I was limping back with a wounded knee after the taking of
Monchy-le-Preux on April 11, 1917, when a perky little Cockney of
the 13th Royal Fusiliers who had a bandaged head caught me up with a
cheery, "Tike me Chalk Farm (arm), old dear, and we'll soon be 'ome."
I was glad to accept his kindly offer, but our journey, to say the
least, was a hazardous one, for the German guns, firing with open
sights from the ridge in front of the Bois du Sart, were putting
diagonal barrages across the road (down which, incidentally, the
Dragoon Guards were coming magnificently out of action, with saddles
emptying here and there as they swept through that deadly zone on that
bleak afternoon).
Presently we took refuge in a sandbag shelter on the side of the road,
and were just congratulating ourselves on the snugness of our retreat,
when a tank stopped outside. Its arrival brought fresh gun-fire on us,
and before long a whizz-bang made a direct hit on our shelter.
When we recovered from the shock, we found part of our roof missing,
and my little pal, poking his bandaged head through the hole, thus
addressed one of the crew of the tank who was just visible through a
gun slit:
"Oi, why don't yer tike yer money-box 'ome? This ain't a pull-up fer
carmen!"
The spirit that little Cockney imbued into me that day indirectly
saved me the loss of a limb, for without him I do not think I would
have reached the advance dressing station in time.--_D. Stuart (late
Sergeant, 10th R.F., 37th Division) 103 St. Asaph Road, Brockley,
S.E.4._
"Oo, You Naughty Boy!"
In front of Kut Al-'Amarah, April 1916, the third and last attack
on the Sannaiyat position, on the day before General Townshend
capitulated. Days of rain had rendered the ground a quagmire, and lack
of rations, ammunition, and shelter had disheartened the relief force.
The infantry advanced without adequate artillery support, and were
swept by heavy machine-gun fire from the entrenched Turks. One fellow
tripped over a strand of loose barbed wire, fell down, and in rising
ripped the seat nearly off his shorts. Cursing, he rejoined the slowly
moving line of advancing men.
Suddenly one sensed one of those fateful moments when men in the mass
are near to breaking point. Stealthy looks to right and left were
given, and fear was in the men's hearts. The relentless tat-tat-tat of
machine guns, the "singing" of the driven bullets, and the dropping of
men seemed as if it never would end.
A Cockney voice broke the fear-spell and restored manhood to men. "Oo,
'Erbert, you naughty boy!" it said. "Look at what you've done to yer
nice trahsers! 'Quarter' won't 'arf be cross. He said we wasn't to play
rough games and tear our trahsers."--_L. W. Whiting (late 7th Meerut
Division), 21 Dale Park Avenue, Carshalton, Surrey._