"I makes de shoot."
"I makes de shoot."
Bogey's mates laughed to hear him sprachen the German; but Jerry didn't cut the tow again.—E. C. Gibson, 3 Slatin Road, Stroud, Kent.
We were a working party of British prisoners marching through the German barracks on our way to the parcel office. Coming towards us was a German officer on horseback. When he arrived abreast of us he shouted in very good English: "It's a long way to Tipperary, boys, isn't it?" This was promptly answered by a Cockney in the crowd: "Yus! And it's a ruddy long way to Paris, ain't it?"—C. A. Cooke, O.B.E. (late R.N.D.), 34 Brandram Road, Lee High Road, S.E.
Scene: A small ward in Cologne Fortress, occupied by about twelve British prisoners of war.
Time: The German M.O.'s inspection. Action: The new sentry on guard in the corridor had orders that all must stand on the M.O.'s entry. Seeing the M.O. coming, he called out to us. We jumped to it as best we could, except one, a Cockney, who had just arrived minus one leg and suffering from other injuries.
Not knowing this, the sentry rushed over to him, yelling that he must stand. Seeing that no notice was being taken, he pointed his rifle directly at the Cockney. With an effort, since he was very weak and in great pain, the Cockney raised himself, caught hold of the rifle and, looking straight at it, said: "Dirty barrel—seven days!"
The M.O., who had just arrived, heard the remark, and, understanding it, explained it to the sentry, who joined in our renewed laughter.—A. V. White, 35 Mayville Road, Leytonstone, E.11.
We were prisoners of war, all taken before Christmas 1914, and had been drafted to Libau, on the Baltic coast.
Towards the end of 1916 a party of us were working on the docks when a German naval officer approached and began talking to us.
During the conversation he said he had met several English admirals and named some of them.
After a little while a Cockney voice from the rear of our party said, "'Ave you ever met Jellicoe, mate?"
The officer replied in the negative, whereupon the Cockney said, "Well, take yer bloomin' ships into the North Sea: he's looking for yer."—F. A. F. (late K.O.Y.L.I.), 4 Shaftesbury Road, W.6.
In 1916 the British R.N.A.S. armoured cars, under Commander Oliver Locker-Lampson, went from Russia to Rumania to help to stem the enemy's advance.
One day, at the frontier town of Reni, I saw a Cockney petty officer engaged in earnest conversation with a Russian soldier. Finally, the two shook hands solemnly, saluted, and parted.
"Did he speak English?" I asked when the Russian had gone away. "Not 'im," said the P.O.
"Perhaps you speak Russian?" I asked, my curiosity aroused. "No bloomin' fear!" he said, for all the world as if I had insulted him.
"Then how do you speak to each other?"
"That's easy, sir," he said. "'E comes up to me an' says 'Ooski, kooski, wooski, fooski.' 'Same to you,' says I, 'an' many of 'em, ol' cock.' 'Bzz-z-z, mzz-z-z, tzz-z-z,' says 'e. 'Thanks,' I says. 'Another time, ol' boy. I've just 'ad a couple.' 'Tooralski, looralski, pooralski,' 'e says. 'Ye don't say!' says I. 'An' very nice, too,' I says, 'funny face!'
"'Armony," he explained. "No quarrellin', no argifyin', only peace an' 'armony.... Of course, sir, every now an' again I says 'Go to 'ell, y' silly blighter!'"
"What for?"
He looked at me coldly. "'Ow do I know but what the blighter's usin' insultin' words to me?" he asked.—R. S. Liddell, Rosebery Avenue, E.C.1.
Here is a story of the Cockney war spirit at home. We called him "London" as he was the only Londoner in the troop. Very pale and slight, he gave the impression of being consumptive, yet he was quite an athlete, as his sprinting at the brigade sports showed.
We had been on a gunnery course up Hornsey way, and with skeleton kit were returning past a large field in which were three gas chambers used for gas drill. No one was allowed even to go in the field unless equipped with a gas-mask. Suddenly a voice called out, "Look, there's a man trying to get in yon chamber."
We shouted as loud as we could, but beyond waving his arms the figure—which looked to be that of a farm labourer—continued to push at the door. Then I saw "London" leap the gate of the field and sprint towards the chamber. When he was about 50 yards off the man gave a sudden lurch at the door and passed within. We called to "London" to come back, but a couple of seconds later he too was lost from view.
One minute—it seemed like an hour—two, three, five, ten, and out came "London." He dragged with him the bulky labourer. Five yards from the chamber he dropped. Disregarding orders, we ran tohis assistance. Both his eyes were swollen, his lip was cut, and a large gash on the cheek-bone told not of gas, but of a fight.
He soon came to—and pointing to his many cuts said, "Serves me right for interfering. Thought the fellah might have been gassed, but there's none in there; and hell—hecanhit."—"Selo-Sam," late Yorks Dragoons.
He hailed from Walworth and was the unfortunate possessor of a permanent grin.
The trouble began at the training camp at Seaford when the captain was inspecting the company.
"Who are you grinning at?" said he. "Beg parding," replied Smiler, "but I can't help it, sir. I was born like it."
On the "other side" it was the same. The captain would take Smiler's grin as a distinct attempt to "take a rise" out of him. The result was that all the worst jobs seemed to fall upon the luckless Londoner.
He was one of the "lucky lads" selected one night for a working party. While he was so engaged Jerry sent over a packet which was stopped by Smiler, and it was quickly apparent to him and to us that this was more than a Blighty one.
As I knelt by his side to comfort him he softly whispered, "Say, mate, has Jerry knocked the blinkin' smile off?"
"No," I replied, "it's still there."
Then, with a strange light in his eyes, he said, "Won't the captain be darned wild when he hears about it?"—P. Walters (late Cpl., Royal Fusiliers), 20 Church Street, Woolwich, S.E.18.
On a Greek island overlooking the Dardanelles, where we were stationed in 1916, my pal Sid and I were one day walking along a road when we saw approaching us a poor-looking knock-kneed donkey. On its back, almost burying it, was a huge pile of brushwood, and on top of this sat a Greek, whilst in front walked an elderly woman, probably his wife, also with a load of twigs on her back.
Sid's face was a study in astonishment and indignation. "Strewth!" he muttered to himself. To the Greek he said, "Hi, 'oo the dickens d'you fink you are—the Lord Mayor? Come down orf of there!"
The Greek didn't understand, of course, but Sid had him down. He seemed to be trying to remonstrate with Sid, but Sid wasn't "'avin' no excuses of that sort," and proceeded to reverse the order of things. He wanted "Ma" to "'op up an' 'ave a ride," but the timid woman declined. Her burden, however, was transferred to the man's back, and after surveying him in an O.C. manner, Sid said: "Nah, pass on, an' don't let it 'appen again!"—H. T. Coad (late R.M.L.I.), 30 Moat Place, Stockwell, S.W.9.
At a prisoners of war camp, in Havre, it was my duty to make a daily inspection of the compound within the barbed wire, and also the officers' quarters.
In charge of the officers' mess was a little Cockney corporal, but practically all the cooking and other work was done by German prisoners.
We had just put on trial a new cook, a German, who had told us that he had been a chef before the war at one of the big London hotels.
I was making my usual inspection with my S. M., and when we came to the officers' mess he bawled out "'Shun! Officer's inspection, any complaints?"
The new German cook apparently did not think that this applied to him, and, wanting to create a good impression, he strolled across to me in the bestmaître d'hôtelstyle, and exclaimed, "Goot mornung, sir. I tink ve are go'n to haf som rain."
"'Ow long 'ave you bin a partner in the firm?"
"'Ow long 'ave you bin a partner in the firm?"
Our little corporal appeared astounded at this lack of respect, and, going over to the German, he said in a loud voice: "Put thet knife dahn, an' stand to attention. Ve'r gorn to 'ave some rine, indeed!" And then, in a louder voice, "Veare. 'Ow long 'aveyoubin a partner in the firm?"—Lieut. Edwin J. Barratt (Ex-"Queens" R.W. Surrey Regt.), 8 Elborough Street, Southfields, S.W.18.
At Sorrel le Grand, which our division had just taken in 1917, we took up a good position for our machine gun in a small dug-out.
I was cleaning my revolver on one of the steps, and it accidentally went off.
To my surprise and horror the bullet struck one of my comrades (who was in a sitting position) in the centre of his steel helmet, creating a huge dent.
His remark was: "Lummy, it was a jolly good job I was reading one of my girl's letters," and then continued reading.—Robt. Fisher (late Corpl., M.G.C.), 15 Mayesbrook Road, Goodmayes, Essex.
Jerry's front line trench and ours were not three hundred yards apart. Over that sinister strip of ground attack and counter-attack had surged and ebbed in a darkness often turned to day by Verey lights and star-shells. Brave men on each side had reached their objective, but "fell Sergeant Death" often took charge.
In our sector was a 1914 "Contemptible," who, despite mud and adverse conditions, made his New Army comrades smile at his barrack-room efforts to keep his uniform and equipment just so.
Of Coster ancestry, his name was Dan, and, of course, they called him Dandy. He felt distinctly annoyed when on several days an officer passed him in the trench with the third button of his tunic missing. "'Is batman ought bloomin' well be for it," he soliloquised.
Another night visit to Jerry's trench, and again some poor fellows stay there for keeps. In broad noonday Dan is once more aggrieved by seeing an officer with a button missing who halts in the trench to ask him the whereabouts of B.H.Q. and other details. The tunic looked the same, third button absent,but it was not the same officer.
Now Dan's platoon sergeant, also a Londoner, was a man who had exchanged his truncheon for a more deadly weapon. Him Dan accosts: "I've a conundrum I'd like to arsk you, sergeant, as I don't see Sherlock 'Olmes nowhere. W'y do orficers lose their third button?"
As became an ex-policeman, the sergeant's suspicions were aroused by the coincidence, so much so indeed that he made discreet enquiries and discovered that the original owner of a tunic minus a third button had been reported missing, believed dead, after a recent trench raid.
The adjutant very soon made it his business to intercept the new wearer and civilly invite him to meet the O.C. at B.H.Q. Result: a firing party at dawn.
When the news of the spy filtered through, Dan's comment was; "Once, when a rookie, I was crimed at the Tower for paradin' with a button missin', but I've got even now by havin' an orficer crimed for the same thing, even if hewasonly a blinkin' 'Un!"—H. G., Plaistow.
A heavily-laden and slightly intoxicated Tommy, en route to France, entered the Tube at Oxford Circus. As the train started he lurched and trod heavily on the toes of a very distinguished "Brass Hat."
Grabbing hold of the strap, he leaned down apologetically and murmured: "Sorry, Sergeant!"—Bert Thomas, Church Farm, Pinner, Middlesex.
"Sorry, Sergeant!"
"Sorry, Sergeant!"
We were prisoners in the infamous Fort Macdonald, near Lille, early in May 1917, rammed into the dungeons there for a sort of "levelling down process," i.e. starvation, brutal treatment, and general misery. After eleven days of it we were on our way, emaciated, silent, and miserable, to the working camps close behind the German lines, when a Cockney voice piped up:
"Nah then, boys, don't be down 'earted. They kin knock yer abaht and cut dahn yer rations, but, blimey, they won'teatus—not nah!"—G. F. Green, 14 Alma Square, St. John's Wood, N.W.8.
The following, written by a London Colonel, was hung up in one of our dug-outs:
"When one is a soldier, it is one of two things. One is either in a dangerous place, or a cushy one. If in the latter, there is no need to worry. If one is in a dangerous place, it is one of two things. One is wounded, or one is not. If one is not, there is no need to worry. If the former, it is either dangerous or slight. If slight, there is no need to worry, but if dangerous, it is one of two alternatives. One dies or recovers. If the latter, why worry? If you die you cannot. In these circumstances the real Tommy never worries."—"Alwas," Windmill Road, Brentford, Middlesex.
As prisoners of war we were unloading railway sleepers from trucks when a shell dump blew up. German guards and British prisoners scattered in all directions. Some of the Germans were badly wounded and, as shells continued to explode, no attempt was made by their comrades to succour them.
Seeing the plight of the wounded, a Cockney lad called to some fellow-prisoners crouching on the ground, "We can't leave 'em to die like this. Who's coming with me?"
He and others raced across a number of rail tracks to the wounded men and carried them to cover.
For this act of bravery they were later commended by the then Kaiser.—C. H. Porter (late East Surrey Regiment), 118 Fairlands Avenue, Thornton Heath, Surrey.
We were resting in Poperinghe in December 1915. One morning about 4.30 a.m. we were called out and rushed to entrain for Vlamertinghe because Jerry was attacking.
The train was packed with troops, and we were oiling our rifle bolts andchecking our ammunition to be ready for action. We had not proceeded far when Jerry started trying to hit the train with some heavy shells. Several burst very close to the track.
There was one young chap in our compartment huddled in a corner looking rather white. "They seem to be trying to hit the train," he said.
"Darkie" Webb, of Poplar, always cheerful and matter-of-fact, looked across at the speaker and said, "'It the train? No fear, mate, them's only signals; there's fog on the line."—B. Pigott (late Essex Regt.), 55 Burdett Avenue, Westcliff-on-Sea.
I was on the extreme right of the British line on March 22, 1918, and was severely wounded. I was picked up by the U.S. Red Cross.
There was accommodation for four in the ambulance, and this was apportioned between two Frenchmen, a Cockney gunner, and myself.
Anxious to keep our spirits up, the kindly Yankee driver said, "Cheer up! I'll soon get you there and see you put right," and as if to prove his words he rushed the ambulance off at express speed, with the result that in a few moments he knocked down a pedestrian.
A short rest whilst he adjusted matters with the unfortunate individual, then off again at breakneck speed.
The Cockney had, up to now, been very quiet, but when our driver barely missed a group of Tommies and in avoiding them ran into a wagon, the Londoner raised himself on his elbow and in a hoarse voice said, "Naw then, Sam, what the 'ell are you playing at? 'Aint yer got enough customers?"—John Thomas Sawyer (8th East Surreys), 88 Wilcox Road, S.W.8.
Most English balloon observers were officers, but occasionally a non-commissioned man was taken up in order to give him experience.
On one such occasion the balloon burst in the air. The two occupants made a hasty parachute exit from the basket. The courtesy usually observed by the senior officer, of allowing the other parachute to get clear before he jumps, was not possible in this instance, with the result that the officer got entangled with the "passenger's" parachute, which consequently did not open.
Fortunately the officer's parachute functioned successfully and brought both men safely to earth. Upon landing they were rather badly dragged along the ground, being finally pulled up in a bush.
The "passenger," a Cockney sergeant, was damaged a good deal, but upon being picked up and asked how he had enjoyed his ride he answered, "Oh, it was all right, but a parachute is like a wife or a toof-brush—you reely want one to yourself."—Basil Mitchell (late R.A.F.), 51 Long Lane, Finchley, N.3.
"Moi—vous—'im—avec Allah!"
"Moi—vous—'im—avec Allah!"
An Indian mule driver had picked up a German hand grenade of the "potato masher" type, which he evidently regarded as a heaven-sent implement for driving in a peg. Two Tommies tried to dissuade him, but, though he desisted, he was obviously puzzled. So one of the Cockneys tried to explain. "Vous compree Allah?" he asked, and raised his hand above his head. Satisfied that the increasing look of bewilderment was really one of complete enlightenment, he proceeded to go through a pantomime of striking with the "potato masher" and, solemnly pointing in turn to himself, to the Indian, and to his companion, said: "Moi, vous, and 'im—avec Allah."—J. F. Seignoir (Lt., R.A.), 13 Moray Place, Cheshunt, Herts.
My regiment was in action on the Marne on September 20, 1914. We had been hammering, and had been hammered at, for some hours, until there were very few of us left, and those few, being almost all of them wounded or short of ammunition, were eventually captured and taken behind the German lines.
As we passed their trenches we saw a great number of German wounded lying about.
One of our lads, a reservist, who was a billiards marker in Stepney, although badly wounded, could not resist a gibe at a German officer.
"Strewth, Old Sausage and Mash," he cried, "your blokes may be good at the cannon game, but we can beat yer at pottin' the blinkin' red. Look at yer perishin' number board" (meaning the German killed and wounded). And with a sniff of contempt he struggled after his mates into captivity.—T. C. Rainbird (late Pte., 1st West Yorks), 41 Cavalry Crescent, Eastbourne, Sussex.
It was the beginning of the spring offensive, 1918, and the 2nd Army Gun School, Wisques, was empty, as the men had gone into the line. A handful of Q.M.A.A.C. cooks were standing by.
I sent two little Cockney girls over to the instructors' château to keep the fires up in case the men returned suddenly. I went to the camp gate as an enemy bombing plane passed over. The girls had started back, and were half-way across the field. The plane flew so low that the men leaned over the side and jeered at us.
I held my breath as it passed the girls—would they shoot them in passing? The girls did not hasten, but presently reached me with faces as white as paper.
"Why didn't you run?" I said.
"Lor', mum," came the reply, "yer didn't think as 'ow we was a-goin' ter run with them there Germans up there, did ye? Not much!"—C. N. (late U.A., Q.M.A.A.C.), Heathcroft, Hampstead Way, N.W.
Whilst having a short spell away from the front line I attended a performance given in Arras by the divisional concert party, "The Bow Bells."
During one of the items a long-range shell struck the building, fortunately without causing any casualties among the audience.
Although front-line troops are not given to "windiness," the unexpectedness of this unwelcome arrival brought about a few moments' intense silence, which was broken by a Cockney who remarked, "Jerrywouldcome in wivvaht payin'."—L. S. Smith (late 1-7 Middlesex Regt., 56th Division, B.E.F.), 171 Langham Road, N.15.
During part of the war my work included salving and destroying "dud" shells and bombs in the back areas. On one occasion in an air-raid a "dud" bomb glanced through the side of a hut occupied by some fitters belonging to an M.T. section of R.E.'s.
This particular bomb (weighing about 100 lb.), on its passage through the hut had torn the corner of a pillow on which the owner's head was lying and carried feathers for several feet into the ground.
We dug about ten feet down and then, as the hole filled with water as fast as we could pump it out, we gave it up, the tail, which had become detached a few feet down, being the only reward of our efforts.
While we were in the midst of our operations the owner of the pillow—very "bucked" at being unhurt after such a narrow shave—came to look on, and with a glance down the hole and a grin at me said, "Well, sir, if I'd known it 'ud give yer so much trouble, I'd 'a caught it!"—Arthur G. Grutchfield (late Major (D.A.D.O.S. Ammn.) R.A.O.C.), Hill Rise, Sanderstead Road, Sanderstead, Surrey.
During the Afghan operations I was resting my company on the side of the road at the Afghan entrance to the Khyber Pass. It was mid-day and the heat was terrific, when along that heat-stricken road came a British battalion. They had marched 15 miles that morning from Ali Musfd. Their destination was Landi Kana, five miles below us on the plain.
As they came round the bend a cheer went up, for they spotted specks of white canvas in the distance. Most of the battalion seemed to be on the verge of collapse from the heat, but one Tommy, a Cockney, broke from the ranks and had a look at the camp in the distance, and exclaimed: "Coo! If I 'ad me running pumps I could sprint it!"—Capt. A. G. A. Barton, M.C., Indian Army, "The Beeches," The Beeches Road, Perry Bar, Birmingham.
In September 1915 our battery near Ypres was crumped at intervals of twenty minutes by 18-in. shells. The craters they made could easily contain a lorry or two.
One hit by the fifth shell destroyed our château completely. Leaving our dug-outs I found a gunner smoking fags under the fish-net camouflage at Number One gun.
Asked sternly why he had not gone to ground, he replied, "Well, yer see, sir, I'm really a sailor and when the earth rocks with Jack Johnsons I feels at 'ome like. Besides, the nets keeps off the flies."—G. C. D. (ex-Gunner Subaltern, 14th Div.), Sister Agnes Officers' Hospital, Grosvenor Crescent, S.W.1.
Towards the final stages of the Palestine front operations, when Johnny Turk was retreating very rapidly, I was detailed with others to clear and destroy enemy ammunition that had been left behind.
When near the Sea of Galilee there was discovered a dump of aerial bombs, each approximately 25 lb. in weight. Thinking it quicker and attended by less risk than the usual detonation, I decided to drop them in the sea.
About ten bombs were placed aboard a small boat, and I with three others pushed out about two hundred yards. Two of the bombs were dropped overboard without ever a thought of danger when suddenly there was a heavy, dull explosion beneath us, and boat, cargo, and crew were thrown into the air.
Nobody was hurt. All clung to the remains of the boat, and we were brought back to our senses by one of our Cockney companions, who remarked: "Even Davy Jones won't have the ruddy fings."—A. W. Owen (late Corporal, Desert Corps), 9 Keith Road, Walthamstow, E.17.
One summer afternoon in 1915 I was asked to deliver an official letter to the Mayor of Poperinghe. The old town was not then so well known as Toc H activities have since made it. At the time it was being heavily strafed by long-range guns. Many of the inhabitants had fled.
I rode over with a pal. The door of themairiewas open, but the building appeared as deserted as the great square outside.
Just then a Belgian gendarme walked in and looked at us inquiringly. I showed him the buff envelope inscribed "Monsieur le Maire," whereupon he smiled and said, "Parti."
At that moment there was a deafening crash outside and the air was filled with flying debris and acrid smoke. In a feeling voice my chum quietly remarked, "And I don't blinkin' well blame 'im, either!"—F. Street, 13 Greenfield Road, Eastbourne.
Printed in Great Britain by Hasell, Watson & Viney, Ltd., London and Aylesbury.Published by Associated Newspapers, Ltd., London, E.C.4.
Transcriber's NotesObvious errors of punctuation and diacritics repaired.Hyphenation was made consistent.P. 49: "Dorian Lake" changed to "Doiran Lake".P. 103: "Hindenbrug" changed to "Hindenburg".
Obvious errors of punctuation and diacritics repaired.
Hyphenation was made consistent.
P. 49: "Dorian Lake" changed to "Doiran Lake".
P. 103: "Hindenbrug" changed to "Hindenburg".