500 of the Best Cockney War Stories. Various

yer singin' 'Let the Great Big World Keep Turnin',' eh?"

      The reply came: "I was a singin' on it, Bill, but I never thought it would fly up and 'it me." —Albert M. Morsley (late 85th Siege Battery Am. Col.), 198 Kempton Road, East Ham, E.6.

That Blinkin' "Money-box"

      I was limping back with a wounded knee after the taking of Monchy-le-Preux on April 11, 1917, when a perky little Cockney of the 13th Royal Fusiliers who had a bandaged head caught me up with a cheery, "Tike me Chalk Farm (arm), old dear, and we'll soon be 'ome."

      I was glad to accept his kindly offer, but our journey, to say the least, was a hazardous one, for the German guns, firing with open sights from the ridge in front of the Bois du Sart, were putting diagonal barrages across the road (down which, incidentally, the Dragoon Guards were coming magnificently out of action, with saddles emptying here and there as they swept through that deadly zone on that bleak afternoon).

      Presently we took refuge in a sandbag shelter on the side of the road, and were just congratulating ourselves on the snugness of our retreat, when a tank stopped outside. Its arrival brought fresh gun-fire on us, and before long a whizz-bang made a direct hit on our shelter.

      When we recovered from the shock, we found part of our roof missing, and my little pal, poking his bandaged head through the hole, thus addressed one of the crew of the tank who was just visible through a gun slit:

      "Oi, why don't yer tike yer money-box 'ome? This ain't a pull-up fer carmen!"

      The spirit that little Cockney imbued into me that day indirectly saved me the loss of a limb, for without him I do not think I would have reached the advance dressing station in time. —D. Stuart (late Sergeant, 10th R.F., 37th Division) 103 St. Asaph Road, Brockley, S.E.4.

"Oo, You Naughty Boy!"

      In front of Kut Al-'Amarah, April 1916, the third and last attack on the Sannaiyat position, on the day before General Townshend capitulated. Days of rain had rendered the ground a quagmire, and lack of rations, ammunition, and shelter had disheartened the relief force.

      The infantry advanced without adequate artillery support, and were swept by heavy machine-gun fire from the entrenched Turks. One fellow tripped over a strand of loose barbed wire, fell down, and in rising ripped the seat nearly off his shorts. Cursing, he rejoined the slowly moving line of advancing men.

      Suddenly one sensed one of those fateful moments when men in the mass are near to breaking point. Stealthy looks to right and left were given, and fear was in the men's hearts. The relentless tat-tat-tat of machine guns, the "singing" of the driven bullets, and the dropping of men seemed as if it never would end.

      A Cockney voice broke the fear-spell and restored manhood to men. "Oo, 'Erbert, you naughty boy!" it said. "Look at what you've done to yer nice trahsers! 'Quarter' won't 'arf be cross. He said we wasn't to play rough games and tear our trahsers." —L. W. Whiting (late 7th Meerut Division), 21 Dale Park Avenue, Carshalton, Surrey.

Cool as a Cucumber

      Early in 1917 at Ypres I was in charge of part of the advance party taking over some trenches from another London battalion. After this task had been completed I was told of a funny incident of the previous night.

      It appeared that the battalion we were due to relieve had been surprised by a small party of the enemy seeking "information." During the mêlée in the trench a German "under-officer" had calmly walked over and picked up a Lewis gun which had been placed on a tripod on top of the trench some little distance from its usual emplacement. (This was done frequently when firing at night was necessary so as to avoid betraying the regular gun position.)

      A boyish-looking sentry of the battalion on the left jumped out of the trench and went after the Jerry who was on his way "home" with the gun in his arms. Placing his bayonet in dangerous proximity to the "under-officer's" back, the young Cockney exclaimed, "Hi! Where the 'ell are yer goin' wiv that gun? Just you put the 'coocumber' back on the 'barrer' and shove yer blinkin' 'ands up!"

      The "under-officer" lost his prize and his liberty, and I understand the young sentry received the M.M. —R. McMuldroch (late 15th London Regt., Civil Service Rifles), 13 Meadway, Bush Hill Park, Enfield.

The Sergeant's Tears

      One afternoon on the Somme our battery received a severe strafe from 5·9's and tear-gas shells. There was no particular "stunt" on, so we took cover in a trench behind the guns.