In September 1916 we landed in a portion of German trench and I was given orders to hang on. Shells were bursting all around us, so we decided to have a smoke.
My two Cockney pals--Nobby and Harry, who were a goalie and centre-forward respectively--were noted for their zeal in keeping us alive.
Nobby was eager to see what was going on over the top, so he had a peep--and for his pains got shot through the ear. He fell back in a heap and exclaimed, "Well saved, goalie! Couldn't been better if I'd tried."
"Garn," said Harry, bending over him, "it's blinkin' well gorn right frew, mate."--_Patrick Beckwith, 5 Duke Road, Chiswick, W.4._
I was rather badly wounded near Bullecourt, on the Arras front, and was lying on a stretcher outside the dressing station.
Nearby stood a burly Cockney with one arm heavily bandaged. In the other hand he held his ration of hot coffee.
Noticing my distress, he offered me his drink, saying, "'Ere y'are, mate, 'ave a swig at this." One of the stretcher-bearers cried: "Take that away! He mustn't have it!"
"All right, ugly," he said. "Take the food aht of a poor bloke's mouf, would yer?"
Afterwards I learned the stretcher-bearer, by his action, had saved my life. Still, I shan't forget my Cockney friend's generosity.--_A. P. S. (late 5th London Regiment), Ilford._
Poperinghe: a pitch-black night. We were resting when a party of the West Indian Labour Company came marching past. Jerry sent one over. Luckily, only one of the party was hit.
A voice from the darkness: "Alf! keep low, mate. Jerry 'as got his eye in--'e's 'it a nigger in the dark!"--_C. Jakeman (late 4/4th City of London Royal Fusiliers), 5 Hembridge Place, St. John's Wood, N.W.8._
During the great German offensive in March 1918 our company was trying to hold the enemy at Albert. My platoon was in an old trench in front of Albert station, and was in rather a tight corner, the casualties being pretty heavy. A runner managed to get through to us with a message. He asked our sergeant to send a man to another platoon with the message.
One of my pals, named Gordon, shouted, "Give it to me; I'll go."
He crept out of the trench and up a steep incline and over the other side, and was apparently being peppered by machine-gun fire all the way. We had little hope of him ever getting there. About a couple of hours later another Cockney cried: "Blimey! He's coming back!"