Chapter VII: Part 7

2nd: Same 'ere. 'Tain't 'arf a life, ain't it? No rest, no beer, blinkin' leave stopped--er, got any fags?

1st: No, mate.

2nd: No fags, no nuffink. It's only us keepin' so ruddy cheerful as pulls us through.--_V. Marston, 232 Worple Road, Wimbledon, S.W.20._

War's Lost Charm

Time, winter of 1917: scene, a track towards Langemarck from Pilkem. Weather and general conditions--Flanders at its worst. My companion that night was an N.C.O. "out since 'fourteen," and we had plodded on in silence for some time. Suddenly behind me there was a slither, a splash, and a smothered remark as the sergeant skidded from the duckboard into an especially dirty shell hole.

I helped him out and asked if he was all right. The reply came, "I'm all right, sir; but this blinkin' war seems to have lost its charm!"--_J. E. A. Whitman (Captain, late R.F.A.), The Hampden Club, N.W.1._

Taking It Lying Down

The 1st Battalion of the 25th Londons was preparing to march into Waziristan.

Old Bert, the cook, diligently loading up a kneeling camel with dixies, pots and pans, and general cooking utensils, paused for a bit, wiped the sweat from his brow, and stood back with arms akimbo gazing with satisfaction upon his work.

Then he went up to the camel, gave him a gentle prod, and grunted "Ooush, yer blighter, ooush" (i.e. rise). The camel turned gently over on his back, unshipping the whole cargo that Bert had worked so hard upon, and kicked his legs in the air.

Poor old Bert looked at the wreckage and exclaimed, more in sorrow than in anger: "Blimey, don't yer understand yer own langwidge, yer kitten?"--_T. F. Chanter, 16 Atalanta Street, Fulham._

The First Twenty Years

It was round about Christmas 1917, and we were resting (?) at "Dirty Bucket Corner." The Christmas present we all had in view was a return to the line in front of Ypres.

On the day before we were due to return the Christmas post arrived, and after the excitement had abated the usual "blueness" settled in--the craving for home comforts and "Blighty."

My partners in the stretcher-bearing squad included a meek and mild man (I believe he was a schoolmaster before the war) and a Cockney from Seven Dials. We used to call him "Townie."

Although the ex-schoolmaster would have had cause in more normal times to rejoice--for the post contained a letter telling him that he had become the father of a bonny boy--the news made him morbid.

Of course, we all congratulated him. Meanwhile "Townie" was busy with a pencil and writing pad, and after a few minutes handed to the new parent a sheet of paper folded in half. The recipient unfolded it and looked at it for several seconds before the rest of us became interested and looked over his shoulder.

The paper was covered with lines, circles, and writing that appeared to us like "double-Dutch."

"What's this?" the father asked.

"That's a map I drawed fer yer kid. It'll show him where the old pot and pan is when he's called up," and he concluded with this afterthought: "Tell 'im ter be careful of that ruddy shell-hole just acrost there. I've fallen in the perishin' thing twice this week."--_"Medico" (58th (London) Division), Clapham Common, S.W.11._

Shell as a Hammer

At one time the area just behind Vimy Ridge was plentifully sprinkled with enemy shells which had failed to explode. As these were considered a great source of danger they were indicated by "danger boards" nailed to pointed stakes driven into the ground.

On one occasion, seeing a man engaged in so marking the resting-place of a "dud"--he was a cheerful Cockney, who whistled as he went about his job--I was much amused (though somewhat scared) to see him stop at a nearby shell, select a "danger board," pick up the shell, and proceed to use it as a hammer to drive the stake into the ground!--_H. S. A. (late Lieut., Suffolk Regt.), Glebe Road, Cheam._

Sore Feet

After the first battle of Ypres an old driver, whom we called "Krongie," had very bad feet, and one day reported sick at the estaminet where the M.O. held office.

After the examination he ambled up the road, and when he was about 50 yards away the M.O.'s orderly ran out and called: "Krongie, when you get to the column tell the farrier the M.O.'s horse has cast a shoe."

"Krongie": "Ho, yus. You tell 'im ter give the blinkin' cheval a couple of number nines like he gave me for _my_ feet."--_P. Jones (R.H.A.), 6 Ennis Road, N.4._

My Sword Dance--by the C.O.

A bitterly cold morning in winter, 1916, in the Ypres Salient. I was on duty at a gas alarm post in the front line when along came the colonel.

He was the finest soldier and gentleman I ever had the pleasure to serve under (being an old soldier in two regiments before, I had experienced a few C.O.s). It was said he knew every man's name in the regiment. No officer dare start his own meal until every man of his company had been served. No fatigue or working party ever went up the line, no matter at what hour, without the colonel first inspected it.

He had a mania for collecting spare ammunition, and more than once was seen taking up to the front line a roll of barbed wire over his shoulder hooked through his stick. To him every man was a son, and to the men's regret and officers' delight he soon became a general.

This particular morning he approached me with "Good morning, Walker. You look cold. Had your rum?" To which I replied that I had, but it was a cold job remaining stationary for hours watching the wind.

"Well," said the C.O., "do this with me." With that he started marking time at a quick pace on the duckboards and I did likewise. We kept it up for about two minutes, while others near had a good laugh.

"Now you feel better, I know. Do this every ten minutes or so," he said, and away he went to continue his tour of inspection.

My Cockney pal in the next bay, who, I noticed, had enjoyed the scene immensely, said, "Blimey, Jock, was he giving you a few lessons in the sword dance or the Highland Fling?"--_"Jock" Walker (late Royal Fusiliers), 29 Brockbank Road, Lewisham, S.E.13._

A Big Bone in the Soup

In Baghdad, 1917, "Buzzer" Lee and I were told off to do "flying sentry" round the officers' lines from 3 to 5 a.m. Well, we commenced our duty, and Buzzer suggested we visit the mess kitchen to see all was well, and in case there was anything worth "knocking off" (as he called it) in the way of char or scran (tea or bread and butter).

The mess kitchen was in darkness, and Buzzer began scrounging around. After a while he said: "I've clicked, mate! Soup in a dixie!" By the light of a match he found a cup, removed the dixie lid, and took a cup of the "soup."

"We're in the market this time, mate," said Buzzer, and took out a cupful for me.

"It don't taste like Wood's down the New Cut," I said, doubtfully.

He dipped the cup again and exclaimed: "'Ere, I've fahnd a big bone!"

It was a new broom-head, however; it had been left in the dixie to soak for the night!--_G. H. Griggs (late Somerset L.I.), 3 Ribstone Street, Hackney, E.9._

"I Shall have to Change Yer!"

In the Ypres Salient in July 1915 Headquarters were anxious to know which German regiment was facing us. An immense Cockney corporal, who was particularly good on patrol, was instructed to secure a prisoner.

After a night spent in No Man's Land he returned at dawn with a capture, an insignificant little German, trembling with fear, who stood about five foot nothing.

Lifting him on to the fire-step and eyeing him critically, the corporal thus addressed him: "You won't do for our ole man; I shall have to take yer aht to-night and change yer!"--_S. Back, Merriams Farm, Leeds, near Maidstone._

Scots Reveille

Ours was the only kilted battalion in the division, and our bagpipes were often the subject of many humorous remarks from the other regiments.

On one occasion, while we were out resting just behind the line at Château de la Haye, we were billeted opposite a London regiment. Very early in the morning the bagpipes would sound the Scottish reveille--a rather long affair compared with the usual bugle call--and it did not please our London friends to be awakened in this manner.

One morning while I was on early duty, and just as the pipers were passing, a very dismal face looked out of a billet and announced to his pals inside, "There goes them perishin' 'toobs' again."--_Arthur R. Blampied, D.C.M. (late London Scottish), 47 Lyndhurst Avenue, Streatham Hill, S.W.2._

In the Negative

A battalion of the London Regiment had been having a particularly gruelling time in the trenches, but some of the men were cheered with thoughts of impending leave. In fact, permission for them to proceed home was expected at any moment.

At this time the Germans started a "big push" in another sector, and all leave was suddenly cancelled.

An N.C.O. broke the news to the poor unfortunates in the following manner: "All you blokes wot's going on leaf, ain't going on leaf, 'cause you're unlucky."

In spite of the great disappointment, this way of putting it amused even the men concerned. The real Cockney spirit!--_S. C., Brighton._

"An' That's All that 'Appened"

Before going up the line we were stationed at Etaples, and were rather proud of our cook-house, but one day the colonel told the sergeant-major that he had heard some of the most unparliamentary language he had ever heard in his life emanating from the cook-house.

The sergeant-major immediately called at the cook-house to find out the cause of the trouble, but our Cockney cook was very indignant. "What, _me_ Lord Mayor? [slang for 'swear']. No one's ever 'eard me Lord Mayor."

"Don't lie to me," roared the sergeant-major. "What's happened here?"

"Nuffin'," said the cook, "except that I slopped a dixie full of 'ot tea dahn Bill's neck. I said 'Sorry, Bill,' and Bill said 'Granted, 'Arry,' an' that's all what's 'appened."--_Ryder Davies (late 1st Kent Cyclists, Royal West Kents), 20 Villa Road, S.W.9._

Watching them "Fly Past"

Our first big engagement was a counter-attack to recapture the trenches lost by the K.R.R.'s and R.B.'s on July 30, 1915, when "Jerry" used liquid fire for the first time and literally burned our chaps out.

To get into action we had to go across open country in full view of the enemy. We began to get it "in the neck" as soon as we got to "Hell Fire Corner," on our way to Zillebeke Lake. Our casualties were heavy, caused by shell fire, also by a German aeroplane which was flying very low overhead and using its machine gun on us.

My pal, Wally Robins (later awarded M.M., promoted corporal, and killed at Lens), our company humorist, was looking up at the 'plane when a shell landed, killing several men in front of him.

As he fell I thought he too had caught it. I rushed to him anxiously and said, "Are you hurt?"

This was his reply: "I should think I am. I wish they would keep their bloomin' aeroplanes out of the way. If I hadn't been looking up at that I shouldn't have fallen over that blinkin' barbed wire stake."--_E. W. Fellows, M.M. (late Corporal, 6th Battn., D.C.L.I.), 33 Dunlace Road, Clapton, E.5._

High Necks and Low

After the first Battle of Ypres in 1914 the Scots Guards were being relieved by a well-known London regiment.

A diminutive Cockney looked up at a six-foot Guardsman and asked him what it was like in the front line.

"Up to your neck in mud," said the Guardsman.

"Blimey, oo's neck?" asked the little chap.--_H. Rogers (late 116th Battery, 1st Div. R.F.A.), 10 Ashley Road, Richmond, Surrey._

Too Light--by One Rissole

During the night before my Division (21st) attacked, on October 4, 1917, my unit was in the tunnel under the road at "Clapham Junction," near Hooge.

Rations having failed to arrive, each man was given a rissole and a packet of chewing-gum. We went over about 6 a.m., and, despite rather severe losses, managed to push our line forward about 1,300 yards.

When we were back in "rest" dug-outs at Zillebeke, our officer happening to comment on our "feed" prior to the attack, my mate said: "Yus. Blinkin' good job for old Jerry we never had two rissoles a man--we might have shoved him back to Berlin!"--_C. Hartridge, 92 Lancaster Street, S.E.1._

Psyche--"at the Barf!"

I was billeting at Witternesse, near Aire, for a battery coming out of the line for rest and training prior to the August 1918 push.

I was very anxious to find a place where the troops could have a much-needed bath. The only spot was a barn, in which were two rusty old iron baths.

Further inspection showed that one was in use. On being asked who he was, the occupant stood up and replied in a Cockney voice: "Sikey at the Barf!"--_H. Thomas, "Ivydene," Herne Grove, East Dulwich, S.E.22._

A Juggler's Struggles

We were disembarking at Ostend in 1914. Each man was expected to carry as much stores as he could. Our Cockney Marine was struggling down the gangway--full marching order, rifle slung round his neck, kitbag under his arm, and a box in each hand.

As he balanced the boxes we heard him mutter, "S'pose, if I juggle this lot orlright they'll poke annuver in my mouf."--_Thomas Bilson (late Colour-Sergeant, Royal Marines), 56 The Strand, Walmer, Kent._

Almost a Wireless Story

Sir Sidney Lawford was to inspect our wagon lines in Italy, and we had received notice of his coming. Consequently we had been up since about 5 a.m. making things ship-shape.

One of the fatigues had been picking up all the spare wire lying about--wire from hay and straw bales, telephone wire, barbed wire, wire from broken hop poles, miscellaneous wire of all sorts.

Sir Sidney Lawford arrived about 11 a.m. with a number of his staff, dismounted ... and promptly tripped over a piece of wire. Imagine our chagrin. However, the feeling passed away when a Cockney driver (evidently one of the wire-collecting fatigue) said in a voice audible to everyone as he peeped from under the horse he was supposed to be grooming: "Blimey, if he ain't fallen over the only piece of blinking wire in Italy!"--_F. Praid (late Lieut., R.F.A., 41st Div.), 88a High Street, Staines._

When the S.M. Got Loose

We were behind the lines at Merville in 1914. It was raining hard and it was night. "Smudger" Smith, from Lambeth, was on night guard. The horses were pulling their pegs out of the mud and getting loose, and "Smudger" was having a busy time running around and catching them and knocking the pegs in again with a mallet.

The sergeant-major, with a waterproof sheet over his head, visited the lines. "Smudger," seeing something moving about in the dark, crept up, and muttered, "Wot, yer loose again, yer blighter?"--and down went the sergeant-major.--_W.S. (late Queen's Bays), 2 Winsover Road, Spalding._

Mons, 1914--Not Moscow, 1812!

In 1914 we of the 2nd Cavalry Brigade were going up to support the infantry somewhere near Mons, and when nearing our destination we saw several wounded being carried from the line.

Following them, seemingly quite unconcerned, was an infantry transport driver, who cut a queer figure. He was wearing a stocking hat, and was mounted on an old mule. Thrown over the mule, with the tail-end round the mule's neck, was a German's blood-bespattered overcoat.

One of our troop addressed the rider thus: "Many up there, mate?"

He answered: "Millions! You 'ave a go. We can't shift 'em. They've took root, I fink."

He then dug both heels into the mule and, looking round with a bored expression, exclaimed: "Talk about Napoleon's blinkin' retreat from Moscow, it ain't ruddy well in it wiv this!"

And he rode on.--_W. Baker (late 3rd Hussars), 35 Tunstall Road, Brixton, S.W.9._

The S.M. knew "Mulese"

During the Somme offensive in 1916 I was one of a party carrying rations up to the front line. We came upon a mule which was having a few pranks and pulling the chap who was leading it all over the road.

This man turned out to be an old Cockney pal of mine in the East Surreys. I said, "Hello, Jim, what's the matter?"

"Blimey," he replied, "'e won't do nuffink for me, so I'm taking 'im back to our sergeant-major, as 'e talks the mule langwidge."--_C. A. Fairhead (late R.W. Kent Regt.), 16 Council Cottages, Ford Corner, Yapton, Sussex._

Lost: One Star

We were on our way to the front line trenches one wet and dreary night when our subaltern realised that we were lost. He asked our sergeant if he could see the North Star. My Cockney pal, fed up, as we all were, turned to me and said: "Pass the word back and ask if anyone 'as got a Nawth Star in his pocket."--_H. J. Perry, 42 Wells House Road, Willesden Junction, N.W.10._

Simpler than Sounding It

After leaving Gallipoli in December 1915 our battalion (4th Essex) were in camp near the pyramids in Egypt.

"Pro Tem." we reverted to peace-time routine, and brought the buglers into commission again. One bugler was making a rather rotten show at sounding the "fall-in"--his "lip" being out of practice, I suppose--when a bored Cockney roared out, "Go rahnd and tell 'em."--_H. Barlow, 5 Brooklands, Abbs Cross Lane, Hornchurch._

Under the Cart

The place was a rest billet, which we had just reached after a gruelling on the Somme. Time, 12.30 a.m., dark as pitch and pouring with rain.

A despatch-rider arrived with an "urgent" message from H.Q., "Must have the number of your water-cart."

Out of bed, or its substitute, were brought the regimental sergeant-major, the orderly-room clerk, and the quartermaster-sergeant (a director of a London shipping firm bearing his name). All the light we had was the end of a candle, and as the Q.M.S. was crawling in the mud under the water-cart trying to find the number the candle flickered, whereupon the Cockney sergeant-major exclaimed: "For Heaven's sake, stop that candle from flickerin', or our blinkin' staff will think we're signalling to Jerry!"

The look on the Q.M.S.'s face as he sat in the mud made even the soaked despatch-rider laugh.

"What's the number of your water-cart?" became a byword with the boys.--_W. J. Smallbone (late R.M.S., 56th Field Ambulance, 18th Division), 22 Stoneycroft Road, Woodford Bridge, Woodford Green, Essex._

The Lion Laughed up his Sleeve

I had been driving a lorry all day in the East African bush with a Cockney escort. When we "parked" for the night I invited the escort to sleep under cover in the lorry, as I was going to do. But he refused, saying proudly that he had slept in the open since he had landed in Africa. So, undressing, he proceeded to make the rim of the rear wheel his pillow, covering himself with a blanket and greatcoat.

About 1 a.m. I was awakened by hearing someone climbing over the tail-board. Responding to my challenge the Cockney said: "It's all right. The blighter's been and pinched my blanket and greatcoat. It's a good job I had my shirt on." We found next morning that a lion had run off with them: about 100 yards away they lay, and one sleeve was torn out of the coat.--_H. J. Lake, 40a Chagford Street, N.W.1._

The Carman's Sarcasm

While our allies, the Portuguese, were holding part of the line to the left of Festubert, a Portuguese officer rode up on the most emaciated and broken-down old "crock" I had set eyes on.

He dismounted and was looking round for somewhere to tether the horse, when one of our drivers, a Cockney carman in "civvy" life, cast a critical eye over the mount and bawled out, "Don't worry abaht tying it up, mate. _Lean it up agin this 'ere fence._"--_A. G. Lodge (Sergeant, 25th Division Artillery), 12 Derinton Road, S.W.17._

Burying a Lorry

During the Battle of the Somme, near Ginchy, a R.A.S.C. motor-lorry ran off the main track in the darkness and got stuck in the mud. The driver came to our battery near by and asked for help, so six gunners and I volunteered and set out with shovels.

On arriving at the scene, there was the motor-lorry almost buried to the top of the wheels. We all stood around surveying the scene in silence, wondering how best to make a start, when the Cockney member of the volunteer party burst out with: "Lummy, the quickest way out of this is to shovel some more blinkin' dirt on top, an' bury it."--_H. Wright (ex-Sig./Bdr., C/74 Bde., R.F.A.), 45 Colehill Lane, Fulham, S.W.6._

Striking a Bargain

During the battle of the Narrows at the Dardanelles (March 18, 1915) I was in charge of No. 3 stokehold in H.M.S. _Vengeance_. The front line of ships engaged consisted of _Irresistible_, _Ocean_, _Vengeance_, and an old French battleship, the _Bouvet_. The stokers off watch were the ambulance party and fire brigade.

When the battle was at its height one of the fire brigade, a Cockney, kept us informed of what was going on, and this is the news we received down the ash hoist:

"_Ocean_ and _Irresistible_ 'as gorn darn, the Froggy's gone up in smoke: our blinkin' turn next.

"Pat, give us yer week's 'navy' (rum ration) and I'll lift this bloomin' 'atch (armoured grating) and let yer aht!"--_"Ajax," 23 King's Drive, Gravesend, Kent._

Bugling in 'Indoostanee

After the evacuation of Gallipoli a transport was conveying British troops to Egypt.

The O.C. wanted a trumpeter or bugler to follow him around during the daily lifeboat parade and to sound the "Dismiss" at the end. The only one available was an Indian trumpeter, who had not blown a trumpet or bugle since 1914. He was ordered for the duty.

On the first day, immediately after the inspection was over, the O.C. gave orders for the trumpeter to sound the "Dismiss." After the trumpeter had finished, the O.C., with a look of astonishment on his face, gasped, "What's that? I never heard it sounded like that before."

Came a Cockney voice from the rear rank, "'E sounded it in 'Indoostanee, sir."--_M. C., Surrey._

"For 'eaven's sake, stop sniffin'!"

Our sector of the line at Loos was anticipating a raid by the Germans and the whole battalion was ordered to "stand to" all night.

Double sentries were posted at intervals of a few feet with orders to report any suspicious shadows in No Man's Land.

All eyes and ears were strained in an effort to locate any movement in the darkness beyond the parapet.

Strict silence was to be maintained, and the guns had been ordered to hang fire so that we might give the Germans a surprise welcome if they came over.

The ominous stillness was broken at last by a young Cockney saying to his pal standing with him on the fire-step: "For 'Eaven's sake, stop sniffin', Porky. How d'yer fink we'll 'ear Jerry if he comes acrorst?"--_C. J. Blake, 29a Collingbourne Road, Shepherd's Bush, W.12._

Babes in the Salonika Wood

I was with the Salonika Force on the Dorian front. One night while an important raid was on my platoon was told off to seize a big wood between the lines and make sure it was clear of Bulgars, who could otherwise have enfiladed the main raiding party.

The orders were "absolute silence, and no firing unless the other side fires first." I halted my men behind a fold in the ground near the wood and called up two men and told them to creep forward and see if the wood was occupied.

It was nasty work as the first news of any Bulgars would almost certainly have been a bayonet in the back from somebody perfectly concealed behind a tree.

I asked them if the instructions were quite clear and one of them, Charlie, from Limehouse, whispered back:

"Yessir! We're going to be the Babes in the Wood, and if the Wicked Uncles is out to-night we don't fire unless they fires first. Come on, George (to his companion), there's going to be some dirty work for the Little Robin Redbreasts to-morrer!"--_A. Forsyth (late Army Cyclist Corps), 65 St. Martin's Lane, W.C.2._

Bringing it Home to Him

For several months in 1917 matches were rationed in a Y.M.C.A. rest-camp canteen, somewhere in France. There entered during this time a war-worn Cockney, a drawn, tired look still in his eyes, and the mud of the trenches on his uniform and boots. He asked for cigarettes and matches, and was told there were no matches.

"Wot, no matches? 'Ow am I goin' ter light me fags, miss?"

"You see matches are rationed now," I said, "and the few we are allowed run out at once."

With a weary sigh, as if a great truth had dawned upon him, he said pathetically:

"Lumme, that do bring the war 'ome to a bloke, don't it, miss?"--_Miss H. Campbell, Pennerly Lodge, Beaulieu, Hants._

After the Feast

The company dinner on Christmas Day 1917 was eaten in a large barn at Ribemont, on the Somme, and before this extra special feast began an affable "old sweat," one Billy Williams, of London Town, volunteered for the clearing-up party.

It was a long sitting and some considerable time before the men began to wander back to their billets, and it fell to the most capable of the orderlies to clear up the debris.

This had just been accomplished to the satisfaction of the orderly officer when out of the barn strode old Billy carrying a dixie full of beer. "Where are you going with that, Williams?" asked the officer.

Springing smartly to attention, and with a pained look upon his face, old Billy replied: "This 'ere, sir? Sick man in the 'ut, sir!"--_R. E. Shirley (late The London Regiment), 5 Staunton Road, Kingston, Surrey._

Wait for the "Two Pennies, Please"

Near the River Struma, on the Salonika front, in March 1917 our brigade H.Q. was on the extreme right of the divisional artillery and near a French artillery brigade.

For the purpose of maintaining communication a French telephonist was quartered in our dug-out. Whenever he wished to get into communication with his headquarters he unmercifully thumped the field telephone and in an excitable voice called out: "_'Ullo, mon capitaine_," five or six times in half as many seconds.

Greatly impressed by one of these sudden outbursts, the adjutant's batman--a typical Cockney--exclaimed in a hurt voice: "Nah then, matey, jest cool yerself a bit till the young lidy tells yer to put in yer two coppers!"--_F. G. Pickwick (301 Brigade R.F.A.), 100 Hubert Grove, Stockwell, S.W.9._

The General Goes Skating

One horribly wet day during the winter of 1915 I met the Brigadier paying his morning visit to the front line and accompanied him along my section of the trench. Entering one fire-bay, the gallant General slipped and sat down uncommonly hard in the mud.

Discipline stifled any desire on my part for mirth, but to my horror, the sentry in that bay, without turning away from his periscope, called over his shoulder in unmistakable Cockney accents: "'Ere, chum, get up; this ain't a blinkin' skatin' rink!"

Fortunately the General's sense of humour was equal to the occasion, and he replied to the now horror-stricken sentry with an affable "Quite."--_"Company Commander," Orpington, Kent._

"To Top Things Up"

During the early part of 1916 a few picked men from the North Sea Fleet were sent on a short tour of the Western Front to get an accurate idea of the work of the sister Service. One or two of these men were attached to my company for a few days in January when we were at Givenchy--a fairly lively spot at that time. The morning after their arrival there was some pretty heavy firing and bombing, which soon died down to normal.

Later in the day, as I was passing down the line, I asked one of our guests (an out-and-out Londoner) what he thought of things. He shook his head mournfully. "I thought the blighters was coming over after all that gun-fire this morning, sir," he said. "I been in a naval action; I been submarined; I been bombed by aeroplanes; and, blimey, I did 'ope I'd be in a bay'nit charge, just to top things up."--_L. V. Upward (late Capt. R.N.), 14 Lyndhurst Road, Hampstead, N.W.3._

Luck in the Family

A cockney R.A.S.C. driver had been knocked down and badly injured by a staff-officer's car.

On recovering consciousness in hospital, he highly amused the doctor by exclaiming, "Well, me gran'farver was kicked by a Derby winner, me farver knew Dr. Crippen, an' 'ere's me gets a blighty orf a brass-'at's Rolls-bloomin'-Royce. It's funny 'ow luck runs in famblys!"--_J. F. C., Langdon Park Road, N. 6._

"I'm Drownded"

We were going into the line in front of Cambrai, in November 1917, and were walking in single file. The night was pitch black. Word came down at intervals from the leading file, "'Ware wire," "'Ware shell-hole."

My pal, a Cockney, was in front of me. Suddenly I heard a muffled curse--he had deviated and paid the penalty by falling into a particularly deep shell-hole filled with mud and water.

I stumbled to the edge of the hole and peered down and saw his face. I asked him if he was all right, and back came the reply, "Blimey, I'm drownded, so let the missus know I died like a sailor."

Three days later he did die ... like a soldier.--_Ex-Rfn. John S. Brown, 94 Masterman Road, East Ham, E.6._

Not a New World's Wonder

The regiment had reached Hebuterne after marching from St. Amand, and a party of us was detailed to carry stuff up to the front line.

One of our number, a hefty Cockney, besides being in full marching order, had a bag of bombs and a couple of screw pickets. A sergeant then handed him some petrol tins. With a look of profound disgust, the Cockney dropped the tins and remarked, "Chuck it, mate; there's only seven wonders in this blinkin' world."--_W. G. H. Cox (late 16th London Regt.), 9 Longstaff Crescent, Southfields, S.W.18._

Lads of the Village

While en route from the Western to the Italian front we were held up at an Italian wayside station and, hearing that we had some time to wait, our cook says, "Nah's our chance to make some tea."

So we dragged our boiler on to the end of the platform, scrounged some wood, and soon had the fire going and the water on the boil. "Nah we will get the tea and sugar," says the cook. When we returned we found that the chimney of the boiler had disappeared, smoke and flames were roaring up, and the water was ruined by soot.

An Italian soldier was standing by, looking on. "Somebody's pinched our chimbley," gasped the cook, "and I've got an idea that this Italian fellow knows somefing abaht it."

Back came the reply from the Italian, in pure Cockney: "I ain't pinched yer chimbley, mate!"

"What! yer speak our lingo?" says the cook. "What part of the Village do yer come from?"

"Clerkenwell," was the reply.

"Give us yer mitt," says the cook. "I'm from the same parish. And nah I knows that yer couldn't 'ave pinched our chimbley. It must have been one of them scrounging Cockneys."--_H. Howard, 26 Hanover Street, Islington, N.1._

Before 1914, When Men Worked

Night after night, for three weeks, with never a night off, we took ammunition up for the guns at Ypres in 1917. Sometimes we couldn't get back until 5 a.m. or 6 a.m.--and the day was spent feeding and grooming the horses, cleaning harness, and a hundred odd jobs besides.

We had built a bit of a shack, and in this I was writing a letter home, and one of my drivers noticed my handwriting on the envelope.

"Coo, Corp! You can't 'arf write! 'Ow did yer learn it?" he said.

I told him I had been in an insurance office before I joined up.

"Lumme!" he exclaimed, "did yer _work_ once, Corp?"--_David Phillips (late R.F.A.), The Ship Inn, Soham, near Ely, Cambridgeshire._

Their Fatigue

In August 1915, our Division was moved to the Loos area in preparation for the battle which began on September 25, and I well remember the long march which brought us to our destination--the mining village of Noeux-les-Mines, about a mile from Mazingarbe.

We ended the hard and tiring journey at a spot where a huge slag-heap towered above our heads to a height of seventy or eighty feet. On our arrival here there were the usual fatigue parties to parade, and with everyone tired and weary this was an unthankful duty.

The youngest Cockney in my section, who was always cheerful, hearing me detailing men for fatigue, shouted out, "Come on, mites; paride with spoons and mess-tins. The blinking fattygue party will shift this perishin' slag-heap from 'ere to Mazingarbe."--_Herbert W. Bassett (Cpl. attached 47th London Division), 41 Argyle Road, Sevenoaks, Kent._

Teaching Bulgars the Three-card Trick

At Butkova, on the right of Lake Doiran, in 1917, we had surprised the Bulgar and had pushed forward as far as the foot of the Belashitsa Mountains, the reserve position of the enemy.

After a sharp encounter we retired, according to plan, and on the return to our lines we heard murmurings in a nullah to our right.

Motioning to me and the section corporal, our platoon commander advanced cautiously towards the nullah and you can imagine our surprise when we discovered "Dido" Plumpton calmly showing the "three-card trick" to the two Bulgar prisoners he had been detailed to escort. He was telling his mystified audience: "Find der lidy--dere you are--over yer go--under yer go--_nah_ find 'er!"--_Alfred Tall (late 2nd East Kents), 204 Hoxton Street, N.1._

3. HOSPITAL

"Tich" Meets the King

In a large ward in a military hospital in London there was a little Cockney drummer boy of eighteen years who had lost both legs from shell fire. In spite of his calamity and the suffering he endured from numerous operations for the removal of bone, he was one of the cheeriest boys in the ward.

At that time many men in the ward had limbs amputated because of frost-bite, and it was quite a usual thing for a visitor to remark, "Have you had frost-bite?"

Nothing made Tich so furious as the suggestion that he should have lost his limbs by any, to his mind, second-rate way. If he were asked, "Have you had frost-bite?" he would look up with disgust and reply, "Naow---a flea bit me!" If, however, he was asked, "Were you wounded?" he would smile and say, "Not 'arf!"

A visit was expected from the King, and the Tommies kept asking Tich what he would say if the King said, "Have you had frost-bite?" "You wite!" said Tich.

I was standing with the Sister near to Tich in his wheel-chair when the King approached. His Majesty at once noticed Tich was legless, and said in his kind way, "Well, my man, how are you getting on?"

"Splendid, sir!" said Tich.

"How did it happen?" asked the King.

"Wounded, sir--shell," replied Tich, all smiles.

Tich's opinion of the King soared higher than ever.---_M. A. Kennedy (late V.A.D., Royal Military Hospital, Woolwich), 70 Windmill Hill, Enfield, Middlesex._

Putting the Lid on It

It was "clearing day" at the 56th General Hospital, Wimereux. Nurses and orderlies were having a busy morning getting ready the patients who were going to Blighty. Nearly all of them had been taken out to the waiting ambulances except my Cockney friend in the bed next to mine, who had just had an arm amputated and was very ill.

Two orderlies came down the ward bearing a stretcher with an oblong box fixed on to it (to prevent jolting while travelling). They placed it beside my friend's bed, and, having dressed him, put him in the box on the stretcher. Then a nurse wrapped him up in blankets, and after she had finished she said: "There you are. Feeling nice and comfortable?"

"Fine," said he, "but don't put the lid on before I have kissed the orderly good-bye."--_E. C., Hackney, E.8._

Riddled in the Sands

One of the finest exhibitions of Cockney spirit I saw during the war occurred in Mesopotamia after the Battle of Shaiba (April 1915), in which we had completely routed the Turkish army.

We were busy evacuating the wounded in boats across the six-mile stretch of water which separated us from Basra. A sergeant who had been hit by no fewer than six machine-gun bullets was brought down in a stretcher to be put in one of the boats. As I superintended this manoeuvre he said to me: "Don't drop me in the water, sir. I'm so full of holes I'd be sure to sink!"--_F. C. Fraser (Lieut.-Col., Ind. Med. Service), 309 Brownhill Road, Catford, S.E.6._

Season!

A cockney soldier, badly hit for the third time, was about to be carried once more on board the ambulance train at Folkestone. When the bearers came to his stretcher, one said to the other, "What's it say on his ticket?"

"Season!" said a voice from the stretcher.--_Rev. A. T. Greenwood, Wallington, Surrey._

Where's the Milk and Honey?

A medical Officer of a London division in Palestine was explaining to a dying Cockney in his field ambulance at Bethlehem how sorry he was that he had no special comforts to ease his last moments, when the man, with a cheery grin, remarked: "Oh, that's all right, sir. Yer reads as 'ow this 'ere 'Oly Land is flowing with milk and 'oney; but I ain't seen any 'oney myself, and in our battery there's 15 men to a tin o' milk."--_E. T. Middleton, 32 Denmark Road, West Ealing, W.13._

"Lunnon"

He was my sergeant-major. Having on one occasion missed death literally by inches, he said coolly: "Them blighters can't 'it 'arf as smart as my missus when she's roused." I last saw him at Charing Cross Station. We were both casualties. All the way from Dover he had moaned one word--"Lunnon." At Charing Cross they laid his stretcher beside mine. He was half conscious. Suddenly he revived and called out, his voice boyish and jolly: "Good 'ole Charin' Crawss," and fell back dead.--_G. W. R., Norwich, Norfolk._

Sparing the M.O.

It was during some open warfare in France. The scene a small room full of badly wounded men; all the remainder have been hurriedly removed, or rather, not brought in here. There are no beds; the men lie on the floor close together.

I rise to stretch my back after dressing one. My foot strikes another foot. A yell of agony--the foot was attached to a badly shattered thigh.

An insistent, earnest chorus: "You _didn't_ 'urt him, sir. 'E often makes a noise like that."

I feel a hand take mine, and, looking down, I see it in the grasp of a man with three gaping wounds. "It _wasn't_ your fault, sir," he says, in a fierce, hoarse whisper.

And then I realise that not a soul in that room but takes it for granted that my mental anguish for my stupidity is greater than his own physical pain, and is doing his best to deaden it for me--one, at any rate, at great cost to himself.

In whose ranks are the world's great gentlemen?--_"The Clumsy Fool," Guy's Hospital, E.C._

"Robbery with Violence"

A Cockney soldier had his leg shattered. When he came round in hospital the doctors told him they had been obliged to take his leg off.

"Taken my leg off? Blimey! Where is it? Hi, wot yer done wiv it? Fer 'Eaven's sake, find my leg, somebody; it's got seven and a tanner in the stocking."--_S. W. Baker, 23 Trinity Road, Bedford._

Seven His Lucky Number

Scene: the plank road outside St. Jean. Stretcher-bearers bringing down a man whose left leg had been blown away below the knee. A man coming up recognises the man on the stretcher, and the following conversation ensues:

"Hello, Bill!" Then, catching sight of the left leg: "Blimey! You ain't 'arf copped it."

The Reply: A faint smile, a right hand feebly pointing to the left sleeve already bearing _six_ gold stripes, and a hoarse voice which said, "Anuvver one, and seven's me lucky number."--_S. G. Wallis Norton, Norton House, Peaks Hill, Purley._

Blind Man's Buff

The hospital ship _Dunluce Castle_, on which I was serving, was taking the wounded and sick from Gallipoli. Among the wounded brought on board one evening was a man who was badly hurt about his face. Our M.O. thought the poor chap's eyes were sightless.

Imagine our surprise when, in the morning, finding that his eyes were bandaged, he pulled himself to a sitting posture in bed, turned his head round and cried out, "S'y, boys, who's fer a gime of blind man's buff?"

I am glad to say that the sight of one eye was saved.--_F. T. Barley, 24, Station Avenue, Prittlewell, Southend._

Self-Supporting

After being wounded at Ypres in July 1917, I was being sent home. When we were all aboard, an orderly came round with life-belts.

When he got to the next stretcher to me, on which lay a man who had his arm and leg in splints, he asked the usual question ("Can you look after yourself if anything happens going across?"), and received the faint answer: "Lumme, mate, I've enough wood on me to make a raft."--_A. E. Fuller (36th Battery R.F.A.), 21 Pendragon Road, Downham Estate, Bromley._

In the Butterfly Division

On arriving at the hospital at Dames Camiers, we were put to bed. In the next bed to mine was a young Cockney who had lost three fingers of his right hand and his left arm below the elbow.

The hospital orderly came to take particulars of our wounds, etc. Having finished with me, he turned to the Cockney. Rank, name, and regimental number were given, and then the orderly asked, "Which division are you from?"

"Why, the 19th," came the answer; and then, as an afterthought, "that's the butterfly division, yer know, but I've 'ad me blinkin' wings clipped."--_H. Redford (late R.F.A.), 49 Anselm Road, Fulham, S.W.6._

An Unfair Leg-Pull

I was working in a surgical ward at a base hospital, and among the patients was a Tommy with a fractured thigh-bone. He had his leg in a splint and, as was customary in these cases, there was an extension at the foot-piece with a heavy weight attached to prevent shortening of the leg.

This weight was causing him a good deal of pain, and as I could do nothing to alleviate it I asked the M.O. to explain to him the necessity for the extension. He did so and ended up by saying, "You know, we want your leg to be straight, old man."

The Tommy replied: "Wot's the good of making that leg strite w'en the uvver one's bowed?"--_Muriel A. Batey (V.A.D. Nurse), The North Cottage, Adderstone Crescent, Newcastle-upon-Tyne._

He Saw It Through

In the big general hospital at Colchester the next bed to mine was occupied by a typical Cockney who was very seriously wounded. It was little short of marvellous that he was alive at all.

Early one morning he became so ill that the hospital chaplain was sent to administer the Last Sacrament and the little Londoner's parents were telegraphed for.

About nine o'clock he rallied a little, and apparently realised that the authorities had given him up as hopeless, for with a great effort he half-sat up and, with his eyes ablaze, cried: "Wot? You fink I'm goin' ter die? Well, you're all wrong! I've bin in this war since it started, an' I intends to be in it at the finish. So I just _won't_ die, to spite yer, see?"

His unconquerable spirit pulled him through, and he is alive--and well--to-day!--_A. C. P. (late 58th (London) Division), Fulham, S.W.6._

As Good as the Pictures

In Salonika during 1916 I was taken to a field hospital, en route for the Base Hospital.

All merry and bright when lying down, but helpless when perpendicular, was a comrade in the next bed to me. We were to be moved next day.

I was interested in him, as he told me he belonged to "Berm-on-Sea," which happens to be my birth-place. Well, close to our marquee were the dump and transport lines, which we could plainly see through the entrance to the marquee.

Sister was taking our temperatures when we heard an explosion. Johnnie had "found" the dump. An officer ran through the marquee, ordering everyone to the dug-outs, and they promptly obeyed.

I looked at Bermondsey Bill. He said: "We are beat. Let's stop and watch the fireworks."

We were helpless on our feet. I tried to walk, but had to give it up. A new commotion then began, and Bill exclaimed: "Blimey, 'ere comes Flying Fox rahnd Tattenham Corner." It was a badly-wounded and panic-stricken mule. It dashed through our marquee, sent Sister's table flying, found the exit and collapsed outside.

Sister returned (she was the right stuff) and said: "Hello, what's happened here? And you boys still in bed! Hadn't you better try and get to the dug-outs?"

Bermondsey Bill said: "We'll stick it aht nah, Sister, an' fancy we're at the pictures."--_J. W. Fairbrass, 131 Sutton Dwellings, Upper Street, Islington, N.1._

Room for the Comforter

At Etaples in 1916 I was in a hospital marquee with nothing worse than a sprained ankle. A Y.M.C.A. officer was visiting us, giving a cheery word here and there, together with a very welcome packet of cigarettes.

In the next cot to me was a young Cockney of the "Diehards," who had been well peppered with shrapnel. His head was almost entirely swathed in bandages, openings being left for his eyes, nose, and mouth.

"Well, old chap," said the good Samaritan to him, "they seem to have got you pretty badly."

"I'm all right, guv'nor--ser long as they leaves me an 'ole to put me fag in."--_A. E. Jeffreys (late 4th Q.O. Hussars), 24 Byne Road, Sydenham, S.E. 26._

"War Worn and Tonsillitis"

My son, Gunner E. Smith (an "Old Contemptible"), came home on leave in September 1918, and after a day or two had something wrong with his throat. I advised him to see the M.O.

He went and came back saying, "Just look at this." The certificate said "War worn and tonsillitis."

He went to the hospital, and was kept in for three weeks. The first time I went to see him, he said, "What do you think of it? A 1914 man, and knocked over by a kid's complaint."--_F. Smith, 23 Saunders Road, Plumstead, S.E.18._

"... Fort I was in 'Ell"

It was at the American General Hospital in Rouen. There was the usual noise created by chaps under anesthetic, swearing, shouting, singing, and moaning; but the fellow in the next bed to me had not stirred since they had brought him from the operating theatre many hours before.

Suddenly he sat up, looked around him in amazement, and said, "Strike, I've bin a-lying 'ere fer abaht two 'ours afraid ter open me peepers. I fort I was in 'ell."--_P. Webb (late E. Surreys), 68 Rossiter Road, Balham, S.W.12._

Pity the Poor Fly!

Amongst my massage patients at one of the general hospitals was a very cheery Cockney sergeant, who had been badly damaged by shrapnel. In addition to other injuries he had lost an eye.

One morning he was issued with a new eye, and was very proud of it. After admiring himself in a small mirror for a considerable time he turned to me and said, "Sister, won't it be a blinkin' sell for the fly who gets into my glass eye?"--_(Mrs.) A. Powell, 61 Ritherdon Road, S.W.17._

Temperature by the Inch

I was a patient in a general hospital in 1918, when a Cockney gunner was put into the bed next to mine. He was suffering from a severe form of influenza, and after ten days' treatment showed little sign of improvement.

One evening the Sister was going her rounds with the thermometers. She had taken our friend's temperature and registered it on the chart hanging over his head. As she passed to the next bed he raised himself and turned round to read the result. Then he looked over to a Canadian in a bed in the far corner of the ward, and this dialogue ensued:

Gunner: Canada!

Canadian: Hallo!

Gunner: Up agin.

Canadian: Go on! How much?

Gunner: 'Arf inch.--_E. A. Taylor (late 4th London Field Ambulance), Drouvin, The Chase, Wallington, Surrey._

"'Arf Price at the Pickshers!"

On the way across Channel with a Blighty in 1917 I chummed up with a wounded Cockney member of the Sussex. His head was swathed in bandages.

"Done one o' me eyes in altergevver," he confided lugubriously. "Any blinkin' 'ow," he added in cheerier tones, "if that don't entitle a bloke to 'arf price at the pickshers fer the rest of 'is blinkin' natural I don't know wot will do!"--_James Vance Marshall, 15, Manette Street, W.1._

Twenty-four Stitches in Time

During the 1918 reverses suffered by the Turks on various fronts large numbers of mules were captured and sent to the veterinary bases to be reconditioned, sorted, and shod, for issue to various units in need of them. It was no mean feat to handle and shoe the worst-tempered brutes in the world. They had been made perfect demons through privation.

"Ninty," a shoeing-smith (late of Grange Road, Bermondsey), was laid out and savaged by a mule, and carried off to hospital. At night his bosom pal goes over to see how his "old china" is going on.

"'Ow are ye, Ninty?"

"Blimey, Ted, nineteen stitches in me figh an' five in me ribs. Ted--wot d'ye reckon they done it wiv? A sewin' machine?"--_A. C. Weekley (late Farrier Staff Sergeant, 20th Veterinary Hospital, Abbassair), 70 Denbigh Road, East Ham, E.6._

His Second Thoughts

A Bluejacket who was brought into the Naval Hospital at Rosyth had had one of his legs blown off while he was asleep in his hammock. The late Mr. Thomas Horrocks Oppenshaw, the senior surgeon-in-charge, asked him what his first thought was when the explosion woke him up.

"My first thought was 'Torpedoed, by gum!'"

"And what did you think next?"

"I think what I thought next was 'Ruddy good shot!'"--_H.R.A., M.D., llford Manor, near Lewes, Sussex._

Hats Off to Private Tanner

The following story, which emphasises the Cockney war spirit in the most adverse circumstances, and how it even impressed our late enemy, was related to me by a German acquaintance whose integrity is unimpeachable.

It was at a German prisoner-of-war clearing station in Douai during the summer of 1917, where wounded British prisoners were being cleared for prison-camp hospital.

A number of wounded of a London regiment has been brought in, and a German orderly was detailed to take their names and particulars of wounds, etc. Later, looking over the orderly's list, the German sergeant-major in charge came across a name written by the orderly which was quite unintelligible to the sergeant-major.

He therefore requested an intelligence officer, who spoke perfect English, to ask this particular man his name. The intelligence officer sought out the man, a Cockney, who had been severely wounded, and the following conversation took place.

I.O.: You are Number ----?

Cockney: Yussir.

I.O.: What is your name?

Cockney: Fourpence'a'penny.

I.O.: I understand this is a term of English money, not a name.

Cockney: Well, sir, I used to be called Tanner, but my right leg was took orf yesterday.

The final words of the intelligence officer, as related to me, were: "I could have fallen on the 'begrimed ruffian hero's' neck and kissed him."--_J. W. Rourke, M.C. (ex-Lieut. Essex Regt.), 20 Mill Green Road, Welwyn Garden City._

The Markis o' Granby

Wounded at Sheria, Palestine, in November 1917. I was sent to the nearest railhead in a motor-ambulance. A fellow-passenger--also from a London battalion--was wounded very badly in both thighs. The orderly who tucked him up on his stretcher before the start asked him if he would like a drink.

"No, thanks, chum--not nah," he replied; "but you might arsk the driver to pull up at the ole Markis o' Granby, and we'll all 'ave one!"

I heard later that he died in hospital.--_C. Dickens (late 2/20th London Regiment), 18 Wheathill Road, Anerley, S.E.20._

A One-Legged Turn

Wounded about half an hour after the final attack on Gaza, I awoke to consciousness in the M.O.'s dug-out.

"Poor old concert party," he said; "you're the fifth 'Ragamuffin' to come down."

Eventually I found myself sharing a mule-cart with another wounded man, but he lay so motionless and quiet that I feared I was about to journey from the line in a hearse.

The jolting of the cart apparently jerked a little life into him, for he asked me, "Got a fag, mate?" With a struggle I lighted my one remaining cigarette.

After a while I asked him, "Where did you catch it, old fellow?" "Lumme," he replied, "if it ain't old George's voice." Then I recognised Sam, the comedian of our troupe.