Back came the reply from the Italian, in pure Cockney: "I ain't pinched yer chimbley, mate!"
"What! yer speak our lingo?" says the cook. "What part of the Village do yer come from?"
"Clerkenwell," was the reply.
"Give us yer mitt," says the cook. "I'm from the same parish. And nah I knows that yer couldn't 'ave pinched our chimbley. It must have been one of them scrounging Cockneys." —H. Howard, 26 Hanover Street, Islington, N.1.
Before 1914, When Men Worked
Night after night, for three weeks, with never a night off, we took ammunition up for the guns at Ypres in 1917. Sometimes we couldn't get back until 5 a.m. or 6 a.m. – and the day was spent feeding and grooming the horses, cleaning harness, and a hundred odd jobs besides.
We had built a bit of a shack, and in this I was writing a letter home, and one of my drivers noticed my handwriting on the envelope.
"Coo, Corp! You can't 'arf write! 'Ow did yer learn it?" he said.
I told him I had been in an insurance office before I joined up.
"Lumme!" he exclaimed, "did yer work once, Corp?" —David Phillips (late R.F.A.), The Ship Inn, Soham, near Ely, Cambridgeshire.
Their Fatigue
In August 1915, our Division was moved to the Loos area in preparation for the battle which began on September 25, and I well remember the long march which brought us to our destination – the mining village of Nœux-les-Mines, about a mile from Mazingarbe.
We ended the hard and tiring journey at a spot where a huge slag-heap towered above our heads to a height of seventy or eighty feet. On our arrival here there were the usual fatigue parties to parade, and with everyone tired and weary this was an unthankful duty.
The youngest Cockney in my section, who was always cheerful, hearing me detailing men for fatigue, shouted out, "Come on, mites; paride with spoons and mess-tins. The blinking fattygue party will shift this perishin' slag-heap from 'ere to Mazingarbe." —Herbert W. Bassett (Cpl. attached 47th London Division), 41 Argyle Road, Sevenoaks, Kent.
Teaching Bulgars the Three-card Trick
At Butkova, on the right of Lake Doiran, in 1917, we had surprised the Bulgar and had pushed forward as far as the foot of the Belashitsa Mountains, the reserve position of the enemy.
After a sharp encounter we retired, according to plan, and on the return to our lines we heard murmurings in a nullah to our right.
Motioning to me and the section corporal, our platoon commander advanced cautiously towards the nullah and you can imagine our surprise when we discovered "Dido" Plumpton calmly showing the "three-card trick" to the two Bulgar prisoners he had been detailed to escort. He was telling his mystified audience: "Find der lidy – dere you are – over yer go – under yer go —nah find 'er!" —Alfred Tall (late 2nd East Kents), 204 Hoxton Street, N.1.
3. HOSPITAL
"Tich" Meets the King
In a large ward in a military hospital in London there was a little Cockney drummer boy of eighteen years who had lost both legs from shell fire. In spite of his calamity and the suffering he endured from numerous operations for the removal of bone, he was one of the cheeriest boys in the ward.
At that time many men in the ward had limbs amputated because of frost-bite, and it was quite a usual thing for a visitor to remark, "Have you had frost-bite?"
Nothing made Tich so furious as the suggestion that he should have lost his limbs by any, to his mind, second-rate way. If he were asked, "Have you had frost-bite?" he would look up with disgust and reply, "Naow – a flea bit me!" If, however, he was asked, "Were you wounded?" he would smile and say, "Not 'arf!"
A visit was expected from the King, and the Tommies kept asking Tich what he would say if the King said, "Have you had frost-bite?" "You wite!" said Tich.
I was standing with the Sister near to Tich in his wheel-chair when the King approached. His Majesty at once noticed Tich was legless, and said in his kind way, "Well, my man, how are you getting on?"
"Splendid, sir!" said Tich.
"How did it happen?" asked the King.
"Wounded, sir – shell," replied Tich, all smiles.
Tich's opinion of the King soared higher than ever. —M. A. Kennedy (late V.A.D., Royal Military Hospital, Woolwich), 70 Windmill Hill, Enfield, Middlesex.
Putting the Lid on It
It was "clearing day" at the 56th General Hospital, Wimereux. Nurses and orderlies were having a busy morning getting ready the patients who were going to Blighty. Nearly all of them had been taken out to the waiting ambulances except my Cockney friend in the bed next to mine, who had just had an arm amputated and was very ill.
Two orderlies came down the ward bearing a stretcher with an oblong box fixed on to it (to prevent jolting while travelling). They placed it beside my friend's bed, and, having dressed him, put him in the box on the stretcher. Then a nurse wrapped him up in blankets, and after she had finished she said: "There you are. Feeling nice and comfortable?"
"Fine," said he, "but don't put the lid on before I have kissed the orderly good-bye." —E. C., Hackney, E.8.
Riddled in the Sands
One of the finest exhibitions of Cockney spirit I saw during the war occurred in Mesopotamia after the Battle of Shaiba (April 1915), in which we had completely routed the Turkish army.
We were busy evacuating the wounded in boats across the six-mile stretch of water which separated us from Basra. A sergeant who had been hit by no fewer than six machine-gun bullets was brought down in a stretcher to be put in one of the boats. As I superintended this manœuvre he said to me: "Don't drop me in the water, sir. I'm so full of holes I'd be sure to sink!" —F. C. Fraser (Lieut. – Col., Ind. Med. Service), 309 Brownhill Road, Catford, S.E.6.
Season!
A cockney soldier, badly hit for the third time, was about to be carried once more on board the ambulance train at Folkestone. When the bearers came to his stretcher, one said to the other, "What's it say on his ticket?"
"Season!" said a voice from the stretcher. —Rev. A. T. Greenwood, Wallington, Surrey.
Where's the Milk and Honey?
A medical Officer of a London division in Palestine was explaining to a dying Cockney in his field ambulance at Bethlehem how sorry he was that he had no special comforts to ease his last moments, when the man, with a cheery grin, remarked: "Oh, that's all right, sir. Yer reads as 'ow this 'ere 'Oly Land is flowing with milk and 'oney; but I ain't seen any 'oney myself, and in our battery there's 15 men to a tin o' milk." —E. T. Middleton, 32 Denmark Road, West Ealing, W.13.
"Lunnon"
He was my sergeant-major. Having on one occasion missed death literally by inches, he said coolly: "Them blighters can't 'it 'arf as smart as my missus when she's roused." I last saw him at Charing Cross Station. We were both casualties. All the way from Dover he had moaned one word – "Lunnon." At Charing Cross they laid his stretcher beside mine. He was half conscious. Suddenly he revived and called out, his voice boyish and jolly: "Good 'ole Charin' Crawss," and fell back dead. —G. W. R., Norwich, Norfolk.
Sparing the M.O
It was during some open warfare in France. The scene a small room full of badly wounded men; all the remainder have been hurriedly removed, or rather, not brought in here. There are no beds; the men lie on the floor close together.
I rise to stretch my back after dressing one. My foot strikes another foot. A yell of agony – the foot was attached to a badly shattered thigh.
An insistent, earnest chorus: "You didn't 'urt him, sir. 'E often makes a noise like that."
I feel a hand take mine, and, looking down, I see it in the grasp of a man with three gaping wounds. "It wasn't your fault, sir," he says, in a fierce, hoarse whisper.
And then I realise that not a soul in that room but takes it for granted that my mental anguish for my stupidity is greater than his own physical pain, and is doing his best to deaden it for me – one, at any rate, at great cost to himself.
In whose ranks are the world's great gentlemen? —"The Clumsy Fool," Guy's Hospital, E.C.
"Robbery with Violence"
A Cockney soldier had his leg shattered. When he came round in hospital the doctors told him they had been obliged to take his leg off.
"Taken my leg off? Blimey! Where is it? Hi, wot yer done wiv it? Fer 'Eaven's sake, find my leg, somebody; it's got seven and a tanner in the stocking." —S. W. Baker, 23 Trinity Road, Bedford.
Seven His Lucky Number
Scene: the plank road outside St. Jean. Stretcher-bearers bringing down a man whose left leg had been blown away below the knee. A man coming up recognises the man on the stretcher, and the following conversation ensues:
"Hello, Bill!" Then, catching sight of the left leg: "Blimey! You ain't 'arf copped it."
The Reply: A faint smile, a right hand feebly pointing to the left sleeve already bearing six gold stripes, and a hoarse voice which said, "Anuvver one, and seven's me lucky number." —S. G. Wallis Norton, Norton House, Peaks Hill, Purley.
Blind Man's Buff
The hospital ship Dunluce Castle, on which I was serving, was taking the wounded and sick from Gallipoli. Among the wounded brought on board one evening was a man who was badly hurt about his face. Our M.O. thought the poor chap's eyes were sightless.
Imagine our surprise when, in the morning, finding that his eyes were bandaged, he pulled himself to a sitting posture in bed, turned his head round and cried out, "S'y, boys, who's fer a gime of blind man's buff?"
I am glad to say that the sight of one eye was saved. —F. T. Barley, 24, Station Avenue, Prittlewell, Southend.
Self-Supporting
After being wounded at Ypres in July 1917, I was being sent home. When we were all aboard, an orderly came round with life-belts.
When he got to the next stretcher to me, on which lay a man who had his arm and leg in splints, he asked the usual question ("Can you look after yourself if anything happens going across?"), and received the faint answer: "Lumme, mate, I've enough wood on me to make a raft." —A. E. Fuller (36th Battery R.F.A.), 21 Pendragon Road, Downham Estate, Bromley.
In the Butterfly Division
On arriving at the hospital at Dames Camiers, we were put to bed. In the next bed to mine was a young Cockney who had lost three fingers of his right hand and his left arm below the elbow.
The hospital orderly came to take particulars of our wounds, etc. Having finished with me, he turned to the Cockney. Rank, name, and regimental number were given, and then the orderly asked, "Which division are you from?"
"Why, the 19th," came the answer; and then, as an afterthought, "that's the butterfly division, yer know, but I've 'ad me blinkin' wings clipped." —H. Redford (late R.F.A.), 49 Anselm Road, Fulham, S.W.6.
An Unfair Leg-Pull
I was working in a surgical ward at a base hospital, and among the patients was a Tommy with a fractured thigh-bone. He had his leg in a splint and, as was customary in these cases, there was an extension at the foot-piece with a heavy weight attached to prevent shortening of the leg.
This weight was causing him a good deal of pain, and as I could do nothing to alleviate it I asked the M.O. to explain to him the necessity for the extension. He did so and ended up by saying, "You know, we want your leg to be straight, old man."
The Tommy replied: "Wot's the good of making that leg strite w'en the uvver one's bowed?" —Muriel A. Batey (V.A.D. Nurse), The North Cottage, Adderstone Crescent, Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
He Saw It Through
In the big general hospital at Colchester the next bed to mine was occupied by a typical Cockney who was very seriously wounded. It was little short of marvellous that he was alive at all.
Early one morning he became so ill that the hospital chaplain was sent to administer the Last Sacrament and the little Londoner's parents were telegraphed for.
About nine o'clock he rallied a little, and apparently realised that the authorities had given him up as hopeless, for with a great effort he half-sat up and, with his eyes ablaze, cried: "Wot? You fink I'm goin' ter die? Well, you're all wrong! I've bin in this war since it started, an' I intends to be in it at the finish. So I just won't die, to spite yer, see?"
His unconquerable spirit pulled him through, and he is alive – and well – to-day! —A. C. P. (late 58th (London) Division), Fulham, S.W.6.
As Good as the Pictures
In Salonika during 1916 I was taken to a field hospital, en route for the Base Hospital.
All merry and bright when lying down, but helpless when perpendicular, was a comrade in the next bed to me. We were to be moved next day.
I was interested in him, as he told me he belonged to "Berm-on-Sea," which happens to be my birth-place. Well, close to our marquee were the dump and transport lines, which we could plainly see through the entrance to the marquee.
Sister was taking our temperatures when we heard an explosion. Johnnie had "found" the dump. An officer ran through the marquee, ordering everyone to the dug-outs, and they promptly obeyed.
I looked at Bermondsey Bill. He said: "We are beat. Let's stop and watch the fireworks."
We were helpless on our feet. I tried to walk, but had to give it up. A new commotion then began, and Bill exclaimed: "Blimey, 'ere comes Flying Fox rahnd Tattenham Corner." It was a badly-wounded and panic-stricken mule. It dashed through our marquee, sent Sister's table flying, found the exit and collapsed outside.
Sister returned (she was the right stuff) and said: "Hello, what's happened here? And you boys still in bed! Hadn't you better try and get to the dug-outs?"
Bermondsey Bill said: "We'll stick it aht nah, Sister, an' fancy we're at the pictures." —J. W. Fairbrass, 131 Sutton Dwellings, Upper Street, Islington, N.1.
Room for the Comforter
At Etaples in 1916 I was in a hospital marquee with nothing worse than a sprained ankle. A Y.M.C.A. officer was visiting us, giving a cheery word here and there, together with a very welcome packet of cigarettes.
In the next cot to me was a young Cockney of the "Diehards," who had been well peppered with shrapnel. His head was almost entirely swathed in bandages, openings being left for his eyes, nose, and mouth.
"Well, old chap," said the good Samaritan to him, "they seem to have got you pretty badly."
"I'm all right, guv'nor – ser long as they leaves me an 'ole to put me fag in." —A. E. Jeffreys (late 4th Q.O. Hussars), 24 Byne Road, Sydenham, S.E. 26.
"War Worn and Tonsillitis"
My son, Gunner E. Smith (an "Old Contemptible"), came home on leave in September 1918, and after a day or two had something wrong with his throat. I advised him to see the M.O.
He went and came back saying, "Just look at this." The certificate said "War worn and tonsillitis."
He went to the hospital, and was kept in for three weeks. The first time I went to see him, he said, "What do you think of it? A 1914 man, and knocked over by a kid's complaint." —F. Smith, 23 Saunders Road, Plumstead, S.E.18.
"… Fort I was in 'Ell"
It was at the American General Hospital in Rouen. There was the usual noise created by chaps under anesthetic, swearing, shouting, singing, and moaning; but the fellow in the next bed to me had not stirred since they had brought him from the operating theatre many hours before.
Suddenly he sat up, looked around him in amazement, and said, "Strike, I've bin a-lying 'ere fer abaht two 'ours afraid ter open me peepers. I fort I was in 'ell." —P. Webb (late E. Surreys), 68 Rossiter Road, Balham, S.W.12.
Pity the Poor Fly!
Amongst my massage patients at one of the general hospitals was a very cheery Cockney sergeant, who had been badly damaged by shrapnel. In addition to other injuries he had lost an eye.
One morning he was issued with a new eye, and was very proud of it. After admiring himself in a small mirror for a considerable time he turned to me and said, "Sister, won't it be a blinkin' sell for the fly who gets into my glass eye?" —(Mrs.) A. Powell, 61 Ritherdon Road, S.W.17.
Temperature by the Inch
I was a patient in a general hospital in 1918, when a Cockney gunner was put into the bed next to mine. He was suffering from a severe form of influenza, and after ten days' treatment showed little sign of improvement.
One evening the Sister was going her rounds with the thermometers. She had taken our friend's temperature and registered it on the chart hanging over his head. As she passed to the next bed he raised himself and turned round to read the result. Then he looked over to a Canadian in a bed in the far corner of the ward, and this dialogue ensued:
Gunner: Canada!
Canadian: Hallo!
Gunner: Up agin.
Canadian: Go on! How much?
Gunner: 'Arf inch. —E. A. Taylor (late 4th London Field Ambulance), Drouvin, The Chase, Wallington, Surrey.
"'Arf Price at the Pickshers!"
On the way across Channel with a Blighty in 1917 I chummed up with a wounded Cockney member of the Sussex. His head was swathed in bandages.
"Done one o' me eyes in altergevver," he confided lugubriously. "Any blinkin' 'ow," he added in cheerier tones, "if that don't entitle a bloke to 'arf price at the pickshers fer the rest of 'is blinkin' natural I don't know wot will do!" —James Vance Marshall, 15, Manette Street, W.1.
Twenty-four Stitches in Time
During the 1918 reverses suffered by the Turks on various fronts large numbers of mules were captured and sent to the veterinary bases to be reconditioned, sorted, and shod, for issue to various units in need of them. It was no mean feat to handle and shoe the worst-tempered brutes in the world. They had been made perfect demons through privation.
"Ninty," a shoeing-smith (late of Grange Road, Bermondsey), was laid out and savaged by a mule, and carried off to hospital. At night his bosom pal goes over to see how his "old china" is going on.
"'Ow are ye, Ninty?"
"Blimey, Ted, nineteen stitches in me figh an' five in me ribs. Ted – wot d'ye reckon they done it wiv? A sewin' machine?" —A. C. Weekley (late Farrier Staff Sergeant, 20th Veterinary Hospital, Abbassair), 70 Denbigh Road, East Ham, E.6.
His Second Thoughts
A Bluejacket who was brought into the Naval Hospital at Rosyth had had one of his legs blown off while he was asleep in his hammock. The late Mr. Thomas Horrocks Oppenshaw, the senior surgeon-in-charge, asked him what his first thought was when the explosion woke him up.
"My first thought was 'Torpedoed, by gum!'"
"And what did you think next?"
"I think what I thought next was 'Ruddy good shot!'" —H.R.A., M.D., llford Manor, near Lewes, Sussex.
Hats Off to Private Tanner
The following story, which emphasises the Cockney war spirit in the most adverse circumstances, and how it even impressed our late enemy, was related to me by a German acquaintance whose integrity is unimpeachable.
It was at a German prisoner-of-war clearing station in Douai during the summer of 1917, where wounded British prisoners were being cleared for prison-camp hospital.
A number of wounded of a London regiment has been brought in, and a German orderly was detailed to take their names and particulars of wounds, etc. Later, looking over the orderly's list, the German sergeant-major in charge came across a name written by the orderly which was quite unintelligible to the sergeant-major.
He therefore requested an intelligence officer, who spoke perfect English, to ask this particular man his name. The intelligence officer sought out the man, a Cockney, who had been severely wounded, and the following conversation took place.
I.O.: You are Number – ?
Cockney: Yussir.
I.O.: What is your name?
Cockney: Fourpence'a'penny.
I.O.: I understand this is a term of English money, not a name.
Cockney: Well, sir, I used to be called Tanner, but my right leg was took orf yesterday.
The final words of the intelligence officer, as related to me, were: "I could have fallen on the 'begrimed ruffian hero's' neck and kissed him." —J. W. Rourke, M.C. (ex-Lieut. Essex Regt.), 20 Mill Green Road, Welwyn Garden City.
The Markis o' Granby
Wounded at Sheria, Palestine, in November 1917. I was sent to the nearest railhead in a motor-ambulance. A fellow-passenger – also from a London battalion – was wounded very badly in both thighs. The orderly who tucked him up on his stretcher before the start asked him if he would like a drink.
"No, thanks, chum – not nah," he replied; "but you might arsk the driver to pull up at the ole Markis o' Granby, and we'll all 'ave one!"
I heard later that he died in hospital. —C. Dickens (late 2/20th London Regiment), 18 Wheathill Road, Anerley, S.E.20.
A One-Legged Turn
Wounded about half an hour after the final attack on Gaza, I awoke to consciousness in the M.O.'s dug-out.
"Poor old concert party," he said; "you're the fifth 'Ragamuffin' to come down."
Eventually I found myself sharing a mule-cart with another wounded man, but he lay so motionless and quiet that I feared I was about to journey from the line in a hearse.
The jolting of the cart apparently jerked a little life into him, for he asked me, "Got a fag, mate?" With a struggle I lighted my one remaining cigarette.
After a while I asked him, "Where did you catch it, old fellow?" "Lumme," he replied, "if it ain't old George's voice." Then I recognised Sam, the comedian of our troupe.
"Got it pretty rotten in the leg," he added.
"Will it put paid to your comedy act, Sammy?" I asked.
"Dunno," he replied with a sigh in his voice – "I'm tryin' to fink 'art a one-legged step dance." —G. W. Turner (late 11th London Regt.), 10 Sunny View, Kingsbury, N.W.9.