson (late R.G.A.), 6 Ventnor
Road, New Cross, S.E.14._


"In the Midst of War----"

A battalion of a London regiment was in reserve in Rivière-Grosville, a
small village just behind the line, in March 1917. Towards midnight we
were ordered to fall in in fighting order as it was believed that the
Germans had retired.

Our mission was to reconnoitre the German position, and we were
cautioned that absolute silence must be preserved.

All went well until we reached the German barbed wire entanglements,
that had to be negotiated by narrow paths, through which we proceeded
softly and slowly, and with the wind "well up."

Suddenly the air was rent by a stream of blistering invective, and a
Cockney Tommy turned round on his pal, who had tripped and accidentally
prodded him with the point of his bayonet, and at the top of his voice
said:

"Hi, wot's the blinkin' gime, Charlie? Do that again and I'll knock yer
ruddy 'ead off."

Charlie raised his voice to the level of the other's and said he'd
like to see him do it, and while we flattened ourselves on the ground
expecting a storm of bullets and bombs at any moment, the two pals
dropped their rifles and had it out with their fists.

Fortunately, rumour was correct, the Germans had retired.--_H. T.
Scillitoe, 77 Stanmore Road, Stevenage, Herts._


A Case for the Ordnance

A pitch dark night on the Salonika front in 1917. I was in charge of an
advanced detachment near a railhead.

A general and a staff officer were travelling by rail-motor towards
the front line when in the darkness the rail-motor crashed into
some stationary freight trucks, completely wrecking the vehicle and
instantly killing the driver.

I rushed with a stretcher party to render help. The general and his
staff officer were unconscious amid the wreckage.

Feverishly we worked to remove the debris which pinned them down. Two
of us caught the general beneath the shoulders, and one was raising his
legs when to his horror one leg came away in his hand.

When the general regained his senses, seeing our concern, he quickly
reassured us. The leg turned out to be a wooden one! He had lost the
original at Hill 60.

The tension over, one of the stretcher-bearers, a Cockney from Mile
End, whispered into my ear, "We can't take 'im to the 'orspital, sarge,
he wants to go dahn to the Ordnance!"--_Sgt. T. C. Jones, M.S.M., 15
Bushey Mill Lane, Watford._


Dismal Jimmy's Prisoner

Out of the ebb and flow, the mud and blood, the din and confusion
of a two days' strafe on the Somme in September 1917 my particular
chum, Private James X., otherwise known as "Dismal Jimmy," emerged
with a German prisoner who was somewhat below the usual stature and
considerably the worse for the wear and tear of his encounter with the
Cockney soldier.

"Jimmy," although obviously proud of his captive, was, as usual, "fed
up" with the war, the strafe, and everything else. To make matters
worse, on his way to the support trenches he was caught in the head by
a sniper's bullet.

His pet grievance, however, did not come from this particular
misfortune, but from the fact that the prisoner had not taken advantage
of the opportunity to "'Op it!" when the incident occurred. "Wot yer
fink ov 'im, mate?" he queried. "Followed me all rahnd the blinkin'
trenches, 'e did! Thinks I got a bit o' tripe on a skewer, maybe, th'
dirty dog!" "Jimmy" muttered. Then he came under the orders of a Higher
Command.--_H. J. R., 1 Central Buildings, Westminster, S.W.1._


That Creepy Feeling

In the brick-fields at La Bassée, 1915, there was a pump about five
yards from our front line which we dare not approach in daylight. At
night it was equally dangerous as it squeaked and so drew the sniper's
fire.

We gave up trying to use it after a few of our fellows had been sniped
in their attempts, until Nobby Clarke said _he_ would get the water,
adding: "That blinkin' sniper hasn't my name on any of his ruddy
bullets."

After he had gone we heard the usual squeak of the pump, followed by
the inevitable _ping!_ ... _ping!_ We waited. No Nobby returned.

Two of us crawled out to where he lay to bring him in. "Strewth, Bill,"
he cried when my mate touched him, "you didn't 'arf put the blinkin'
wind up me, _creepin' aht like that_!"

There he lay, on his back, with a piece of rope tied to the handle of
the pump. We always got our water after that.--_F. J. Pike (late 2nd
Grenadier Guards), 4 Hilldrop Road, Bromley, Kent._


"Toot-Sweet," the Runner

Scene: Before Combles in the front line.

Position: Acute.

Several runners had been despatched from the forward position with
urgent messages for Headquarters, and all had suffered the common
fate of these intrepid fellows. One Cockney named Sweet, and known
as "Toot-Sweet" for obvious reasons, had distinguished himself upon
various occasions in acting as a runner.

A volunteer runner was called for to cover a particularly dangerous
piece of ground, and our old friend was to the fore as usual. "But,"
said the company officer, "I can't send you again--someone else must
go."

Imagine his astonishment when "Toot-Sweet" said, "Giv' us this charnce,
sir. I've got two mentions in dispatches now, an' I only want annuvver
to git a medal."

He went, but he did not get a medal.--_E. V. S. (late Middlesex Regt.),
London, N.W.2._


Applying the Moral

Before we made an attack on "The Mound of Death," St. Eloi, in the
early part of 1916, our Brigadier-General addressed the battalion and
impressed upon us the importance of taking our objective.

He told us the tale of two mice which fell into a basin of milk. The
faint-hearted one gave up and was drowned. The other churned away with
his legs until the milk turned into butter and he could walk away! He
hoped that we would show the same determination in our attack.

We blew up part of the German front line, which had been mined, and
attacked each side of the crater, and took the position, though with
heavy losses.

On the following day one of my platoon fell into the crater, which, of
course, was very muddy. As he plunged about in it he shouted "When I've
churned this ruddy mud into concrete I'm 'opping aht of it."

This was the action in which our gallant chaplain, Captain the Rev.
Noel Mellish, won the V.C.--_"Reg. Bomber," 4th Royal Fusiliers, 3rd
Division._


Spelling v. Shelling

An attack was to be made by our battalion at Givenchy in 1915. The
Germans must have learned of the intention, for two hours before it was
due to begin they sent up a strong barrage, causing many casualties.

[Illustration: "'Ow d'yer spell 'delightful'?"]

Letters and cards, which might be their last, were being sent home by
our men, and a Cockney at the other end of our dug-out shouted to his
mate, "'Arry, 'ow d'yer spell 'delightful'?"--_H. W. Mason (late 23rd
London Regt.), 26 Prairie Street, Battersea, S.W._


Too Much Hot Water

We were taking a much-needed bath and change in the Brewery vats at
Poperinghe, when Jerry started a mad five minutes' "strafe" with, as it
seemed, the old Brewery as a target.

Above the din of explosions, falling bricks, and general "wind-up" the
aggrieved voice of Sammy Wilkes from Poplar, who was still in the vat,
was heard:

"Lumme, and I only asked for a little drop more 'ot water."--_Albert
Girardot (late K.R.R.), 250 Cornwall Road, Ladbroke Grove, W.11._


"Ducks and Drakes! Ducks and Drakes!"

After the evacuation of the Dardanelles the "Drakes" of the Royal Naval
Division were ordered to France. Amongst them was Jack (his real name
was John). A young Soccer player, swift of foot, he was chosen as a
"runner."

One day he tumbled into a shell hole. And just as he had recovered his
wits in came Colonel Freyberg, V.C., somewhat wounded. Seeing Jack, he
told him he was just the boy he wanted--the lad had run away from home
to join up before he was seventeen--and scribbling a note the colonel
handed it to him.

The boy was told if he delivered it safely he could help the colonel to
take Beaucourt. Jack began to scramble out. It was none too inviting,
for shells were bursting in all directions, and it was much more
comfortable inside. With a wide vocabulary from the Old Kent Road, he
timely remembered that his father was a clergyman, and muttering to
himself, "Ducks and drakes, ducks and drakes," he reached the top and
went on his way.

The sequel was that the message was delivered, reinforcements came
up, led by the boy to the colonel, and Beaucourt was taken.--_Father
Hughes, 60 Hainault Avenue, Westcliff-on-Sea._


You Must have Discipline

On September 14, 1916, at Angle Wood on the Somme, the 168th (London)
Brigade Signals were unloading a limber on a slope, on top of which was
a battery which Jerry was trying to find. One of his shells found us,
knocking all of us over and wounding nine or ten of us (one fatally).

As the smoke and dust cleared, our Cockney sergeant (an old soldier
whose slogan was "You must have dis_cip_line") gradually rose to
a sitting position, and, whipping out his notebook and pencil,
called "Nah, then, oo's wounded?" and calmly proceeded to write down
names.--_Wm. R. Smith (late R.E. Signals), 231 Halley Road, Manor Park,
E.12._


L.B.W. in Mespot

At a certain period during the operations in Mesopotamia so dependent
were both the British and the Turks on the supply of water from the
Tigris that it became an unwritten law that water-carriers from both
sides were not to be sniped at.

This went on until a fresh British regiment, not having had the
position explained, fired on a party of Turks as they were returning
from the river. The next time we went down to get water the Turks,
of course, returned the compliment; so from then onwards all water
carrying had to be done under cover of darkness.

On one of these occasions a Turkish sniper peppered our water party
as they were returning to our lines. They all got back, however; but
one, a man from Limehouse, was seen to be struggling with his water
container only half full, and at the same time it was noticed that his
trousers and boots were saturated.

"Hi!" shouted the sergeant, "you've lost half the water. Did that
sniper get your bucket?"

"Not 'im," replied the Cockney, "I saw to that. 'E only got me leg."

What, in the darkness, appeared to be water spilt from the bucket was
really the result of a nasty flesh wound.--_J. M. Rendle (Lieut.,
I.A.R.O.), White Cottage, St. Leonard's Gardens, Hove, Sussex._


Trench-er Work

We were attacking Messines Ridge. The ground was a mass of flooded
shell-holes. Hearing a splash and some cursing in a familiar voice, I
called out, "Are you all right, Tubby?"

The reply came, as he crawled out of a miniature mine crater, "Yus, but
I've lorst me 'ipe (rifle)."

I asked what he was going to do, and he replied, "You dig them German
sausages out with yer baynit and I'll eat 'em."

So saying, he pulled out his knife and fork and proceeded towards the
enemy trenches.--_"Pip Don" (London Regt.), 22 Ingram Road, Thornton
Heath._


"The Best Man--Goes Fust"

In the second battle of Arras, 1917, our regiment was held up near
Gavrelle and was occupying a line of shell-holes. The earth was heaving
all around us with the heavy barrage. Peeping over the top of my
shell-hole I found my neighbours, "Shorty" (of Barnes) and "Tiny" (of
Kent) arguing about who was the best man.

All of a sudden over came one of Jerry's five-nines. It burst too close
to "Shorty," who got the worst of it, and was nearly done for. But he
finished his argument, for he said to "Tiny" in a weak voice, "That
shows you who's the best man. My ole muvver always says as the best
goes fust."--_J. Saxby, Paddington, W.2._


When Clemenceau Kissed the Sergeant

About Christmas of 1917 I was on the Somme with one of the most
Cockney of the many battalions of the Royal Fusiliers. As we sheltered
in dug-outs from the "gale" Fritz was putting over, to our surprise
we heard a voice greet us in French, "_Allons, mes enfants_: _Ça va
toujours_."

Looking up we beheld an old man in shabby suit and battered hat who
seemed the typical French peasant. "Well, of all the old idiots,"
called out the sergeant. "Shut yer face an' 'ook it, ye blamed old
fool." For answer the old man gave the sergeant the surprise of his
life by seizing him in a grip of iron and planting a resounding kiss on
each cheek, French fashion.

Just at that moment some brass hats came along and the mystery was
explained. The "old fool" was the late Georges Clemenceau, then French
War Minister, who had come to see for himself what it was like in our
sector and had lost his guides.

"An' to think that 'e kissed me just like I was a kid, after I'd told
'im to 'ook it," commented the sergeant afterwards. "Wonder wot 'e'd 'a
done 'ad I told 'im to go to 'ell, as I'd 'alf a mind to."

Years later I was one of a party of the British Legion received in
Paris by "The Tiger," and I recalled the incident. "Père La Victoire"
laughed heartily. "That Cockney sergeant was right," he said, "I was an
old fool to go about like that in the line, but then somebody has got
to play the fool in war-time, so that there may be no follies left for
the wise heads to indulge in."--_H. Stockman, Hôtel Terminus, Rue St.
Lazare, Paris, VIIIème, France._


Poet and--Prophet

I was sitting with my pal in the trenches of the front line waiting
for the next move when I heard our Cockney break into the chorus of a
home-made song:

    "'Twas moonlight in the trenches,
      The sky was royal blue,
    When Jerry let his popgun go,
      And up the 'ole 'ouse flew."

The last words were drowned in a terrific crash. There was sudden
quiet afterwards, and then a voice said, "There y'are, wot did I tell
yer?"--_T. E. Crouch, 28 Eleanor Road, Hackney, E.8._


Pub that Opened Punctually

It was at the village of Zudkerque, where Fritz had bombed and blown up
a dump in 1916. My pal and I were standing outside a cafe, the windows
of which were shuttered, when the blast of a terrific explosion blew
out the shutters. They hit my pal and me on the head and knocked us
into the roadway.

My pal picked himself up, and, shaking bits of broken glass off him and
holding a badly gashed head, said: "Lumme, Ginger, they don't 'arf open
up quick 'ere. Let's go an 'ave one."--_J. March (late R.E.), London,
S.E._


That Precious Tiny Tot

We had paraded for the rum issue at Frankton Camp, near Ypres, when the
enemy opened fire with long-range guns. A Cockney came forward with
his mug, drew his issue, and moved off to drink it under cover and at
leisure. Suddenly a large shell whooped over and burst about 40 yards
away. With a casual glance at the fountain of earth which soared up,
the man calmly removed his shrapnel helmet and held it over his mug
until the rain of earth and stones ceased.--_"Skipper," D.L.I., London,
W.2._


Cigs and Cough Drops

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

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

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


"Smiler" to the End

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

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

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

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


"The Bishop" and the Bright Side

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

The chances of a direct hit made matters doubly unpleasant.

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


Back to Childhood

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

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

[Illustration: "Fancy a bloke my age playin' 'ide an' seek"]

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


The Altruist

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

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

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

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

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


"Minnie's Stepped on my Toe!"

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

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

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

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


In the Dim Dawn

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

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

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

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

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

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


Beau Brummell's Puttees

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

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

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


Plenty of Room on Top

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

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

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

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

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


Nearly Lost His Washing-Bowl

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

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

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


Bath Night

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

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

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

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


Back to the Shack

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

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

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

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


His Last Gamble

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

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

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

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

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

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


That Infernal Drip-Drip-Drip!

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

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

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

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

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


"A Blinkin' Vanity Box"

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

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

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

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

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


Playing at Statues

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

It was funny indeed to see how some of the men halted when a light
went up. Some had one foot down and one raised, and others were in a
crouching position. "My missus orta see me nah playing at blinkin'
statchoos," said one old Cockney.--_T. Kelly (late 17th London Regt.),
43 Ocean Street, Stepney, E.1._

[Illustration: "Playin' at statchoos."]


Bo Peep--1915 Version

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

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


Jerry's Dip in the Fat

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

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

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


Carried Unanimously

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

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

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


A Very Hot Bath

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

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

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

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


In Lieu of ----

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

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

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


Putting the Hatt on It

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

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


Tangible Evidence

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

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


What the Cornwalls' Motto Meant

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

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

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

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

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


Atlas--On the Somme

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

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

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


Putting the Lid on It

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

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

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

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


Taffy was a--German!

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

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

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

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

"Germans," gasped Smiffy. "GERMANS! _I thought they was the
Monmouths!_"--_S. W. Baxter (late 86th M.G.C.), 110 Bishopsgate, E.C.2._


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.

[Illustration: ...and they both went on digging]

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.

[Illustration: "Yus, yer needn't stare--I'm real."]

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.

In my section was the Cockney "funny man" of the company. When things
were bad, and we were all wondering how long we would survive, he began
singing lustily a song which someone had sung at our last concert party
behind the lines, the refrain of which was "I've never heard of anybody
dying from kissing, have you?"

Before he had started on the second line nearly everyone was singing
with him, and men were killed singing that song. To the remainder of us
it acted like a tonic.

Good old Jack, when he was wounded later he must have been in terrible
pain, yet he joked so that at first we would not believe he was
seriously hit. He shouted, "Where is 'e?--let me get at 'im."--_J. T.
Jones (late 54th Division), 37 Whittaker Road, East Ham, E.6._


Stalls at "Richthofen's Circus"

A New Zealander was piloting an old F.E. 2B (pusher) 'plane up and down
over the lines, observing for the artillery, when he got caught by
"Richthofen's Circus."

The petrol tank behind the pilot's seat was set on fire and burning oil
poured past him into the observer's cockpit ahead and the clothes of
both men started to sizzle.

They were indeed in a warm situation, their one hope being to dive into
Zillebeke Lake, which the New Zealander noticed below. By the time they
splashed into the water machine and men were in flames; and, moreover,
when they came up the surface surrounding them was aflame with the
burning oil.

Treading water desperately and ridding themselves of their heavy sodden
flying coats, they made a last bid for life by swimming under water,
that flaming water, and at last, half-dead, reached the bank.

There a strong arm gripped the New Zealander by the scruff of the neck
and he was hauled to safet

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