'Erb's Consolation Prize
A narrow communication trench leading up to the front line; rain, mud, shells, and everything else to make life hideous.
Enter the ration party, each man carrying something bulky besides his rifle and kit.
One of the party, a Londoner known as 'Erb, is struggling with a huge mail-bag, bumping and slipping and sliding, moaning and swearing, when a voice from under a sack of bread pipes: "Never mind, 'Erb; perhaps there's a postcard in it for you!" —L. G. Austin (24th London Regiment), 8 Almeida Street, Upper Street, Islington, N.1.
Rum for Sore Feet
Whilst doing duty as acting Q.M.S. I was awakened one night by a loud banging on the door of the shack which was used as the stores. Without getting up I asked the reason for the noise, and was told that a pair of boots I had issued that day were odd – one was smaller than the other. The wearer was on stable piquet, and could hardly walk.
I told him he would have to put up with it till the morning – I wasn't up all night changing boots, and no doubt I should have a few words to say when I did see him!
"Orl right, Quarter," came the reply, "I'm sorry I woke yer – but could yer give us a tot of rum to stop the pain?" —P. K. (late 183rd Batt. 41st Div. R.F.A.), Kilburn, N.W.6.
Two Guineas' Worth
In France during November 1914 I received an abrupt reminder that soldiering with the Honourable Artillery Company entails an annual subscription.
The battalion had marched out during the night to a small village named Croix Barbée to carry out some operation, and returned at daybreak to its "lodging" near La Couture, another village some four or five miles away.
Being a signaller, I had the doubtful privilege of owning a bicycle, which had to be pushed or carried every inch of the way. On the march back the mud was so bad that it was impossible for me to keep up with the battalion, owing to the necessity every quarter of a mile or so of cleaning out the mudguards.
I was plodding along all by myself in the early hours of daylight, very tired of the bike and everything else, and I approached an old soldier of the Middlesex Regiment sitting by the roadside recovering slowly from the strain of the fatiguing night march.
He looked at me and, with a twinkle in his eye, said, "Well, mate, 'ad yer two guineas wurf yet?" —J. H. May, Ravenswood, Ashford, Middlesex.
The Four-footed Spy
Whilst we were at Arras a horse was found entangled in some barbed wire, having presumably strayed from the German lines. He was captured by a rifleman and brought back to the horse lines to be used by the transport driver.
A Cockney groom was detailed to look after him. The two never seemed to agree, for the groom was always being bitten or kicked by "Jerry."
One morning the picket discovered that "Jerry" was missing, and concluded that he must have broken away during the night. The matter was reported to the sergeant, who went and routed out the groom. "What about it? Ain't you goin' to look for 'im?" said the sergeant.
"Not me, sarge! I always said the blighter was a blinkin' spy!" replied the groom. —J. Musgrave (late 175th Infantry Brigade), 52 Cedar Grove, South Ealing, W.5.
Not Every Dog has his Night
Our battalion arrived in a French village late on the night of September 25, 1915, after marching all day in pouring rain. To add to our troubles no billets were available (the place was teeming with reserve troops for the attack at Loos).
We were told to find some sort of shelter from the rain and get a good night's rest, as we were to move up to the attack on the morrow.
My chum, a Londoner, and I scouted round. I found room for one in an already overcrowded stable; my chum continued the search. He returned in a few minutes to tell me he had found a spot. I wished him good night and went to sleep.
In the morning, when I came out of the stable, I saw the long legs of a Guardsman (who proved to be my chum) protruding from a dog kennel. Beside them sat a very fed-up dog! —F. Martin (late 1st Batt. Scots Guards), 91 Mostyn Road, Brixton, S.W.
The Brigadier's Glass Eye
A brigadier of the 54th Infantry Brigade (18th Division), who had a glass-eye, and his Cockney runner, were on their way up the line when they observed a dead German officer who had a very prominent gold tooth.
The next day, passing by the same spot, the Brigadier noticed that the gold tooth was missing.
"I see that his gold tooth has gone, Johnson," he said.
"Yessir."
"I suppose someone will take my glass eye, if I am knocked out."
"Yessir. I've put meself dahn fer that, fer a souvenir!" —W. T. Pearce, "Southernhay," Bethune Avenue, Friern Barnet, N.11.
The Chaplain-General's Story
In June 1917 I shared a G.H.Q. car with the Chaplain-General to the Forces, Bishop Gwynne, who was on his way from St. Omer to Amiens, whilst I was on my way to the Third Army School at Auxi-le-Château.
During the journey our conversation turned to chaplains, and the bishop asked me whether I thought the chaplains then coming to France were of the right type, especially from the point of view of the regimental officers and men. My reply was that the chaplains as a whole differed very little from any other body of men in France: they were either men of the world and very human, and so got on splendidly with the troops, or else they were neither the one nor the other, cut very little ice, and found their task a very difficult one.
The Bishop then told me the following story, which he described as perfectly true:
"A chaplain attached to a London regiment made a practice of always living in the front line whenever the battalion went in to the trenches rather than remaining with Battalion Headquarters some way back, and he had his own dug-out over which appeared the words 'The Vicarage.'
"One day a young Cockney in the line for the first time was walking along the trench with an older soldier, and turning a corner suddenly came on 'The Vicarage.'
"'Gorblimey, Bill!' he said, 'who'd 'ave fought of seein' the b – vicarage in the front line?'"
"Immediately the cheery face of the padre popped out from behind the blanket covering the entrance and a voice in reply said: 'Yes! And who'd have thought of seeing the b – vicar too?'"
"That's the kind of chaplain," said the Bishop, "I'm trying to get them to send out to France." —(Brig. – Gen.) R. J. Kentish, C.M.G., D.S.O., Shalford Park, Guildford.
A Thirst Worth Saving
During the summer of 1917 our battalion – the 1/5th Buffs – formed part of General Thompson's flying column operating between the Tigris and the Shatt Al-'Adhaim.
One morning we discovered that the native camel drivers had deserted to the enemy's lines, taking with them the camels that were carrying our water.
No man had more than a small cup of water in his bottle yet we waited orders until dawn the next day, when a 'plane dropped a message for us to return to the Tigris.
I shall not dwell on that 20-mile march back to the river over the burning sand – I cannot remember the last few miles of it myself. None of us could speak. Our lips and tongues were bursting.
When we reached the Tigris we drank and drank again – then lay exhausted.
The first man I heard speak was "Busty" Johnson, who, with great effort hoarsely muttered: "Lumme, if I can only keep this blinkin' first till I goes on furlough!" —J. W. Harvey (late 1/5th Buffs, M.E.F.), 25 Queen's Avenue, Greenford Park, Middlesex.
Points of View
On a wet and cold winter's night in the hills south of Nablus (Palestine) a sentry heard sounds as of slipping feet and strange guttural noises from the direction of the front line. He waited with his rifle at the port and then challenged: "Halt! who goes there?"
A thin, dismal voice came from the darkness. "A pore miserable blighter with five ruddy camels."
"Pass, miserable blighter, all's well," replied the sentry.
Into the sentry's view came a rain-soaked disconsolate-looking Tommy "towing" five huge ration camels.
"All's well, is it? Coo! Not 'arf!" said he. —W. E. Bickmore (late "C" 303 Brigade, R.F.A., 60th Div.), 121 Gouville Road, Thornton Heath, Surrey.
Not the British Museum
The Labyrinth Sector.
Three of us – signallers – having just come off duty in the front line, were preparing to put in a few hours' sleep, when a voice came floating down the dug-out steps: "Is Corporal Stone down there?"
Chorus: "No!"
Ten minutes later came the same voice: "Is Sergeant Fossell down there?"
"Go away," replied our Cockney; "this ain't the blinkin' British Museum!" —G. J. Morrison (late 14th London Regt.), "Alness," Colborne Way, Worcester Park, Surrey.
Jerry Would Not Smile
I met him coming from the front line, one of "London's Own." He was taking back the most miserable and sullen-looking prisoner I have ever seen.
"Got a light, Jock?" he asked me. I obliged. "'Ave a Ruby Queen, matey?" I accepted.
"Cheerful-looking customer you've got there, Fusie," I ventured, pointing to his prisoner.
He looked up in disgust. "Cheerful? Lummie, he gives me the creeps. I've orfered 'im a fag, and played 'Katie' and 'When this luvly war is over' on me old mouf orgin for him, but not a bloomin' smile. An' I've shown him me souvenirs and a photograph of me old woman, and, blimey, if that don't make a bloke laugh, well, it's 'opeless!"
And then, with a cheery "Mercy bokoo, matey," and a "Come on, 'Appy," to his charge, he pushed on. —Charles Sumner (late London Scottish), Butler's Cottage, Sutton Lane, Heston, Middlesex.
"Birdie" Had to Smile
While I was serving with the Australians at Gallipoli in 1915 I was detailed to take charge of a fatigue party to carry water from the beach to the front line, a distance of about a mile.
Our way lay over rather dangerous and extremely hilly country. The weather was very hot. Each man in the party had to carry four petrol tins of water.
While trudging along a narrow communication trench we were confronted by General Birdwood and his A.D.C. As was the general's cheery way, he stopped, and to the man in front (one "Stumpy" Stewart, a Cockney who had been in Australia for some time) he remarked, "Well, my man, how do you like this place?"
"Stumpy" shot a quick glance at the general and then blurted out, "Well, sir, 't'aint the sort of plice you'd bring your Jane to, is it?"
I can see "Birdie's" smile now. —C. Barrett (Lieut., Aust. Flying Corps, then 6th Aust. Light Horse), Charing Cross, W.C.
Their Very Own Secret
We were on a forced march to a sector on Vimy Ridge. It was a wicked night – rain and thick fog – and during a halt several of our men got lost. I was ordered to round them up, but I also got hopelessly lost.
I had been wandering about for some time when I came across one of our men – a young fellow from the Borough. We had both lost direction and could do nothing but wait.
At last dawn broke and the fog lifted. We had not the slightest idea where we were, so I told my friend to reconnoitre a hill on the right and report to me if he saw anyone moving, while I did the same on the left.
After a while I heard a cautious shout, and my companion came running towards me, breathless with excitement, and in great delight gasped, "Sergeant, sergeant! Germans! Germans! Fousands of 'em – and there's nobody but you and me knows anyfing abaht it!" —G. Lidsell (late Devon Regt.), Brixton, S.W.9.
Window Cleaners Coming!
We were passing through Ypres, in 1915, in a Wolseley Signals tender when we came upon a battalion of the Middlesex on their way out to rest, very tired and very dirty.
Our cable cart ladders, strapped to the sides of the lorry, caught the eyes of one wag. "Blimey, boys," he cried, "we're orl right nah; 'ere comes the blinkin' winder-cleaners." —"Sigs.," Haslemere, Surrey.
First Blow
It was outside Albert, during the Somme attack, that I met a lone Army Service Corps wagon, laden with supplies. One of the horses was jibbing, and the driver, a diminutive Cockney, was at its head, urging it forward. As I approached I saw him deliberately kick the horse in the flank.
I went up to the man and, taking out notebook and pencil, asked him for his name, number, and unit, at the same time remonstrating with him severely.
"I wasn't doin' 'im no 'arm," pleaded the man; "I've only got my gum-boots on, and, besides, 'e kicked me first."
I tore up my entry, mounted my motor-cycle, and left an injured-looking driver rubbing a sore shin. —R. D. Blackman (Capt., R.A.F.), 118 Abbey Road, St. John's Wood, N.W.6.
M.M. (Mounted Marine)
After riding for several hours one wet, windy, and miserable night, with everyone soaked to the skin and fed up generally, we were halted in a field which, owing to the heavy rain, was more like a lake.
On receiving the order to dismount and loosen girths, one of our number remained mounted and was busy flashing a small torch on the water when the sergeant, not too gently, inquired, "Why the dickens are you still mounted, and what the deuce are you looking for anyway?" To which a Cockney voice replied, "Blimey, sergeant, where's the landing stage?" —"Jimmy" (late Essex Yeomanry).
His German 'Arp
Having been relieved, after our advance at Loos in 1915, we were making our way back at night.
We had to pass through the German barbed wire, which had tins tied to it so that it rattled if anyone tried to pass it.
Our sergeant got entangled in it and caused a lot of noise, whereupon a Cockney said: "You're orl right on the old banjo, sergeant, but when it comes to the German 'arp you're a blinkin' washaht." —W. Barnes, M.M. (late 1st Bn. K.R.R.C.), 63 Streatfeild Avenue, East Ham.
Jack went a-Riding
Early in 1916 we were on outpost duty at a place called Ayun Musa, about four miles east of Suez.
One day a British monitor arrived in the Gulf of Suez, and we were invited to spend an hour on board as the sailors' guests. The next day the sailors came ashore and were our guests.
After seeing the canteen most of them were anxious for a ride on a horse. So we saddled a few horses and helped our guests to mount. Every horse chose a different direction in the desert.
One of the sailors was a Cockney. He picked a fairly fresh mount, which soon "got away" with him. He lost his reins and hung round the animal's neck for dear life as it went at full gallop right through the Camp Commandant's quarters.
Hearing the commotion, the Commandant put his head out of his bivouac and shouted, "What the dickens do you mean galloping through here?"
Back came the retort, "Don't ask me – ask the blinkin' 'oss." —H. F. Montgomery (late H.A.C.), 33 Cavenham Gardens, Ilford.
Bitter Memories
During an attack near Beer-Sheba, Palestine, our regiment had been without water for over twenty-four hours. We were suffering very badly, as the heat was intense. Most of us had swollen tongues and lips and were hardly able to speak, but the company humorist, a Cockney, was able to mutter, "Don't it make you mad to fink of the times you left the barf tap running?" —H. Owen (late Queen's Royal West Surrey Regt.), 18 Edgwarebury Gardens, Edgware, Middlesex.
Tommy "Surrounded" Them
It was in July 1916. The Somme Battle had just begun. The troops in front of us had gone over the top and were pushing forward. We were in support and had just taken over the old front line.
Just on our right was a road leading up and through the German lines. Looking up this road we saw a small squad strolling towards us. It was composed of four Germans under the care of a London Tommy who was strolling along, with his rifle under his arm, like a gamekeeper. It made quite a nice picture.
When they reached us one of our young officers shouted out: "Are you looking for the hounds?"
Then the Cockney started: "Blimey, I don't know abaht looking for 'ounds. I got four of 'em 'ere – and now I got 'em I don't know where to dump 'em."
The officer said: "Where did you find them?"
"I surrounded 'em, sir," was the reply.
Our officer said: "You had better leave them here for the time being."
"Right-o, sir," replied the Cockney. "You hang on to 'em until I come back. I'm going up the road to get some more. There's fahsends of 'em up there." —R. G. Williams, 30 Dean Cottages, Hanworth Road, Hampton, Middlesex.
Shell-holes and Southend
My pal (a Battersea boy) and I were two of a draft in 1916 transferred from the K.R.R.s to the R.I.R.s. On the first night in the trenches we were detailed for listening post. My pal said: "That's good. I'll be able to tell father what No Man's Land is like, as he asked me."
After we had spent what was to me a nerve-wracking experience in the mud of a shell-hole, I asked him what he was going to tell his father. He said: "It's like Southend at low tide on the fifth of November." —F. Tuohey (late 14th Batt. R.I.R.), 31 Winchester Road, Edmonton.
"Make Me a Good 'Orse"
Having come out of action, we lay behind the line waiting for reinforcements of men and horses. The horses arrived, and I went out to see what they were like.
I was surprised to see a Cockney, who was a good groom, having trouble in grooming one of the new horses. Every time he put the brush between its forelegs the animal went down on its knees.
At last in desperation the Cockney stepped back, and gazing at the horse still on its knees, said: "Go on, yer long-faced blighter. 'Gawd bless muvver. Gawd bless farver, an' make me a good 'orse.'" —Charles Gibbons (late 3rd Cavalry Brigade), 131 Grove Street, Deptford, S.E.8.
The Lost Gumboot
An N.C.O. in the Engineers, I was guiding a party of about seventy Royal Fusiliers (City of London Regt.) through a trench system between Cambrin, near Loos, and the front line. About half-way the trenches were in many places knee-deep in mud. It was about 2 a.m. and shelling made things far from pleasant. Then word came up that we had lost touch with the tail-end of the party, and a halt was called, most of us standing in mud two feet deep.
The officer in charge sent a message back asking why the tail-end had failed to keep up. The reply came back in due course: "Man lost his gumboot in the mud." The officer, becoming annoyed at the delay, sent back the message: "Who's the fool who lost his gumboot?"
I heard the message receding into the distance with the words "fool" "gumboot" preceded by increasingly lurid adjectives. In about three or four minutes I heard the answer being passed up, getting louder and louder: "Charlie Chaplin," "Charlie Chaplin," "CHARLIE CHAPLIN." Even our sorely-tried officer had to laugh. —P. Higson, Lancashire.
"Compree 'Sloshy'?"
During one of the Passchendaele advances in 1917 my battery was situated astride a board roadway leading over the ridge. After this particular show was over I happened to be in the telephone dug-out when prisoners started coming back.
One weary little lance-jack in a London regiment arrived in charge of an enormous, spectacled, solemn-looking Fritz. As he reached the battery position he paused to rest and look at the guns.
Leaning against the side of the dug-out he produced a cigarette end and, lighting it, proceeded to make conversation with his charge which, being out of sight, I was privileged to overhear.
"Ain't 'arf blinkin' sloshy 'ere, ain't it, Fritz? Compree sloshy?" No reply.
He tried again. "Got a cushy job these 'ere artillery blokes, ain't they? Compree cushy?" Still no answer.
He made a third attempt. "S'pose you're abart fed up with this blinkin' guerre. Compree guerre?" Again the stony, uncomprehending silence; and then:
"Garn, yer don't know nuffink, yer don't, yer ignorant blighter. Say another blinkin' word and I'll knock yer blinkin' block orf." —A. E. Joyce (late R.F.A.), Swallowcroft, Broxbourne Road, Orpington, Kent.
Looking-Glass Luck
During the second battle of Ypres, in May 1915, I was attached to the 1st Cavalry Brigade, and after a terrific strafing from Fritz there was a brief lull, which gave us a chance for a "wash and brush up."
While we were indulging in the luxury of a shave, a Cockney trooper dropped his bit of looking-glass.
Seeing that it was broken I casually remarked, "Bad luck for seven years." And the reply I got was, "If I live seven years to 'ave bad luck it'll be blinking good luck." —J. Tucker, 46 Langton Road, Brixton, S.W.
Mine that was His
Just before our big push in August 1918 we were resting in "Tank Wood." The place was dotted with shell holes, one of which was filled with rather clean water, evidently from a nearby spring. A board at the edge of this hole bore the word "Mine," so we gave it a wide berth.
Imagine our surprise when later we saw "Tich," a lad from the Old Kent Road, bathing in the water. One of our men yelled, "Hi, Tich, carn't yer read?"
"Yus," replied "Tich," "don't yer fink a bloke can read 'is own writing?" —Walter F. Brooks (late R.W. Kent Regt.), 141 Cavendish Road, Highams Park, E.4.
"Geography" Hour
Just before going over the top a private, wishing to appear as cheerful as possible, turned to his platoon sergeant and said: "I suppose we will be making history in a few minutes, sergeant?"
"No," replied the sergeant: "our first objective is about 250 yards straight to the front. What you have to do is to get from here to there as quickly as your legs will carry you. We are making geography this morning, my lad!" —"Arras," London, S.W.1.
To the General, About the Colonel
The colonel of the regiment, gifted with the resonant voice of a dare-devil leader, was highly esteemed for his rigid sense of duty, especially in the presence of the enemy.
The Germans had been troubling us a lot with gas, and this kept everyone on the qui vive.
Accompanied by the colonel, the divisional commander was making his usual inspection of the front line intent on the alertness of sentries.
In one fire-bay the colonel stopped to give instructions regarding a ventilating machine which had been used to keep the trench clear of gas after each attack.
Meanwhile the general moved on towards the other end of the fire-bay, where the sentry, fresh out from the reserve battalion recruited in Bermondsey, stood with his eyes glued to the periscope.
A natural impulse of the general as he noticed the weather-vane on the parapet was to test the sentry's intelligence on "gas attack by the enemy," so as he approached the soldier he addressed him in a genial and confiding manner: "Well, my lad, and how's the wind blowing this morning?"
Welcoming a little respite, as he thought, from periscope strain, by way of a short "chin-wag" with one or other of his pals, the unsuspecting sentry rubbed his hands gleefully together as he turned round with the reply: "'Taint 'arf so dusty arter all." Then, suddenly through the corner of his eye he caught sight of his colonel at the other end of the fire-bay. His face instantly changed its cheerful aspect as he breathlessly whispered to his inquirer, "Lumme, the ole man! 'Ere, mate, buzz orf quick – a-a-an' don't let 'im cop yer a-talkin' to the sentry on dooty, or Jerry's barrage will be a washaht when the Big Noise starts 'is fireworks!" —William St. John Spencer (late East Surrey Regiment), "Roydsmoor," Arneson Road, East Molesey, Surrey.
Bow Bells – 1917 Style
We were going up the line at Bullecourt in April 1917. I have rather bad eyesight and my glasses had been smashed. Being the last of the file I lost touch with the others and had no idea where I was. However, I stumbled on, and eventually reached the front line.
Upon the ground were some empty petrol cans tied up ready to be taken down to be filled with water. I tripped up amongst these and created an awful din, whereupon an angry voice came from out the gloom. – "I don't know 'oo or wot the dickens you are, but for 'eaven's sake take those bells orf!" —W. G. Root (late 12th London Regt.), 24 Harrington Square, N.W.1.
"The Awfentic Gramerphone!"
This happened on that wicked March 21, 1918.
During a lull in the scrapping, a lone German wandered too near, and we collared him. He was handed over to Alf, our Cockney cookie.
Things got blacker for us. We could see Germans strung out in front of us and on both flanks – Germans and machine guns everywhere.
"Well, boys," said our major, "looks as if it's all up with us, doesn't it?"
"There's this abaht it, sir," said Alf, pointing to his prisoner; "when it comes to chuckin' our 'ands in, we've got the awfentic gramerphone to yell 'Kamerad!' – ain't we?" —C. Vanon, 33 Frederick Street, W.C.1.
The Muffin Man
Two companies of a London regiment were relieving each other on a quiet part of the line, late in the evening of a dismal sort of day. The members of the ingoing company were carrying sheets of corrugated iron on their heads for the purpose of strengthening their position.
A member of the outgoing company, observing a pal of his with one of these sheets on his head, bawled out: "'Ullo, 'Arry, what'cher doing of?" to which came the laconic reply: "Selling muffins, but I've lost me blinkin' bell." —H. O. Harries, 85 Seymour Road, Harringay, N.8.
The Holiday Resort
Early in October 1915 a half company of the 3rd Middlesex Regiment occupied a front-line sector at Givenchy, known as the "Duck's Bill," which ran into the German line.
In spite of our proximity to the enemy our chief annoyance was occasional sniping, machine gunning, rifle grenades, and liquid fire, for the area had been given over mainly to mining and counter-mining.
It was expected that the "Duck's Bill" would "go up" at any moment, so it was decided to leave only one officer in charge, with instructions to keep every available man engaged either in furiously tunnelling towards the enemy to counter their efforts, or in repairing our breast-works, which had been seriously damaged in a German attack.
My men worked like Trojans on a most tiring, muddy, and gruesome task.
At last we were relieved by the Leicestershire Regiment, and one of my men, on being asked by his Leicester relief what the place was like, replied: "Well, 'ow d'yer spend yer 'olidies, in the country or at the seaside? 'Cos yer gits both 'ere as yer pleases: rabbit 'unting (pointing to the tunnelling process) and sand castle building (indicating the breastwork repairs), wiv fireworks in the evening."
The Leicesters, alas! "went up" that evening. —S. H. Flood (late Middlesex Regiment and M.G.C.), "Prestonville," Maidstone Road, Chatham, Kent.
The "Tich" Touch
We had survived the landing operations at Murmansk, in North Russia, and each company had received a number of sets of skis, which are very awkward things to manage until you get used to them.
On one occasion when we were practising, a "son of London," after repeated tumbles, remarked to his pals, who were also getting some "ups and downs": "Fancy seein' me dahn Poplar way wiv these fings on; my little old bunch of trouble would say, 'What's 'e trying ter do nah? Cut aht Little Tich in the long-boot dance?'" —C. H. Mitchell (late Staff-Sergt. A.S.C.), 7 Kingsholm Gardens, Eltham, S.E.9.
Smart Men All
One of the usual orders had come through to my battalion of the Middlesex Regiment for a number of men to be detailed for extra regimental duties which would be likely to take them away from the battalion for a considerable time. The company I commanded had to provide twenty men.
It was a golden opportunity to make a selection of those men whose physical infirmities were more evident than the stoutness of their hearts. Together with my company sergeant-major I compiled a list of those who could best be spared from the trenches, and the following day they were paraded for inspection before moving off.
As I approached, one of the men who had been summing up his comrades and evidently realised the reason for their selection, remarked in a very audible Cockney whisper, "What I says is, if you was to search the 'ole of Norvern France you wouldn't find a smarter body o' men!" —"Nobby" (late Captain, Middlesex Regiment), Potters Bar, Middlesex.
"You'd Pay a Tanner at the Zoo!"
During the floods in Palestine in 1917 I had to be sent down the line with an attack of malaria. Owing to the roads being deep in water, I was strapped in an iron chair pannier on the back of a camel. My sick companion, who balanced me on the other side of the camel, was a member of the London Regiment affectionately known as the Hackney Gurkhas.
The Johnnie patiently trudged through the water leading the camel, and kept up the cry of "Ish! Ish!" as it almost slipped down at every step.
I was feeling pretty bad with the swaying, and said to my companion, "Isn't this the limit?"
"Shurrup, mate!" he replied. "Yer don't know when yer well orf. You'd 'ave to pay a tanner for this at the Zoo!" —Frederick T. Fitch (late 1/5th Batt. Norfolk Regt.), The Gordon Boys' Home, West End, Woking, Surrey.
Smoking Without Cigarettes
Most ex-soldiers will remember the dreary monotony of "going through the motions" of every movement in rifle exercises.
We had just evacuated our position on the night of December 4-5, 1917, at Cambrai, after the German counter-attack, and, after withstanding several days' severe battering both by the enemy and the elements, were staggering along, tired and frozen and hungry, and generally fed up.
When we were deemed to be sufficiently far from the danger zone the order was given to allow the men to smoke. As practically everyone in the battalion had been without cigarettes or tobacco for some days the permission seemed to be wasted. But I passed the word down, "'C' Company, the men may smoke," to be immediately taken up by a North Londoner: "Yus, and if you ain't got no fags you can go through the motions." —H. H. Morris, M.C. (late Lieut., 16th Middlesex Regt.), 10 Herbert Street, Malden Road, N.W.5.
An Expensive Light
Winter 1915, at Wieltje, on the St. Jean Road. We were on listening post in a shell-hole in No Man's Land, and the night was black.
Without any warning, my Cockney pal Nobby threw a bomb towards the German trench, and immediately Fritz sent up dozens of Verey lights. I turned anxiously to Nobby and asked, "What is it? Did you spot anything?" and was astonished when he replied, "I wanted ter know the time, and I couldn't see me blinkin' watch in the dark." —E. W. Fellows, M.M. (late 6th Battn. D.C.L.I.), 33 Dunlace Road, Clapton, E.5.