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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
M'Lord, of Hoxton
We called him "M'lord." He came from Hoxton--"That's where they make 'em," he used to say. He was a great asset to us, owing to the wonderful way in which he went out and "won" things.
One night, near Amiens, in 1916, "M'lord" said, "I'm going aht to see wot some uvver mob has got too much of." One or two of us offered to accompany him, but he refused, saying, "You bloomin' elephants 'ud be bahnd to give the gime away."
About three hours later, when we were beginning to get anxious, we saw him staggering in with a badly wounded German, who was smoking a cigarette.
Seeing us, and very much afraid of being thought soft-hearted, "M'lord" plumped old Fritz down on the fire-step and said very fiercely, "Don't you dare lean on me wif impunity, or wif a fag in your mouf."
Jerry told us later that he had lain badly wounded in a deserted farmhouse for over two days, and "M'lord" had almost carried him for over a mile.
The Tall Man's War
The climax came at Delville Wood in August 1916, when, taking over the line, we found the trench knocked about in a way that made it most uncomfortable for all of us. Here our tall friend had to resort to his acrobatics more than ever: at times he would crawl on all fours to "dodge 'em." One shot, however, caused him to dive down more quickly than usual--right into a sump hole in the trench.
Germany Didn't Know This
One night in June 1916, on the Somme, we were ordered to leave our line and go over and dig an advance trench. We returned to our trench before dawn, and shortly afterwards my chum, "Pussy" Harris, said to me, "I have left my rifle in No Man's Land."
"Never mind," I said, "there are plenty more. Don't go over there: the snipers are sure to get you."
He went over....
Better than the Crystal Palace
One night, while going round the line at Loos, I was accompanied by Sergeant Winslow, who was a London coster before the war.
We were examining the field of fire of a Lewis gun, when the Germans opened up properly on our sector. Clouds of smoke rose from the surrounding trenches, crash after crash echoed around the old Loos crassier, and night was turned into day by Verey lights sent up by both sides.
Suddenly a lad of 18, just out, turned to Sergeant Winslow, and in a quivering voice said: "My God, sergeant, this is awful!"
A Short Week-end
One Saturday evening I was standing by my dug-out in Sausage Valley, near Fricourt, when a draft of the Middlesex Regt. halted for the guide to take them up to the front line where the battalion was. I had a chat with one of the lads, who told me he had left England on the Friday.
They moved off, and soon things got lively; a raid and counter-raid started.
Simultaneous Chess
At Aubers Ridge, near Fromelles, in October 1918, my chum and I were engrossed in a game of chess, our chessboard being a waterproof sheet with the squares painted on it, laid across a slab of concrete from a destroyed pill-box.
The Germans began to drop 5?9's with alarming regularity about 150 yards to our rear, temporarily distracting our attention from the game.
Returning to the game, I said to my chum, "Whose move, Joe?"
Before he could reply a shell landed with a deafening roar within a few yards of us, but luckily did not explode .
Fire-step Philosophy
On July 1, 1916, I happened to be among those concerned in the attack on the German line in front of Serre, near Beaumont Hamel. Our onslaught at that point was not conspicuously successful, but we managed to establish ourselves temporarily in what had been the Boche front line, to the unconcealed indignation of the previous tenants.
During a short lull in the subsequent proceedings I saw one of my company--an elderly private whose melancholy countenance and lank black moustache will ever remain engraved on my memory--seated tranquilly on the battered fire-step, engrossed in a certain humorous journal.
"Teddie" Gets the Last Word
Sergeant "Teddie" was rather deaf, but I am inclined to think that this slight affliction enabled him to pull our legs on occasions.
Our company of the London Regiment had just taken over a part of the line known as the Paris Redoubt, and on the first evening in the sector the company commander, the second in command, Sergeant "Teddie," and myself had a stroll along the observation line, which was just forward of the front line, in order to visit the various posts.
Suddenly a salvo of shells came over and one burst perilously near us. Three of the party adopted the prone position in record time, but on our looking round "Teddie" was seen to be still standing and apparently quite unconcerned.
"Why the dickens didn't you get down?" said one of the party, turning to him. "It nearly had us that time."
"Nobbler's" Grouse
Just before the battle of Messines we of the 23rd Londons were holding the Bluff sector to the right of Hill 60. "Stand down" was the order, and the sergeant was coming round with the rum.
"Nobbler," late of the Mile End Road, was watching him in joyful anticipation when ... a whizz-bang burst on the parapet, hurling men in all directions. No one was hurt ... but the precious rum jar was shattered.
Dust in 'Indenburg's Sauerkraut!
To all those thousands who remember Shrapnel Corner and the sign: "DRIVE SLOWLY! SPEED CAUSES DUST WHICH DRAWS THE ENEMY'S SHELL FIRE" this incident will appeal.
I had rounded the corner into Zillebeke Road with a load of ammunition, and had gone about 200 yards along the road, when Fritz let go with a few shells.
"Rum Ration" looked out of the lorry to observe where the shells were falling.
A Valiant Son of London
Crack! Crack! Crack!--and men falling with each crack. It is terrible; we are faced with mud, misery, and despair. A German machine-gun is taking its toll.
It seems impossible to get at the gunners, and we spend hours lying in wait. This waiting proves too much for one of us; single-handed he takes a chance and crawls away from my side. I keep him covered; minutes roll by; they seem hours, days; and, as he is now out of sight, I begin to give up hope for him, my Cockney pal.
Some instinct warns me to keep watch, and I am rewarded. I feel my eyes start from my head as I see the approaching procession--four Germans, hands above their heads, and my pal following, carrying the machine-gun across his shoulders. I marvel at his courage and wonder how it was done ... but this I am never to know. As I leap from the trench to give him assistance I realise his number is nearly up. He is covered with blood.
I go to relieve him of his burden, and in that moment one of the Germans, sensing that my pal is almost out, turns on us with his revolver. We are held at the pistol-point and I know I must make a desperate bid to save my pal, who has done his best in an act which saved a portion of our line.
I drop the gun and, with a quick movement, I am able to trip the nearest German, but he is quick too and manages to stick me .
I am weak with loss of blood, but I am still able to drag my pal with me, and, aided by his determination, we get through. It seems we are at peace with the world. But, alas, when only five yards from our trenches a shell bursts beside us; I have a stinging pain in my shoulder and cannot move! Machine-guns and rifles are playing hell.
A Hint to the Brigadier
Alec Lancaster was a showman at the White City in pre-war days. Short in stature, he possessed a mighty heart, and in the ghastly days in front of Poelcapelle he made history as the sergeant who took command of a brigadier.
Just then a few shells came over in quick succession and things looked nasty.
"Salvage? Yus, Me!"
On the third day of the German offensive in March 1918 a certain brigade of the R.F.A. was retiring on P?ronne.
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