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500 of the Best Cockney War Stories. Various
Читать онлайн.Название 500 of the Best Cockney War Stories
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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 at the stray bullets that were whistling by. Finally, 'Erb, who was holding the coil of wire, said to him, "Can't yer stop that bobbin' abaht? They won't 'urt yer unless they 'its yer." —C. Green, 44 Monson Road, New Cross, S.E.14.
It was on the Mons-Condé Canal, on the afternoon of August 23, 1914. Our artillery had just opened up when a tiny Cockney trumpeter, who could not have been more than 15 years old, came galloping up to us with a message.
"How are the gunners going on, boy?" said my captain.
"Knocking 'em down in fousands, sir," replied the lad.
"Good," said the captain.
"Yus, and they're coming on in millions," replied the boy as he rode away to his battery.
A plucky kid, that. —W. H. White, 29 Clive Road, Colliers Wood, S.W.19.
Two or three American officers were attached to our brigade H.Q. on the Somme front.
We were doing our usual four days in the front line when one morning an American officer emerged from the communication trench. Just then the Germans opened out with everything from a 5·9 to rifle grenade. We squeezed into funk-holes in the bottom of the trench. Presently there was a lull, and the American officer was heard to ask, "Say, boys, where is the front line in these parts?"
"Tich," a little Cockney from Euston way, extracted himself from the earth, and exclaimed, "Strike! j'ear that? Wot jer fink this is – a blinkin' rifle range?" —W. Wheeler (late 23rd Battalion Royal Fusiliers), 55 Turney Road, Dulwich, S.E.
Imagine (if you can) the mud on the Somme at its worst. A Royal Marine Artilleryman (a very junior clerk from "Lambeff") was struggling up the gentle slope behind Trones Wood with a petrol tin of precious water in either hand. A number of us were admiring his manly efforts from a distance when the sudden familiar shriek was heard, followed by the equally familiar bang.
We saw him thrown to the ground as the whizz-bang burst but a few feet from him, and we rushed down, certain that he had "got his." Imagine our surprise on being greeted by an apparition that had struggled to a sitting posture, liberally plastered with mud, and a wound in the shoulder, who hoarsely chuckled and said: "If our typist could see me nah!" —C. H. F. (W/Opr. attached R.M.A. Heavy Brigade).
The scene was an observation post in the top of a (late) colliery chimney, 130 ft. up, on the outskirts of Béthune, during the last German offensive of the War.
A great deal of heavy shelling was in progress in our immediate vicinity, and many of Fritz's "high-velocities" were screaming past our lofty pinnacle, which was swaying with the concussion. At any moment a direct hit was possible.
My Cockney mate had located a hostile battery, and after some difficulty with the field telephone was giving the bearing to headquarters.
Faults in the line seemed to prevent him from finishing his message, which consisted of giving the map square (Q 20) being "strafed." The "Q" simply would not reach the ears of the corporal at headquarters, and after many fruitless efforts, using "Q" words, I heard him burst out in exasperation: "Q! Q! Queue! … Blimey! you know – the blinkin' thing wot the pore blighters at home wite abaht for 'mawgarine' in." —B. W. Whayman (late F.S.C., R.E.), 24 Oxford Street, Boston, Lincolnshire.
We were in a deep railway cutting near Gouzeancourt. Jerry's aeroplanes had found us and his artillery was trying to shift us.
On the third day we had run out of cigarettes, so the sergeant-major asked for a volunteer to go to a canteen four miles away.
Our Cockney, a costermonger well known in the East End, volunteered. He could neither read nor write, so we fixed him up with francs, a sandbag, and a list.
Hours passed, the strafe became particularly heavy, and we began to fear our old pal had been hit.
Suddenly during a lull in the shelling far away along the ravine we heard a voice shouting, "Ere's yer fine 'eads er salery 'orl white." He was winning through. —"Sparks," Lowestoft, Suffolk.
After my battalion had been almost wiped out in the 1918 retirement, I was transferred to the 1st Batt. Middlesex Regt. One old soldier, known to us as "Darky," who had been out since '14, reported at B.H.Q. that he wanted to go up the front line with his old mates instead of resting behind the line.
His wish was granted. He was detailed to escort a party of us to the front line.
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