WAR STORIES

Greymouth Evening Star, 28 March 1930, Page 9

WAR STORIES

HUMOUR IN THE TRENCHES. The “London Evening News” has printed a number of stories of the war, stories which show the unquenchable humour of the Tommy in the face of tragedy, his indomitable spirit despite the terrific ordeal he was called upon to face. Here are a few of them—all stories of Cockney soldiers who had the right spirit. Between Ecoust and Bullecourt in January, 1918, niy platoon was passing a mine crater which was half-full of water when suddenly Jerry sent one over. Six of our fellows were wounded, and one of them, a Bow Road Cockney, was hurled into the crater. He struggled to his feet and staggered towards a pile of rubble that rose above the muddy water like an island. Arrived there, he sat down and looked round him in bewilderment. Then: “Blimey,’ he muttered, “Robinson ruddy Crusoe!”

WILLIAM TELL TOLD OFF. It happened on the Somme. “Scrounger” Webb, obviously a real, ripe Cockney, exposed his head a trifle higher above the parapet than was then considered healthy, and an alert German sniper sent one over immediately, which luckily only just grazed tho centre front of “Scrounger’s” tin hat. On removing his helmet and seeing the dent, he remarked to his unseen enemy, “Nah, ven, William Tell, stop that!” FORETHOUGHT. H.M. Q ship IS was sinking 60 miles off the French coast as the result of gunfire, after destroying a German submarine. After getting away we had a. hurried call-over and found that a Cockney fireman was missing. We hailed the ship which seemed about to take the plunge any minute, and at last the stoker appeared, spotlessly clean and dressed in “ducks.” He had to jump and swim for it. As we hauled him to our boat we asked him why he had waited to clean himself. '

“Well,” he explained, “if I am going to hell there’s no need to let the blighter know I’m a stoker.”

LOGIC. 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’ abalit? They won’t ’urt yer unless they ’its yer.” TOO PROUD TO FIGHT. At Ypres (Belgian Battery Corner) during 1918 there was 13 of our crowd living in a dug-out in a district which was being subjected to a box-barrage. A 6in. shell entered the dug-out and failed to explode. ’Arry gazed at the unwelcome visitor meditatively, and then remarked, “Blimey, it’s too blinkin’ proud to fight.” BITTER MEMORIES. During an attack near Beer-sheba, Palestine, our regiment had been without water for over 24 hours. We were suffering very badly, as'the heat was intense. Most of us had swollen tongues and lips, and’ could hardly 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?” 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?” THE 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.”

INSULTING. We had advanced beyond the German first line in the big push of ’lB. The rain was heavy, the mud was deep; we had not quite dug in beyond “shallow,” and rations had not come up—altogether a most dismal prospect. Quite near to us was a small pool of water which we all attempted to avoid when passing to and fro. Suddenly there was a yell, and much cursing—the Cockney of the company, complete with his equipment, had fallen into the pool. After recovering dry ground he gazed at the pool in disgust and said, “Fancy a fing like that trying to drahn a bloke wiv a name like Peter.” TORPEDOED!

November, 1916. An advance party is going up to reconnoitre the line it is to take over from the Naval Division after the attack on Beaumont Hamel. Jerry is dropping shells on all sides, and we have been struggling for oyer an hour through a communication trench that is little more than a- canal of liquid mud, when it opens out into a veritable pond. “Tich” Smith, the sergeant in front of me, plunges steadily onward —I do not believe a tidal wave would have deterred him—and is promptly submerged to the waist. Just then a 5.9 bursts in the water in front of him, ancT Tich floats over on his back with a gash in his side. “Are yer hit?” inquires our guide from the Naval Division. “’It!” says Tich. “That’s wot comes o’ mixing wiv the Nivy. I’ve bin blinkin’ well torpedoed!”