Even Fritz seemed surprised, because it was some moments before he replied with his machine gun.
We watched him fly away back to his own lines and a voice broke the silence with, "Blinkin' fools to put on our tin 'ats. Uvverwise 'ole Fritz wouldn't a known but what we might be Germans."
I often wonder if any other battalion had the "honour" of "attacking the enemy" clad only in tin hats. —G. M. Rampton (late 12th London Regt., "Rangers"), 43 Cromwell Road, Winchester.
His Good-bye to the Q.M
Scene, Ypres, May 1915. The battalion to which I belonged had been heavily shelled for many hours, and among the casualties was "Topper" Brown, a Cockney, who was always in trouble for losing items of his kit. Taken to the dressing station to have a badly shattered foot amputated, he recovered consciousness to find the C.Q.M.S. standing by the stretcher on which he lay.
The C.Q.M.S., not knowing the extent of Brown's injury, inquired, "What's the trouble, Brown?"
In a weak voice the Cockney replied, "Lost one boot and one sock again, Quarter." —E. E. Daniels (late K.R.R.), 178 Caledonian Road, N.1.
From Bow and Harrow
We were in the line at Neuville St. Vaast in 1916. A raid had just been carried out. In the party were two inseparable chums, one from Bow and one from Harrow. (Of course they were known as Bow and Arrow.)
The bulk of the raiders had returned, but some were yet to come in. Some time later three forms were seen crawling towards our line. They were promptly helped in.
As their faces were blackened they were hard to recognise, and a corporal asked them who they were.
"Don't yer know us?" said the chap from Bow. "We're Bow and Arrow." "Blimey!" said another Cockney standing by. "And I suppose the other bloke's Robin 'ood, aint 'e." —G. Holloway (late London Regt. and 180 M.G.C.), 179 Lewis Buildings, West Kensington, W.14.
Piccadilly in the Front Line
Towards the end of September 1918 I was one of a party of nine men and an officer taking part in a silent raid in the Ypres sector, a little in front of the well-known spot called Swan and Edgar's Corner. The raid was the outcome of an order from Headquarters demanding prisoners for information.
Everything had been nicely arranged. We were to approach the German line by stealth, surprise an outpost, and get back quickly to our own trenches with the prisoners.
Owing perhaps to the wretchedness of the night – it was pouring with rain, and intensely black – things did not work according to plan. Instead of reaching our objective, our party became divided, and the group that I was with got hopelessly lost. There were five of us, including "Ginger," a Cockney.
We trod warily for about an hour, when we suddenly came up against a barbed-wire entanglement, in the centre of which we could just make out the figure of a solitary German. After whispered consultation, we decided to take him prisoner, knowing that the German, having been stationary, had not lost sense of direction and could guide us back to our line. Noiselessly surmounting the barbed wire, we crept up to him and in a second Ginger was on him. Pointing his bayonet in Fritz's back, he said, "Nah, then, you blighter, show us the way 'ome."
Very coolly and without the slightest trace of fear, the German replied in perfect English, "I suppose you mean me to lead you to the British trenches."
"Oh!" said Ginger, "so yer speak English, do yer?"
"Yes," said the German, "I was a waiter at a restaurant in Piccadilly before the War."
"Piccadilly, eh? You're just the feller we want. Take us as far as Swan and Edgar's Corner." —R. Allen (late Middlesex Regt., 41st Division), 7 Moreland Street, Finsbury Park, N.4.
"Wag's" Exhortation
On a bitterly cold night, with a thick fog settling, the Middlesex Regt. set out on a raid on a large scale on the enemy's trenches. Fritz must have got wind of it, for when they were about half-way across the enemy guns opened fire and simply raked No Man's Land. The air was alive with shrapnel and nearly two-thirds of the raiders were casualties in no time.
Those that could tried to crawl back to our lines, but soon lost all direction in the fog. About half a dozen of them crawled into a shell-hole and lay there wounded or exhausted from their efforts, and afraid to move while the bombardment continued.
Meanwhile "Wag" Bennett, a Cockney, though badly wounded, had dragged himself out of a shell-hole, and was crawling towards what proved later to be the enemy lines when he saw the forms of the other fellows in the darkness. As he peered down upon them he called out, "Strike me pink! Lyin' abaht dahn there as if you was at the 'Otel Cissle, while there's a ruddy war agoin' on. Come on up aht of it, else you'll git us all a bad name."
In a moment they were heartened, and they crawled out, following "Wag" on their hands and knees and eventually regained our lines. Poor "Wag" died soon afterwards from his wounds. —H. Newing, 1 Park Cottages, Straightsmouth, Greenwich, S.E.10.
Making a King of Him
Our company of the Middlesex Regiment had captured a hill from Johnny Turk one evening, and at once prepared for the counter-attack on the morrow. My platoon was busy making a trench. On the parapet we placed large stones instead of sandbags.
During these operations we were greeted with machine-gun fire from Johnny and, our numbers being small, we had to keep firing from different positions so as to give the impression that we were stronger than we really were.
It was while we were scrambling from one position to another that "Smudger" Smith, from Hammersmith, said: "Love us, Sarge, 'ow's this for a blinkin' game of draughts?" The words were hardly out of his mouth when Johnny dropped a 5·9 about thirty yards away. The force of the explosion shook one of the stones from the parapet right on to "Smudger's" head, and he was knocked out.
When he came round his first words were: "Blimey, they must 'ave 'eard me to crown me like that." —W. R. Mills (late Sergt., 2/10th Middlesex Regt.), 15 Canterbury Road, Colchester, Essex.
"Peace? Not wiv you 'ere!"
Two Cockney pals who were always trying to get the better of one another in a battle of words by greeting each other with such remarks as "Ain't you blinkin' well dead yet?" earned for themselves the nick-names of Bill and Coo.
One evening they were sent to fetch water, and on the return journey the Germans started to shell rather heavily.
Coo ran more quickly than Bill and fell into a shell-hole. He scrambled out in time to see his pal blown sky high by what appeared to be a direct hit.
Coo was heard to remark: "I always told 'im 'e ought to be reported missing, and blimey if 'e ain't."
He then went to see if he could find the body: instead he found Bill alive, though badly wounded.
When finally Coo got his pal back to the trench, Bill opened his eyes. Seeing Coo bending over him, he said: "Lumme, I thought peace 'ad come at last, but it ain't – not wiv you 'ere." —William Walker, 30 Park Road, Stopsley Road, Luton, Beds.
An Expert on Shells
We were billeted in the vaults of Ypres Post Office. Towards dusk of a summer's day in 1916 four of us were lounging at the top of the vault stairs, discussing the noise made by different shells. Jerry, a Cockney, was saying, "Yes, yer can always tell big 'uns – they shuffles," and went on to demonstrate with Shsh-shsh-shsh, when someone said "Listen!"
There was the real sound, and coming straight for us. We dived or fell to the bottom of the stairs. Followed a terrific "crump" right in the entrance, which was completely blocked up.
Every candle and lamp was blown out; we were choking with dust and showered with bricks and masonry.
There was a short silence, and Jerry's voice from the darkness said, "There y'are; wot did I tell yer?" —H. W. Lake, London.
A Camel "on the Waggon"
During the battle of Gaza in April 1917 camels were used for the conveyance of wounded. Each camel carried a stretcher on either side of its hump. Travelling in this manner was something akin to a rough Channel crossing.
I was wounded in the leg. My companion was severely wounded in both legs. Some very uncomplimentary remarks were passed between us concerning camels, particularly the one which was carrying us.
When we arrived at a field dressing-station a sergeant of the R.A.M.C. came along with liquid refreshments.
"Sergeant," said my chum, "if you give this bloke (indicating the camel) anything to drink I'm going to walk, 'cos I believe the blighter was drunk before we ever set eyes on him." —Albert J. Fairall, 43 Melbourne Road, Leyton, E.10.
Parting Presents
It was on Passchendaele Ridge in 1917. Jerry had been giving us a hot time with his heavies. Just before daybreak our telephone line went west and we could not get through to our O.P.
I was detailed to go out and repair the line with a young Cockney from Hackney. He had only been with us a few days and it was his first time up the line.
We had mended one break when shells dropped all round us. When I got to my feet, I saw my pal lying several feet away. I escaped with a few splinters and shock. I dragged my chum to a shell-hole which was full of water and found he was badly hit about the shoulder, chest, and leg. I dressed him as best I possibly could, when, bang, a shell seemed to drop right on us and something came hurtling into our hole with a splash.
It turned out to be a duckboard. I propped my chum against it to stop him slipping back into the water. After a few minutes he opened his eyes, and though in terrible pain, smiled and said, "Lummy, Jeff, old Jerry ain't so bad, after all. He has given me a nice souvenir to take to Blighty and now he has sent me a raft to cross the Pond on." Then he became unconscious.
It was now daybreak and quiet. I pulled him out of the hole and went and repaired the line. We got him away all right, but I never heard from him. I only hope he pulled through: he showed pluck. —Signaller H. Jeffrey (late Royal Artillery), 13 Bright Road, Luton, Chatham, Kent.
Bluebottles and Wopses
We had just gone into the front line. Two of us had not been there before.
During a conversation with a Cockney comrade, an old hand, we told him of our dislike of bombs. He tried to re-assure us something like this: "Nah, don't let them worry you. You treat 'em just like blue-bottles, only different. With a blue-bottle you watch where it settles an' 'it it, but with bombs, you watch where they're goin' to settle and 'op it. It's quite simple."
A short time after a small German bomb came over and knocked out our adviser. My friend and I picked him up and tried to help him. He was seriously hurt. As we lifted him up my friend said to him, "You didn't get your blue-bottle that time, did you?" He smiled back as he replied: "'Twasn't a blue-bottle, mate; must 'ave been a blinkin' wopse." —C. Booth, 5 Creighton Road, N.W.6.
The Cheerful "Card"
On that June morning in 1917 when Messines Ridge went up, a young chap was brought in to our A.D.S. in Woodcote Farm. A piece of shell had torn a great gap in each thigh. Whilst the sergeant was applying the iodine by means of a spray the M.O. asked, "How are things going this morning?" The lad was wearing a red heart as his battalion sign, and despite his great pain he answered: "O.K. sir. Hearts were trumps this morning." —R. J. Graff, 3/5th L.F.A., 47th Division, 20 Lawrie Park Road, Sydenham.
Great Stuff This Shrapnel
During the retreat from Mons it was the cavalry's work to hold up the Germans as long as possible, to allow our infantry to get in position.
One day we had a good way to run to our horses, being closely pursued by the Germans. When we reached them we were all more or less out of breath. A little Cockney was so winded that he could hardly reach his stirrup, which kept slipping from under his foot.
Just then a shrapnel shell burst directly overhead, and the Cockney, without using his stirrup, vaulted clean into the saddle.
As we galloped off he gasped, "Blimey, don't they put new life in yer? They're as good as Kruschens." —E. H. (late R.H.G.), 87 Alpha Road, Surbiton, Surrey.
Wot a War!
Three of us were sitting on the high ground on the Gallipoli Beach watching shells dropping from the Turk positions.
A "G.S." wagon was proceeding slowly along below us, the driver huddled in his coat, for the air was chill.
Suddenly he jumped from the wagon and ran in our direction – he had heard the shell before we had.
The next moment the wagon was proceeding skywards in many directions, and the horses were departing at top speed in different directions.
The driver surveyed the scene for a moment and then in a very matter-of-fact voice said: "Blimey! See that? Now I suppose I've got to walk back, and me up all night – wot a war!" And away he trudged! —C. J. A., N.W.11.
The Umpire
After a retreat in May 1915 we saw, lying between our fresh position and the German lines, an English soldier whom we took to be dead.
Later, however, we advanced again, and discovered that the man was not dead, but badly wounded.
On being asked who he was, he replied in a very weak voice, "I fink I must be the blinkin' umpire." —W. King (late Royal Fusiliers), 94 Manor Grove, Richmond, Surrey.
"Don't Tell 'Aig"
Little "Ginger" was the life and soul of our platoon until he was wounded on the Somme in 1918.
As he was carried off to the dressing-station he waved his hand feebly over the side of the stretcher and whispered, "Don't tell 'Aig! He'd worry somethin' shockin'." —G. E. Morris (late Royal Fusiliers), 368 Ivydale Road, Peckham Rye, S.E.15.
"… In Love and War"
During a most unpleasant night bombing raid on the transport lines at Haillecourt the occupants of a Nissen hut were waiting for the next crash when out of the darkness and silence came the Cockney voice of a lorry driver saying to his mate, "'Well,' I sez to 'er, I sez, 'You do as you like, and I can't say no fairer than that, can I?'" —F. R. Jelley, Upland Road, Sutton, Surrey.
"Afraid of Yer Own Shells"
I was on the Italian front in June 1918, and our battery was being strafed by the Austrians with huge armour-piercing shells, which made a noise like an express train coming at you, and exploded with a deafening roar.
An O.K. had just registered on one of our guns, blowing the wheels and masses of rock sky-high. A party of about twenty Austrian prisoners, in charge of a single Cockney, were passing our position at the time, and the effect of the explosion on the prisoners was startling. They scattered in all directions, vainly pursued by the Cockney, who reminded me of a sheep-dog trying to get his flock together.
At last he paused. "You windy lot o' blighters," he shouted as he spat on the ground in evident disgust, "afraid of yer own bloomin' shells!" —S. Curtis, 20 Palace Road, Upper Norwood, S.E.19.
The Leader of the Blind
In July 1918, at a casualty clearing station occupying temporary quarters in the old College of St. Vincent at ruined Senlis we dealt with 7,000 wounded in eight days. One night when we were more busy than usual an ambulance car brought up a load of gas-blinded men.
A little man whose voice proclaimed the city of his birth – arm broken and face blistered with mustard gas, though he alone of the party could see – jumped out, looked around, and then whispered in my ear, "All serene, guv'nor, leave 'em to me."
He turned towards the car and shouted inside, "Dalston Junction, change here for Hackney, Bow, and Poplar."
Then gently helping each man to alight, he placed them in a line with right hand on the shoulder of the man in front, took his position forward and led them all in, calling softly as he advanced, "Slow march, left, left, I had a good job and I left it." —Henry T. Lowde (late 63rd C.C.S., R.A.M.C.), 101 Stanhope Gardens, Harringay, N.4.
Pity the Poor Ducks
We were in the Passchendaele sector in 1917, and all who were there know there were no trenches – just shell-holes half-filled with water.
Jerry had been strafing us for two days without a stop and of our platoon of twenty-three men only seven came out alive. As we were coming down the duckboard track after being relieved Jerry started to put over a barrage. We had to dive for the best cover we could get.
Three of us jumped into a large shell-hole, up to our necks in water. As the shells dropped around us we kept ducking our heads under the water.
Bert Norton, one of us – a Cockney – said: "Strike, we're like the little ducks in 'Yde Park – keep going under."
After another shell had burst and we had just come up to breathe Bert chimed in again with: "Blimey, mustn't it be awful to have to get your living by ducking?" —J. A. Wood, 185 Dalston Lane, E.8.
Waiting Room Only
It was in No Man's Land, and a party of New Zealand troops were making for shelter in a disabled British tank to avoid the downpour of shrapnel. They were about to swarm into the tank when the head of a London Tommy popped out of an aperture, and he exclaimed, "Blimey. Hop it! This is a waiting room, not a blinkin' bee-hive." —A. E. Wragg, 1 Downs Road, Beckenham, Kent.
Not Yet Blasé
We arrived at the Cambrai front in 1917 – just a small bunch of Cockneys – and were attached to the Welsh Brigade of Artillery, being told to report to B.H.Q. up the sunken road in front of Bapaume.
En route our escort of Welshmen were telling us of the "terrible" shelling up the line. It was no leg pulling, for we quickly found out for ourselves that it was hot and furious.
Down we all went for cover as best we could, except one Cockney who stood as one spellbound watching the bursting of the shells. One of the Welshmen yelled out, "Drop down, Cockie!" The Cockney turned round, to the wonderment and amusement of the rest, with the retort, "Blimey! Get away with yer, you're windy. I've only just come out!" —Driver W. H. Allen (attached 1st Glamorgan R.H.A.), 8 Maiden Crescent, Kentish Town, N.W.1.
Paid with a Mills
During severe fighting in Delville Wood in August 1916 our regiment (the East Surreys) was cut off for about three days and was reduced to a mere handful of men, but still we kept up our joking and spirits.
A young Cockney, who was an adept at rhyming slang, rolled over, dead as I thought, for blood was streaming from his neck and head. But he sat up again and, wiping his hand across his forehead, exclaimed: "Strike me pink! One on the top of my loaf of bread (head), and one in the bushel and peck (neck)." Then, slinging over a Mills bomb, he shouted: "'Ere, Fritz, my thanks for a Blighty ticket." —A. Dennis, 9 Somers Road, Brixton Hill, S.W.2.
The Guns' Obligato
The day after the Canadians attacked Vimy Ridge my battalion of the Royal Fusiliers advanced from Bully Grenay to a château on the outskirts of Lieven under heavy shell fire.
At the back of the château a street led to the main road to the town. There, despite the bombardment, we found a Cockney Tommy of the Buffs playing "Tipperary" on a piano which had been blown out of a house into the road.
We joined in – until a shell took the top off the château, when we scattered! —L. A. Utton, 184 Coteford Street, Tooting, S.W.
In the Garden of Eden
We had reached the district in "Mespot" reputed to be the Garden of Eden. One evening I was making my way with six men to relieve the guard on some ammunition barges lying by the bank of the Tigris.
We had approached to within about one hundred yards of these, when the Turks started sending over some "long-rangers." The sixth shell scored a direct hit on the centre barge, and within a few seconds the whole lot went up in what seemed like the greatest explosion of all time. Apart from being knocked over with the shock, we escaped injury, with the exception of a Cockney in our company.
Most of his clothing, except his boots, had been stripped from his body, and his back was bleeding. Slowly he struggled to his hands and knees, and surveying his nakedness, said: "Now where's that blinkin' fig tree?" —F. Dennis, 19 Crewdson Road, Brixton, S.W.
Santa Claus in a Hurry
A forward observation officer of the Artillery was on duty keeping watch on Watling Crater, Vimy Ridge, towards the end of 1916.
The observation post was the remains of a house, very much battered. The officer had to crawl up what had once been a large fireplace, where he had the protection of the only piece of wall that remained standing.
He was engrossed on his task when the arrival of a "Minnie" shook the foundations of the place, and down he came in a shower of bricks and mortar with his shrapnel helmet not at the regimental angle.
A couple of Cockney Tommies had also made a dive for the shelter of this pile of bricks and were crouching down, when the officer crawled from the fireplace. "Quick, Joe," said one of the Cockneys, "'ang up yer socks – 'ere comes ole Santa Claus!" —A. J. Robinson (late Sergeant, R.F.A.), 21 Clowders Road, Catford, S.E.6.
What Paderewski was Missing
It was on the night of October 27, 1917, at Passchendaele Ridge. Both sides were "letting it go hell for leather," and we were feeling none too comfortable crouching in shell-holes and taking what cover we could.
The ground fairly shook – and so did we for that matter – with the heavy explosions and the din was ear-splitting.
Just for something to say I called out to the chap in the next shell-hole – a Brentford lad he was: "What d'you think of it, Alf?"
"Not much," he said, "I was just finkin' if Paderewski could get only this on 'is ol' jo-anner." —M. Hooker, 325A Md. Qrs., Henlow Camp, Bedford.
A Target, but No Offers
During the battle of the Somme, in September 1916, our Lewis gun post was in a little loop trench jutting out from the front line at a place called, I believe, Lone Tree, just before Combles. Jerry's front line was not many yards away, and it was a very warm spot.
Several casualties had occurred during the morning through sniping, and one enterprising chap had scored a bull's-eye on the top of our periscope.
Things quietened down a bit in the afternoon, and about 4 p.m. our captain, who already had the M.C., came along and said to our corporal, "I believe the Germans have gone."
A Cockney member of our team, overhearing this, said, "Well, it won't take long to find out," and jumping upon the fire-step exposed himself from the waist upwards above the parapet.
After a minute's breathless silence he turned to the captain and said, with a jerk of his thumb, "They've hopped it, sir."
That night we and our French friends entered Combles. —M. Chittenden (late "C" Coy., 1/16th London Regt., Q.W.R.), 26 King Edward Road, Waltham Cross, Herts.
Their own Lord Mayor's Show
In April 1918 our unit was billeted near Amiens in a small village from which the inhabitants had been evacuated two days earlier, owing to the German advance.
On the second day of our stay there Jerry was shelling the steeple of the village church, and we had taken cover in the cellars under the village school. All at once we heard roars of laughter coming from the street, and wondering what on earth anyone could find to laugh at, we tumbled up to have a look.
The sight that met our eyes was this: Gravely walking down the middle of the street were two of the "Hackney Ghurkas," the foremost of whom was dressed in a frock coat and top hat, evidently the property of the village maire, and leading a decorated mule upon the head of which was tied the most gaudy "creation" which ever adorned a woman's head.
The second Cockney was clad in the full garb of a twenty-stone French peasant woman, hat and all, and was dragging at the end of a chain a stuffed fox, minus its glass case, but still fastened to its baseboard.
They solemnly paraded the whole length of the street and back again, and were heard to remark that the village was having at least one Lord Mayor's Show before Jerry captured it!
And this happened at the darkest time of the war, when our backs were to the wall. —A. C. P. (late 58th London Division), Fulham, S.W.6.
Pill-Box Crown and Anchor
In the fighting around Westhoek in August 1917 the 56th Division were engaged in a series of attacks on the Nonne Boschen Wood, and owing to the boggy nature of the ground the position was rather obscure.
A platoon of one of the London battalions was holding a pill-box which had been taken from the Germans during the day. In the night a counter-attack was made in the immediate vicinity of the pill-box, which left some doubt as to whether it had again fallen to the enemy.
A patrol was sent out to investigate. After cautiously approaching the position and being challenged in a Cockney tongue, they entered the pill-box, and were astonished to see the occupants playing crown and anchor.
The isolated and dangerous position was explained to the sergeant in charge, but he nonchalantly replied, "Yes, I know all abaht that; but, yer see, wot's the use of frightenin' the boys any more? There's been enough row rahnd 'ere all night as it is." —N. Butcher (late 3rd Londons), 43 Tankerville Drive, Leigh-on-Sea.
"C.O.'s Paid 'is Phone Bill"
On the Somme, during the big push of 1916, we had a section of Signallers attached to our regiment to keep the communications during the advance. Of the two attached to our company, one was a Cockney. He had kept in touch with the "powers that be" without a hitch until his wire was cut by a shell. He followed his wire back and made the necessary repair. Three times he made the same journey for the same reason. His mate was killed by a shrapnel shell and he himself had his left arm shattered: but to him only one thing mattered, and that was to "keep in touch." So he stuck to his job.
The wire was broken a fourth time, and as he was about to follow it back, a runner came up from the C.O. wanting to know why the signaller was not in communication. He started back along his wire and as he went he said, "Tell 'im to pay 'is last account, an' maybe the telephone will be re-connected."
A permanent line was fixed before he allowed the stretcher-bearers to take him away. My chum had taken his post at the end of the wire, and as the signaller was being carried away he called out feebly, "You're in touch with H.Q. C.O.'s paid 'is bill, an' we'll win the war yet." —L. N. Loder, M.C. (late Indian Army), Streatham.
The "Garden Party Crasher"
In April 1917 two companies of our battalion were ordered to make a big raid opposite the sugar refineries at 14 Bis, near Loos. Two lines of enemy trenches had to be taken and the raiding party, when finished, were to go back to billets at Mazingarbe while the Durhams took over our trenches.
My batman Beedles had instructions to go back to billets with all my kit, and wait there for my return. I was in charge of the right half of the first wave of the raid, and after a bit of a scrap we got into the German front line.
Having completed our job of blowing up concrete emplacements and dug-outs, we were waiting for the signal to return to our lines when, to my surprise, Beedles came strolling through the German wire. When he saw me he called out above the row going on: "I 'opes yer don't mind me 'aving come to the garden party wivout an invertition, sir?"
The intrepid fellow had taken all my kit back to billets some four miles, made the return journey, and come across No Man's Land to find me, and see me safely back; an act which might easily have cost him his life. —L. W. Lees (Lieut.), late 11th Batt. Essex Regt., "Meadow Croft," Stoke Poges, Bucks.
Those Big Wasps
Salonika, 1918, a perfect summer's day. The 2/17th London Regiment are marching along a dusty road up to the Doiran Lake. Suddenly, out of the blue, three bombing planes appear. The order is given to scatter.
Meanwhile, up comes an anti-aircraft gun, complete with crew on lorry. Soon shells are speeding up, and little small puffs of white smoke appear as they burst; but the planes are too high for them. A Cockney of the regiment puts his hands to his mouth and shouts to the crew: "Hi, don't hunch 'em; let 'em settle." —A. G. Sullings (late 2/17th London Regiment), 13 °Cann Hall Road, Leytonstone, E.11.
Why he Looked for Help
On July 1, 1916, the 56th (London) Division attacked at Hebuterne, and during the morning I was engaged (as a lineman) in repairing our telephone lines between Battalion and Brigade H.Q. I had just been temporarily knocked out by a flat piece of shell and had been attended by a stretcher-bearer, who then left me and proceeded on his way back to a dressing station I had previously passed, whilst I went farther on down the trench to get on with my job.
I had not gone many yards when I met a very young private of the 12th Londons (the Rangers). One of his arms was hanging limp and was, I should think, broken in two or three places. He was cut and bleeding about the face, and was altogether in a sorry plight.
He stopped and asked me, "Is there a dressing station down there, mate?" pointing along the way I had come, and I replied, "Yes, keep straight on down the trench. It's a good way down. But," I added, "there's a stretcher-bearer only just gone along. Shall I see if I can get him for you?"
His reply I shall never forget: "Oh, I don't want him for me. I want someone to come back with me to get my mate. He's hurt!" —Wm. R. Smith, 231 Halley Road, Manor Park, E.12.
The Winkle Shell
Above the entrance to a certain dug-out somewhere in Flanders some wit had fixed a board upon which was roughly painted, "The Winkle Shell."
The ebb and tide of battle left the dug-out in German hands, but one day during an advance the British infantry recaptured the trench in which "The Winkle Shell" was situated.
Along the trench came a Cockney with his rifle ready and his bayonet fixed. Hearing voices coming from the dug-out he halted, looked reflectively at the notice-board, and then cautiously poking his bayonet into the dug-out called out, "Nah, then, come on aht of it afore I gits me blinkin' 'pin' busy." —Sidney A. Wood (late C/275 Battery, R.F.A.), 32 Lucas Avenue, Upton Park, E.13.
Forgot his Dancing Pumps
We were in a trench in front of Carnoy on the Somme when the Germans made a raid on us. It was all over in a few minutes, and we were minus eight men – taken away by the raiders.