Cyril Tawney - I Was Walking Through the Dockyard in a Panic

Another Anzac day, and I sunk a few schooners with Lofty, Jim and Bob down at the Swansea RSL.  We crapped on about how we were mistreated at Nirimba and we recounted all the mean pricks we had ever come across in the Navy – remember Lefty Mort, or was it Larry?  And remember the time I got stoppage of leave because I was only two packets over on the cigarette allowance.  Those were the days – the people who seemed to get the dream run; the others who were always hard done by!  It made me think of one of my favourite Cyril Tawney songs, I Was Walking Through the Dockyard in a Panic.  This is a catchy tune about one of those characters you come across who for some reason manages to avoid getting posted to sea - always land based in a naval depot or dockyard.  They earned themselves the name, “depot stanchion” from sea-going sailors – not a flattering name because the sea-going sailor felt he was the one having to do the ‘hard yards’, putting in the arduous duty, while the “depot stanchion” got to go home every night.  He had the luxury of drinking in the local every weekend and did not have to suffer the discomfort and hardship of being on a ship at sea.

I Was Walking Through the Dockyard in a Panic

            (Cyril Tawney 1930 -2005)

 

I was walking through the dockyard in a panic,

When I met a matelot old and grey,

Upon his back he had his bag and hammock,

And this is what I heard him say.

 

I wonder, yes I wonder,

Has the Jaunty made a blunder,

When he served this draft chit out for me.

 

For years I’ve been a stanchion,

I’m the pride of Jago’s mansion,

It’s a shame to send me off to sea.

I like my ‘Pride of Keyham’ and I like my weekend leave,

And I always bring the Western to the Chief,

(GOOD MORNING CHIEF!).

 

Oh, I wonder, yes I wonder,

Has the Jaunty made a blunder,

When he served this draft chit out for me.

 

Shall I wander out to sunny straits in glory,

On a trooper that is chocker block,

If I speak to shipmates who have gone before me,

They are sure to double up with shock.

 

I wonder, yes I wonder,

Has the Jaunty made a blunder,

When he served this draft chit out for me.

 

For though we’ve lots of funnels,

We’re never rolling gunnels,

And I’m always home in time for tea.

I’ve gazed upon the ocean while walking on the Hoe,

Though I own that that was very long ago,

(SO LONG AGO!).

 

But t’ain’t no use to holler,

I’ll have to raise a dollar,

And wangle back to R.N.B.

My link to Cyril Tawney’s ‘bleat’ coming from “a matelot, old and grey”, is an imagined matelot’s ‘beef’ I have written.  As is the custom, a more senior rating listens patiently to a sailor’s whinging (“ain’t it awful, ain’t it awful”), and then addresses it with a bigger ‘hard done by’ story to make it seem the sailor’s concerns are insignificant.  In this case, overshadowed by how the loss and subsequent treatment of HMAS Yarra’s crew played itself out in WWII.  HMAS Yarra was a little warship, a Grimsby class sloop built in Australia.  In August 1940, not long after the outbreak of war with Germany, ‘Yarra’ was sent as an attachment to the RN Red Sea force and took part in a number of actions to secure that part of the Middle East for the Allies.  She then deployed to the Mediterranean acting as an escort for shipping between Alexandria and Tobruk.  In need of maintenance and repair, ‘Yarra’ was on her way back to Australia when the Japanese invaded Malaya (late 1941).  The ship found herself diverted to take up escort duties for shipping coming in and out of Singapore.  That duty continued up until the fall of Singapore.  Then in early 1942, south of Java in the escort of a merchant convoy HMAS Yarra encountered a Japanese cruiser squadron.  ‘Yarra’ valiantly sacrificed herself in a futile attempt to protect the convoy (only 13 members of her crew survived).  In spite of HMAS Yarra’s heroic action (considered to be the bravest act in Australian naval history), not one of her crew were recommended for nor ever received a medal.  A young gunner, Leading Seaman Taylor was reported to have remained at his action station when abandon ship was called and kept firing at the enemy to the time he went down with his ship.

 

2015.  I set out to research and write an historical poem about the loss of HMAS Yarra in world war two.  In reflecting on ‘Yarra’s’ story I can’t help but feel injustice – injustice that men were separated from their families for almost two years and then killed, never to return; injustice that their bravery and sacrifice has never been acknowledged.

The Getting of Medals

 

medals!?

 

they don’t give you bloody medals

for doing your duty mate!

just ask the boys off the Yarra,

why don’t cha!?

that’s right, ya can’t, cos

they’re all bloody dead!

 

but that being said,

I bet they don’t bleat,

half as much as you! What,

‘cos you happen to be duty,

one in three!

when here we are mate,

alive, still sucking air,

stepping ashore everywhere,

while back on Yarra!

two years away, two bloody years!

keeping the Red Sea clear,

can you believe it!

four months, mate,

with never a day’s leave,

and then a lousy Bombay refit,

on bully beef and biscuits,

when excuse me, you get your duff

every night and still arc up.

 

Oh, can’t go to sleep!

‘cos it’s too cold in the mess deck?

now that takes the cake,

try being on the Yarra, mate,

running bloody air attacks,

in and out of Tobruk and back,

you don’t know flogged on your feet,

you don’t know hot,

not ‘til you’ve served on a sloop

in the Mediterranean,

then follow that up,

with being told,

you’re going home, mate,

to oh,

there’s been a change of plan,

you’re now acting convoy escort,

Sunda Strait to Singapore.

 

How do you feel? How do ya feel!

Just doing your duty, mate!

the wife and family can wait.

 

Well, they’re waiting a bloody long time.

 

You can’t taunt three Jap cruisers,

and not expect a bruising,

Yarra, or anyone else afloat!

 

Yeah, medals……….

 

if they were handing out medals

for doing your duty, mate,

I’d swim down there to Yarra’s wreck,

and pin one on Squizzy Taylor’s chest.

 

Nah, if it’s medals and bloody life

you’re after, then better play safe,

and get yourself posted, mate,

side-boy to an admiral’s wife!

                                                         J. O. White

Cyril Tawney - Thats what its like In the Navy

An annual event that celebrates the passage of my years is ANZAC day – 25^th April.  Together with birthdays and Christmas and Easter, Australia day, Queen’s birthday and that day in October where we get a long weekend but I don’t know what for.  However, it is this time in April with the weather turning mild that I recall Navy days, put the medals on and meet up with shipmates that I haven’t seen for a year – and will not see for another year – thank god, what with all the drinking!  And strangely, we never involve our families, except sometimes there might be a son or daughter proudly invited because we’re proud of them or want them to be proud of us, as we spin the same old yarns of military madness.  We served, and through this ANZAC tradition, honour all those other poor bastards who got wheeled around by the military system.  That’s what it’s like on ANZAC day which we recently celebrated.  And that’s why I’ve chosen the lyrics to a Cyril Tawney song for this post, That’s what it’s Like in the Navy.  Cyril Tawney was a UK folk singer, did time in the RN and knew what it was about.

That’s What It’s Like In The Navy

(Cyril Tawney 1930 -2005)

 

That’s what it’s like in the Navy.

I wish I’d never joined

For a sailor mother dear,

I’ve seen some places in my time

But nothing like this here,

The girls won’t let us court ‘em

And the canteen’s out of beer,

And that’s what it’s like in the Navy.

 

They covered us with honours

Praises far from feint,

They showered us with medals

‘Gainst which we’ve no complaint,

But we’d rather that our Jimmy

Hadn’t covered us with paint,

And that’s what it’s like in the Navy.

 

And when we started rolling

We rolled an awful lot,

Some people lost their balance

Or their dinner on the spot,

But the whole of bloody two mess

Went and lost their sodden tot,

And that’s what it’s like in the Navy.

 

There were tough guys in the Navy

When Francis banged his drum

And chaps like Hawkin’s chewed up glass

Instead of chewing gum,

But even they weren’t tough enough

To drink Maltese water in their rum,

And that’s what it’s like in the Navy.

 

That’s what it’s like in the Navy ……

 

Cyril would have been good value at one of our ANZAC day reunions.  This little ditty reminds us that through all the tedium, the hardship, the struggle …. there’s humour that binds us – that’s what it was like in the Navy.

A challenge I set myself each year is to have at least one poem written for the boys on ANZAC day.  This year I wrote a poem called, Weekly Running, and I include it as a link to Cyril Tawney’s Navy song.  When I first set out to write about Jervis Bay and time spent on naval exercises, I thought I would write something with good old Navy humour, sort of like how Cyril and Shep Woolley do it.  However, as I reflected on days and weeks spent at sea going nowhere, it wasn’t humour that came to me.  The feelings I felt were those of the endless routine, of loneliness, boredom and of wasted time ………… while others were out in the world enjoying city lights and family life, we were Weekly Running.  And that’s also what it’s like in the Navy!

2013.  Jervis Bay, south of Sydney is the home to the Royal Australian Navy’s naval college.  The seas off Jervis Bay also serve as the fleet exercise area.  There wouldn’t be a sailor who hasn’t spent numerous days flopping around off Jervis Bay or anchored inside her clear waters.  It is such a part of life that the place is simply referred to as ‘JB’.  There are no port facilities in Jervis Bay, so with the fleet based in Sydney, ships working up or on exercise have to sail, spend a week or two down in JB and then return to Sydney to replenish.  This sailing and returning to Sydney routine is known as ‘weekly running’.

Weekly Running

 

Call the hands away from their weekend dreams,

Our boilers gauge a full head of steam,

Pack a steaming kit, plant a fare-well kiss,

And say good-bye to the missus,

For the refit’s done and not much fun,

Now they’ve got us weekly running,

A running, running, running,

We’re J.B. weekly running.

 

Send duty watch aft to single up lines,

Our shore power’s dead yet one more time,

Strike the jackstay staff, fold the Ensign neat,

And stow it away for the week

For a ship at sea is where it should be,

So they’ve sent us out this morning,

A morning, morning, morning,

We sail each Monday morning.

 

Give three short blasts on the ship’s siren,

Close up our special sea duty-men,

Slip the gang-way plank, clear the harbor heads

And find again the old sea legs,

For the props can turn at half astern

Now they’ve signaled we are sailing,

A sailing, sailing, sailing,

To J.B. we are sailing.

 

Follow up reports from the D.SOT crews,

Our guns run out on re-coil blue,

Don your anti-flash, call the fall of shot,

And rapid load the gun-bay hoist,

For the rifling’s cold and our ammo’s old,

Yet they’ve cleared us for a firing,

A firing, firing, firing,

On the Beecroft range we’re firing.

 

Place the upper decks out of bounds,

Our scuppers run the green seas down,

Make the lashings tight, take an extra bight,

And stow gear loose sculling about,

For the weathers rough and the seas are up,

Now we’re off J. B. and rolling,

A rolling, rolling, rolling,

We’re sick of bloody rolling.

 

Get shipside grey from the bosun store,

Our anchor’s dropped to the ocean floor,

Watch the greenies dib, the dustmen dab,

And stewards polish with a cleaning rag,

For rust stains weep in a wasted week,

Now we paint and we are moaning,

A moaning, moaning, moaning,

We’re in J.B. and moaning.

 

Chuck an extra homeward bounder on,

Our Navvi will think his charts are wrong,

Gallop up the coast, steer a steady line,

And be on the buoy at knock-off time,

For in state three, condition Yankee,

They would not make us standby,

A standby, standby, standby,

Bloody hell, we’re duty ship and standby!

                                                                                                      J.O. White
 

 
  

Cyril Tawney - Naval ditties, The A25 Song

I’ve noticed that a couple of my posts featuring naval ditties sung brilliantly by Shep Woolley or Cyril Tawney attract a bit of interest (probably from ex-RN’ers around the world).  Anyway, where I think there might be interest I will endeavour to please, so here are the words to another favourite Cyril Tawney Navy song.  It’s called, The A25 Song.  As with most of Cyril Tawney’s work, the song is ‘old’ Navy – fledgling days of the Fleet Air Arm and set in the struggle of WWII.  Cyril did thirteen years in the RN (joined at 16 years old), but had talent and left to do time as the longest serving professional folk singer in Britain.

The A25 Song

(Cyril Tawney 1930 -2005)

 

They say in the Air Force a landing’s OK,

If the pilot gets out and can still walk away,

But in the Fleet Air Arm the prospect is grim,

If the landing’s piss poor and the pilot can’t swim.

Cracking show! I’m alive!

But I still have to render my A25.

 

I fly for a living and not just for fun,

I’m not very anxious to hack down a hun,

And as for deck landings at night in the dark,

As I told wings this morning, blow that for a lark.

Cracking show!  I’m alive!

But I still have to render my A25.

 

When the batsman gives lower, I always go higher,

I drift o’er to starboard and prang my Seafire,

The boys in the gofers think that I’m green,

But I get the commission from Super Marine.

Cracking show!  I’m alive!

But I still have to render my A25.

 

They gave me a Barra to beat up the fleet,

I shot up the Rodney and Nelson a treat,

I forgot the high mast that sticks out from Formid….

And a seat in the gofers was worth fifty quid.

Cracking show!  I’m alive!

But I still have to render my A25.

 

I thought I was comin in high enough but,

I was fifty feet up when the batsman gave ‘cut’,

And loud in my earphones the sweet angels sang,

Float, float float, float, float, float, float, float, float,

Prang!

Cracking show!  I’m alive!

But I still have to render my A25.

 

The moral of this story is easy to see,

A Fleet Air Arm pilot you never should be,

But stay on the shore and get two rings or three,

And go out every night on the piss down at Lee.

Cracking show! I’m alive!

But I still have to render my A25.

 

I have seen versions of The A25 Song where there are up to seven additional verses, but this is the one I have on CD.  For the uninitiated, an A25 is an accident report form; a Barra is a type of aircraft; and ‘Formid..’ refers to HMS Formidable, an Illustrious class aircraft carrier in commission during WWII.  The times I read this song, it makes me feel how quickly we distance from actual experiences and recollections of what we once knew as familiar technology and methods.  Very soon, the people of a time won’t receive that feeling of how it was and what it was like.  That’s why it’s important for poets in the present to capture and preserve observations, emotions and experiences of our time, no matter how mundane.

I use a poem of mine titled, ‘Nirimba’ as the link in this post.  It’s a Fleet Air Arm link.  I was totally unaware of the history of ‘HMAS Nirimba’ when I first joined the Navy and that establishment to undertake my three and a half years of trade training.  We had joined the Navy to see the sea so why were we being bussed inland, miles from any water, to an abandoned airfield west of Sydney?  The Navy’s hold on an inland aerodrome went back to the second world war when the British Pacific fleet used the RAAF facility (Schofields aerodrome) as a maintenance base for their Fleet Air Arm (a Mobile Naval Air Base – MONAB).  At that time, it was commissioned as HMS Nabstock.  After the war, the RAN set the base up as their apprentice training establishment (RANATE).  In my poem I try to go back and capture ‘Nirimba’ and the beautiful innocence of our young time when we were Naval Apprentices.  Soon, there will be too much distance for anybody to feel how it truly was or know what it was like.  The Navy’s ‘Nirimba’ decommissioned in 1994 and the facilities handed on to the Education Department to become a college precinct in western Sydney.

2011.  HMAS Nirimba was the Royal Australian Navy’s apprentice training establishment from 1956 to 1994.  It was located at Quakers Hill in Sydney, miles inland on the site of a fleet air arm base from the second world war.  Apprentices spent three and a half years (seven terms) at Nirimba before going to sea.  A lengthy time by today’s terms to develop a unique culture.  I was an apprentice there from January 1969 to July 1972.

Nirimba

 

Go back,

way, way back,

  before the Richmond line was electrified,

    before Parklea,

      before muppets, before round rig,

when Bruno was the bouncer at the Blacktown RSL,

  and the Robin Hood was out of bounds,

before Facility 12,

  before purpose built brick buildings

    replaced corrugated iron and concrete floors,

      open ablution blocks left over from the war,

bucket and pogo stick laundering,

before rough play became bullying and bastardization,

  when character guidance was still taught,

    debutante balls with white gloves,

      cardboard detachable collars and crisp starched shirts,

Look up, look up! Don’t look down,

  there’s nothing on the ground,

    one day you may find,

      you have to square off and show you are the better man,

and some of the old salts still remembering,

modeled it on the British,

with an emphasis on pride,

loyalty, example, perseverance, guts and heart,

  Saturday morning working parties,

    winter afternoons on sporting fields,

     assembled under patron explorers,

Bass, Banks, Stirling and Tasman,

Dampier, King, Bligh, then Cook,

  where cheers went up for service,

    for division, for term, for hut

     for being a part, and the love of life,

when attendance at Sunday service was compulsory,

and lingering, longing looks,

upon Chaplain Rossier’s daughters,

  when rejection hurt,

    before free love,

when local schoolgirls were bussed in to cinema dances,

no alcohol, no drugs and strict ten o’clock finishes,

  before videos, before computers and personal television sets,

    competed with the focus and jibes at Mr Marks movies,

clacking mechanically through projector sprockets and guides

reel changes, jams, burnt celluloid and missing cinemascope lenses,

  and the cinema, the cinema the central point,

    when warrants were read from the steps,

to the prejudice of good order and discipline,

and a boy could get fourteen days in Holsworthy prison,

or seven days MUPs for silent contempt

  and a man’s morals were measured in his performance review,

    and Mrs Clarke knew every boy’s name,

      looking eagerly and expectantly for mail,

back when folk packaged parcels and wrote letters, cards

for which waiting taught virtue of patience, and receiving

was something held to carry treasured

in a private corner of a cheap wood ply locker,

  kit musters, cleanliness and inspections

    when liberty men presented at the main gate

     before cars,

      before civvies

shaven hair, blue blazers and private school pocket rig

uniforms massing down Quakers Hill road on foot

when that was still a brisk walk in the country

and a full weekend and freedom tasted sweet

released early from Friday workshops and classrooms

divisions and gunnery jacks with red faces

Look up, look up!  Don’t look down,

  there’s nothing on the ground

    look me in the eye, stand tall!  With men

who believed pride and confidence, something

having to be yelled into a boy,

  before economies and efficiencies argued

    and a seven term investment

      seemed not too long

        to have to wait for return

and it was mind, body and soul to be fed

  before R & Q, before outside catering

    when tables were always laden with generosity

fresh bread, unopened jars, clean butter, and

canned herrings in tomato sauce

take all you want, eat all you take

  you have to be fighting fit, to be fit to fight

when Sister Hazel practiced a brand of military nursing

based on the Crimea, when PTI’s were still feared

and leather soled boots struck at the double on roadways.

Look up, look up.

  don’t look down.

nothing on the ground, anymore

  nothing on the ground

    .... anymore.

                                                                   J. O. White