road I wants a blinking copper ter 'old me 'and?" —G. Furnell, 57a Southwold Road, Upper Clapton, E.5.
During an advance on the Somme in 1916 my company was rushed up to the captured trenches to search the dug-outs and to bring in the prisoners.
My Cockney pal was evidently enjoying himself. As he went from one dug-out to another he was singing:
"Orl that I want is lo-ove,
Orl that I want is yew."
Entering one dug-out, however, his voice suddenly changed. In the dug-out were three Germans. Showing them the point of his bayonet, the Cockney roared: "Nah, then, aht of it; 'op it. I'm lan'lord 'ere nah." —C. Grimwade, 26 Rotherhithe New Road, Rotherhithe, S.E.16.
One night in October '14, in the neighbourhood of Herlies, "Ginger," a reservist, was sent out to call in the men of a listening post.
Dawn came, but no "Ginger" returned, and as he did not turn up during the day he was given up for lost.
Soon after dusk, however, a very worn and fed-up "Ginger" returned. We gathered that he had suddenly found himself in the German lines, had had a "dust-up," had got away, and had lain out in No Man's Land until dusk allowed him to get back.
The company officer was inclined to be cross with him, and asked him, "But what made you go so far as the enemy position?"
"Ginger" scratched his head, and then replied, "Well, sir, nobody said anyfink to me abaht it being aht o' bahnds." —T. L. Barling (late Royal Fusiliers), 21 Lockhart Street, Bow, E.3.
On May 14, 1917, the 2/2nd Battalion of the London Regiment occupied the support lines in front of Bullecourt. "A" company's position was a thousand yards behind the front line trenches. At 2 p.m. the enemy began to subject the whole area to an intense bombardment which lasted more than thirteen hours.
In the middle of the bombardment (which was described by the G.O.C. – in-Chief as "the most intense bombardment British troops had had to withstand"), No. 3 platoon of "A" company was ordered to proceed to the front line with bombs for the battalion holding it. The platoon consisted of 31 N.C.O.s and men and one officer.
The only means of communication between the support and front lines was a trench of an average depth of two feet. Along this trench the platoon proceeded, carrying between them forty boxes of Mills bombs. Every few yards there were deep shell holes to cross; tangled telephone wires tripped the men; M. G. bullets swept across the trench, and heavy shells obtained direct hits frequently, while shrapnel burst overhead without cessation.
A man was hit every few minutes; those nearest him rendered what aid was possible, unless he was already dead; his bombs were carried on by another.
Of the thirty-one who started, twenty-one were killed or wounded; the remainder, having taken an hour and a half to cover the 1,000 yards, reached the front line with the forty boxes of bombs intact.
They were ordered to remain, and thus found themselves assisting in repulsing an attack made by the 3rd Lehr Regiment of Prussian Guards, and two of the men succeeded in wounding and capturing the commanding officer of the attacking regiment.
Of the ten N.C.O.s and men who were left, a lance-corporal was blown to pieces in the trench; the remainder stayed in the front line until they were relieved four days later. On their way back, through Vaux Vraucourt, they picked clusters of May blossom, and with these in their equipment and rifle barrels, marched into the transport lines whistling. —Captain, London Regiment.
Our cook was having the time of his life. The transition from trench warfare to more or less open warfare in late October 1918 brought with it a welcome change of diet in the form of pigs and poultry from the deserted farms, and cook had captured a nice young porker and two brace of birds.
From the pleasant aroma which reached us from the cottage as we lay on our backs watching a German aeroplane we knew that cook would soon be announcing the feast was ready.
Suddenly from the blue came a roar like that of an express train. We flung ourselves into the ditch… K-k-k-k-r-r-r-ump!
When the smoke and dust cleared away the cottage was just a rubbish heap, but there was cook, most miraculously crawling out from beneath a debris of rafters, beams, and bricks!
"Ruddy 'orseplay!" was the philosopher's comment. —I. O., 19 Burnell Road, Sutton, Surrey.
When my husband commanded the 41st Division in France he was much struck by the ready wit of a private of the Royal Fusiliers (City of London Regiment) in a tight corner.
A bomb landed in a crowded dug-out while the men were having a meal. Everyone stared aghast at this ball of death except one Tommy, who promptly picked it up and flung it outside saying: "Grite stren'th returns the penny, gentlemen!" as he returned to his bully beef. —Lady Lawford, London, S.W.1.
A night wire-cutting party in the Arras sector had been surprised by daylight. All the members of the party (21st London Regiment) crawled back safely except one Cockney rifleman.
When we had reached the trenches and found that he was missing, we were a bit upset. Would he have to lie out in No Man's Land all day? Would he be spotted by snipers?
After a while our doubts were answered by a terrific burst from the German machine guns. Some of the bolder spirits peered over the top of the "bags" and saw our Cockney pal rushing, head down, towards our line while streams of death poured around him.
He reached our parapet, fell down amongst us in the mud, uninjured, and immediately jumped to his feet and said, "Am I in time for the workman's?" —D. F., Acton, W.3.
The Time: March 1916.
The Scene: The Talus des Zouaves – a narrow valley running behind Vimy Ridge from Neuville St. Vaast through Souchez. The weather is bleak, and there is a sticky drizzle – it is towards dusk.
The Man: A native of "somewhere just awf the 'Bricklayers Arms' – you know where that is, sir." Height, just over 5 feet; complexion, red; hair, red and not over tidy; appearance, awkward; clothes don't seem to fit quite. Distinguishing marks – a drooping red moustache almost concealing a short clay pipe, stuck bowl sideways in the corner of the mouth. On the face there is a curious – whimsical – wistful, in fact, a Cockney expression.
The Occasion: The Boche is putting down his evening "strafe" – an intense and very accurate barrage laid like a curtain on the southern slope of the valley. Our hero, his hands closed round the stock of his rifle held between his knees, is squatting unconcernedly on the wet ground in the open on the northern side of the valley, where only a shell with a miraculous trajectory could have scored a direct hit, watching the shells burst almost every second not a great distance away. The din and pandemonium are almost unbearable. Fragments of H.E. and shrapnel are dropping very near.
The Remark: Removing his pipe to reveal the flicker of a smile, he remarked, in his inimitable manner: "Lor' blimey, guv'nor, wouldn't this sahnd orl rite on a grammerphone?" —Gordon Edwards, M.C. (Captain, late S.W.B.), "Fairholm," 48 Alexandra Road, Wimbledon, S.W.19.
Fritz had been knocking our wire about, and a party of us were detailed to repair it. One of our party, a trifle more windy than the rest, kept ducking
