500 of the Best Cockney War Stories. Various

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!"

      But the stretcher-bearer was right.—C. Vanon, 33 Frederick Street, W.C.I.

"I Got 'Ole Nelson Beat!"

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      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.

      Confusion, shouts, and moans—then a half-hysterical, half-triumphant shout from the Cockney: "Lumme, one in the blinkin' leg this time. I got 'ole Nelson beat at last!"—J. Coomer (late R.E.), 31 Hawthorn Avenue, Thornton Heath.

Two Kinds of Fatalist

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      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."

      "So am I," said the Cockney, "but I believes in duckin'."—"Brownie," Kensal Rise, N.W.10.

Double up, Beauty Chorus!

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      One summer afternoon in '15 some lads of the Rifle Brigade were bathing in the lake in the grounds of the château 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 château.

      As they hurried into the shelter a Cockney sergeant bellowed, "Nah then, booty chorus: double up an' change for the next act!"—G E. Roberts, M.C. (late Genl. List, att'd 21st Divn. Signal Co.), 28 Sunbury Gardens, Mill Hill, N.W.7.

The Theatre of War

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      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.

      As he handed a packet to one cheerful Cockney he was asked, "Wot abaht a programme, sir?"—W. B. Finch (late London Regiment), 155 High Road, Felixstowe.

"It's the Skivvy's 'Arf Day Orf"

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      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.

      "I'll have to let yer in meself … it's the skivvy's 'arf day orf!"

      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!"

      The speaker proved to have a shattered arm—among other things—and was the sole survivor of the crew.—D. K., Fulham, S.W.6.

Cricket on the Somme

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      "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.

      "What's happened, Webb?" I said. "Blimey! What's happened?" was the reply. "One over—two bowled" (and, looking down at his leg)—"and I'm stumped." Then he fainted.—George Franks, M.C. (late Lieut., Royal Artillery), Ilford, Essex.

M'Lord, of Hoxton

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      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.

      "M'lord" was killed later on in the war. Our battalion was the 7th Batt. Royal Fusiliers (London Regt.)—W. A., Windsor.

The Tall Man's War

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      In our platoon was a very tall chap who was always causing