Chapter III: Part 3

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.

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._

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.

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.

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."