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Read Ebook: 500 of the Best Cockney War Stories by Various Hamilton Ian Contributor Thomas Bert Illustrator
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Ebook has 1784 lines and 72298 words, and 36 pages
"Wot yer grumblin' at?" broke in the corporal, "you with yer fawncy tyles of Inja? At any rate, there ain't no blinking moskeeters 'ere nor 'orrible malyria."
There was a break in the pleasantries as a big one came over. In the subsequent explosion the little Cockney was fatally wounded.
A "Bow Bells" Heroine
For seven hours, with little intermission, the German airmen bombed a camp not a hundred miles from Etaples. Of the handful of Q.M.A.A.C.s stationed there, one was an eighteen-year-old middle-class girl, high-strung, sensitive, not long finished with her convent school. Another was Kitty, a Cockney girl of twenty, by occupation a machine-hand, by vocation a com?dienne, and, by heaven, a heroine.
The high courage of the younger girl was cracking under the strain of that ordeal by bombs. Kitty saw how it was with her, and for five long hours she gave a recital of song, dialogue, and dance--most of it improvised--while the bombs fell and the anti-aircraft guns screamed. In all probability she saved the younger girl's reason.
Samson, but Shorn
During the German attack near Zillebeke in June 1916 a diminutive Cockney, named Samson, oddly enough, received a scalp wound from a shell splinter which furrowed a neat path through his hair.
The fighting was rather hot at the time, and this great-hearted little Londoner carried on with the good work.
Some hours later came the order to fall back, and as the Cockney was making his way down the remains of a trench, dazed and staggering, a harassed sergeant, himself nearly "all in," ordered him to bear off a couple of rifles and a box of ammunition.
When we were at Railway Wood, Ypres Salient, in 1916, "Muddy Lane," our only communication trench from the front line to the support line, had been reduced to shapelessness by innumerable "heavies." Progress in either direction entailed exposure to snipers in at least twelve different places, and runners and messengers were, as our sergeant put it, "tickled all the way."
In the support line one afternoon, hearing the familiar "Crack! Crack! Crack!" I went to Muddy Lane junction to await the advertised visitor. He arrived--a wiry little Cockney Tommy, with his tin hat dented in two places and blood trickling from a bullet graze on the cheek.
In appreciation of the risk he had run I remarked, "Jerry seems to be watching that bit!"
A Very Human Concertina
In March 1918, when Jerry was making his last great attack, I was in the neighbourhood of Petit Barisis when three enemy bombing planes appeared overhead and gave us their load. After all was clear I overheard this dialogue between two diminutive privates of the 7th Battalion, the London Regiment , who were on guard duty at the Q.M. Stores:
"You all right, Bill?"
"Yes, George!"
"Where'd you get to, Bill, when he dropped his eggs?"
A One-Man Army
The 47th London Division were holding the line in the Bluff sector, near Ypres, early in 1917, and the 20th London Battalion were being relieved on a very wet evening, as I was going up to the front line with a working party.
Near Hell Fire Corner shells were coming over at about three-minute intervals. One of the 20th London Lewis gunners was passing in full fighting order, with fur coat, gum boots, etc., carrying his Lewis gun, several drums of ammunition, and the inevitable rum jar.
One of my working party, a typical Cockney, surveyed him and said:
"Nah, Mate! Soufend!"
During the heavy rains in the summer of 1917 our headquarters dug-out got flooded. So a fatigue party was detailed to bale it out.
"Long Bert" Smith was one of our baling squad. Because of his abnormal reach, he was stationed at the "crab-crawl," his job being to throw the water outside as we handed the buckets up to him.
It was a dangerous post. Jerry was pasting the whole area unmercifully and shell splinters pounded on the dug-out roof every few seconds.
Twenty minutes after we had started work Bert got badly hit, and it was some time before the stretcher-bearers could venture out to him. When they did so he seemed to be unconscious.
"Poor blighter!" said one of the bearers. "Looks to be going West."
Bert, game to the last, opened his eyes and, seeing the canvas bucket still convulsively clutched in his right fist, "Nah, mate!" he grunted--"Soufend!"
"I Got 'Ole Nelson Beat!"
Several stretcher cases in the field dressing station at the foot of "Chocolate Hill," Gallipoli, awaited removal by ambulance, including a Cockney trooper in the dismounted Yeomanry.
He had a bandage round his head, only one eye was visible, and his left arm was bound to his breast with a sandbag.
His rapid-fire of Cockney witticisms had helped to keep our spirits up while waiting--he had a comment for everything. Suddenly a "strafe" started, and a shrapnel shell shot its load among us.
Two Kinds of Fatalist
A German sniper was busy potting at our men in a front-line trench at Cambrai in March 1918. A Cockney "old sweat," observing a youngster gazing over the parapet, asked him if he were a fatalist.
The youngster replied "Yes."
Double up, Beauty Chorus!
One summer afternoon in '15 some lads of the Rifle Brigade were bathing in the lake in the grounds of the ch?teau at Elverdinghe, a mile or so behind the line at Ypres, when German shells began to land uncomfortably near. The swimmers immediately made for the land, and, drawing only boots on their feet, dashed for the cellar in the ch?teau.
The Theatre of War
During the battle of Arras, Easter 1917, we were lying out in front of our wire in extended order waiting for our show to begin. Both our artillery and that of Fritz were bombarding as hard as they could. It was pouring with rain, and everybody was caked in mud.
Our platoon officer, finding he had a good supply of chocolate, and realising that rations might not be forthcoming for some time, crept along the line and gave us each a piece.
"It's the Skivvy's 'Arf Day Orf"
Easter Monday, April 9, 1917. Night. Inches of snow and a weird silence everywhere after the turmoil of the day. Our battalion is held up in front of Monchy-le-Preux during the battle of Arras. I am sent out with a patrol to reconnoitre one of our tanks that is crippled and astride the German wire 300 yards out.
It is ticklish work, because the crew may be dead or wounded and Fritz in occupation. Very warily we creep around the battered monster and presently I tap gingerly on one of the doors. No response. We crawl to the other side and repeat the tapping process. At last, through the eerie silence, comes a low, hoarse challenge.
"Oo are yer?"
"Fusiliers!" I reply, as I look up and see a tousled head sticking through a hole in the roof.
"Ho!" exclaims the voice above, "I'll 'ave ter come dahn and let yer in meself, it's the skivvy's 'arf day orf!"
Cricket on the Somme
"Spider" Webb was a Cockney--from Stepney, I believe--who was with us on the Somme in 1916. He was a splendid cricketer.
We had had a very stiff time for six or seven hours and were resting during a lull in the firing. Then suddenly Jerry sent over five shells. After a pause another shell came over and burst near to "Spider" and his two pals.
When the smoke cleared I went across to see what had happened. "Spider's" two pals were beyond help. The Cockney was propping himself up with his elbows surveying the scene.
M'Lord, of Hoxton
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