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
 

 
  

Shep Woolley - Rammit Mate I'm RDP

I’ll be driving along on my own, heading to work or down to Bunnings, and I’ll put on one of my Shep Woolley CD’s and I let him take me back to madcap days when life seemed less serious or made less serious by irreverent characters you came across in the Navy; when work was fun and we still got the job done; and today is today and tomorrow will take care of itself, so let’s have another beer – and I’ll shout out loud, right there sitting in the car at the lights, ‘Rammit Mate! I’m RDP!’  This is another of my favourite Shep Woolley songs.  I couldn’t do a better job in explaining what RDP is, so this is how Shep introduces it on his album:

“RDP – in every sailor’s life, there comes a period which sailors call RDP. This means, Run Down Period.  From the very first time a sailor joins the Navy he joins a grotty training establishment somewhere probably stuck out in the middle of Ipswich like mine was.  And you’re there for something like about, a year, you see, and when you’re leaving, you’re so bloody chuffed, you know, “I’ve had enough of this bloody hole, ooh if he got up my nose one more time I’d have him”, you know. And that is when you’re having your run down bit, you see.  And then you’re dying to get to the fleet, and you get to the fleet and you get on a new ship, and it’s great! – for two hours!  And then you start again, “e’ gives me the bloody earache e’ does”, you know, like that, you see. And this is what you call having a run down period, you see and in every commission and every sort of barracks you go into, at the end of it all you always have this RDP bit.  And the best part in a sailor’s life when his most important RDP comes, is before he embarks on that lovely ship called citizenship, you see, and he enters that great big cavern outside called civilian street, you see, and this song, particularly, I wrote, I was standing one morning on the gangway HMS Blake and I went out in the dockyard to have a slash and I came back and saw this submariner walking toward me with his mac on and his cap pulled down over his eyes and I said to him, “have you got the time mate?”  He said, “Piss off!” just like that, he did, and I thought I’ve got to write a song about that, you see – and so the ensuing song”:

Rammit Mate I’m RDP

(Shep Woolley 1940? - )

 

Chorus:

la la la  la  lala la  la la la  lala la,

la la la  la  lala la  la la la  lala la,

la la la  la  lala la  la la la  lala la,

         Rammit!  I’m RDP!

 

I was walking through the dockyard,

one morning bright and fair,

When a sailor came towards me,

he had long and shaggy hair,

And he looked for all the world as though

He didn’t have a care

And he said, why are you looking at me?

I said, well it’s your uniform, you really look a scruff.

He said, see me in me civvies mate,

I’m really quite the stuff,

And when I put me BRUT on,

I smell just like a puff,

I’m a smoothie from RND.

I’ve been to Honolulu and I’ve been to Tokyo,

I’ve been to San Francisco, most any place you’ll go.

I’ve been nine years in the Navy,

And there’s just three days to go

         Rammit mate!  I’m RDP!

 

There’ll be no more get your hair cut,

No standing out in road,

No more duty watches, no more RPO’s

No killicks, pigs or PTI’s now they get up my nose

       And Rammit mate! I’m RDP.

 

As I return me pusser’s dirk,

I’m sure I’ll feel the loss,

Two blue suits and steaming boots,

For now I’ll count the cost,

But I’ll stand outside the barracks and make rude signs at the Joss

        And Rammit mate! I’m RDP.

 

I tracked polar bears in Iceland

Film stars down in Nice

Grissly bears in Canada

And snappers in the fleece

But now it’s nearly over

And there’s two days to release

          Rammit mate!  I’m RDP!

 

I’ve held me share of punishment

I’ve sweated in the sun

I’ve had 9’s and fines and DQ’s

But now it’s nearly done

And now some silly basket has just asked me to sign on

         But Rammit mate!  I’m RDP.

 

But now I’ve stood here talking really long enough

I’ve got to go to barracks mate

You see, I’ve got to pack me stuff

Perhaps I might come in again

If civvy street gets rough

But Rammit Mate!  I'm RDP!

 

Here’s another Navy poem that I wrote, Kye and Cake Blues.  The genre is Navy, Shep Woolley, but influence for the rhythm came from an American folk, bluegrass singer, John Hartford (you probably know of him for the song he wrote and made more famous by people like Glen Campbell, Gentle on My Mind).  I’m driving along listening to a John Hartford CD that I picked up in a music shop or car boot sale, and I’m captivated by this song, Corn Cob Blues.  I love the monotone, talking style and quirky lyrics.  I just had to write a poem like that.
 2010.  Every kid who joined the Royal Australian Navy as an apprentice ‘MOBI’ remembers the winter evening ritual at HMAS Nirimba of risking encounters with senior apprentices, regulating staff and cranky cooks to reach the galley and get a kye issue in winter - hot cup of chocolate and  a piece of cake.  Like salmon in a mountain stream, success was not always a certainty.

Kye and Cake Blues

Now the cook stood guard at the galley door

Only picked up his hook two weeks before

The poster swivels on a government stool

And ships him out to Mobi school

The cook did Nam and believes in fate

But he’s never guarded kye and Madeira cake.

 

The first term sprogs grow bold in a week

They crawl on their knees through a muddy creek

The cook he snuffles at the air that stunk

And they blame dry cleaning that their battledress shrunk

So he studies the drain like a greasy lake

And ponders on kye and Madeira cake.

 

The seniors listen for the scran hall squeal

And they play another hand of mah-jong deal

The Reg Chief’s asleep by nine o’clock

Lurking in the shadows near the dhoby block

And everybody thinks how do they make

Cocoa kye and Madeira cake.

 

Well the fog rolls in and the cook he sneers

At a scran-bag birdie with his beret on his ears

He’s been back classed and looks corrupt

With his fingers all made from Bakelite cups

Still the birdie hopes the cook’s his mate

Or he gets no kye and Madeira cake.

 

Now a chippy with a pannikin excites concern

It’s twice as round as the cookhouse urn

The sprogs get to thinking it ain’t their night

And they jostle each other and start to fight

The cook wonders why his life’s at stake

Doling out kye and Madeira cake.

 

A fat kid’s ribbed when he turns up cute

Dressed in his slippers and a sleeping suit

His mother he knows doesn’t quite understand

And she wants him to play in the Mobi band

Night dress code you never can break

If you wanna get kye and Madeira cake.

 

The mob’s in a mood and the mood is hate

The cook stands up on an old milk crate

And he thinks he heard something said

About an O.D. chef and a mullet head

There’s only so long he can make them wait

For cocoa kye and Madeira cake.

 

Well the cook has a rage his face is red

And he orders all the Mobis off to bed

The seniors fume they were messed about

And they badger the sprogs well after lights out

The Reg staff plan for the next intake

As they clean up kye and Madeira cake.

                                                                J. O. White

Bakelite cup -   standard issue cup made of tough plastic.  Apprentices were given a cup as part of their kit.

Battle-dress -   clothing issued for wearing at night in winter (night dress). It consisted of heavy woolen black trousers and a waist jacket that could be buttoned to the trousers.  The jacket had two breast pockets and red Australia flashes on the shoulders.

Beret - naval apprentices wore a dark blue beret with a blue metal badge -  single anchor in a rope circle topped with the Queen’s crown.

Birdie - anybody belonging to the fleet air arm branch  -  aircraft apprentice.

Chippie  -  a shipwright.

Dhoby  -  to wash; dhoby block, bathroom.

Hook  - single anchor denoting the rank of Leading Seaman; picked up his hook -  got promoted to Leading Seaman.

Kye  -  a hot drink made from thick blocks of dark chocolate .

Mobi  -  name given to naval apprentices training in HMAS Nirimba  - used as an acronym for ‘Most Objectionable Bastards Imaginable’.

Mobi school - HMAS Nirimba  located at Quakers Hill, Sydney was the RAN’s apprentice training establishment from 1956 to 1988.

Mullet head  -  derogatory term for anybody of the seaman branch.

Nam - Viet Nam -  the Viet Nam war.

O.D.  -  derogatory term for anybody who is raw, inexperienced.

Poster  -  the person responsible for transferring personnel between ships and  establishments.

Reg chief / staff  -  regulating chief and staff responsible for administration.

Scran  -  food served up in naval ships and establishments  -  used as an acronym for ‘Shit Cooked by the Royal Australian Navy’.

Scran-bag  -  untidy.

Sprog  -  any apprentice in a lower term than oneself.

 

Shep Woolley - Roll on my Time

Our ANZAC day has passed for another year.  There's a tradition I have with a few of my shipmates in the local area – we meet up at the local returned services club – Swansea RSL, and we drink a few beers and relive memories and tell the same old yarns.  Funny thing is we don’t see each other the rest of the year, but we all know we’re there for each other if needed.  That’s how it is, once in the brotherhood of the Service.  I’ve made it a personal challenge that I will have a poem ready for the next ‘do’ – something appropriate, Navy or nautical of course.  I could be wrong, but I think the boys like their poetry with rhythm and beat, preferably something that rhymes and has wry humour, and even better if it’s a bit earthy and risqué.  We all have fond memories of times in ports overseas, in dingy bars, got a few beers in, singing, no, roaring – belting out all those folk songs and nursery rhymes been bastardized by the British Navy before us.  For some songs, the words were what captured the soul of our existence – that is poetry.  One of the folk singers of the time who had served in the Royal Navy, so knew enough about sailors, was Shep Woolley.  Shep Woolley songs touched a nerve, and everybody knew the words when there was a good old sing-along.  In this post I include one of my Shep favourites, It’s Roll on my Time Boys.  I’ve seen the lyrics to this song on web sites and I can’t believe how much more bastardized it’s becoming since Shep first sang it.  I can assure you these are the true words to the song (taken from his CD, Shep Woolley Chips Off The Old Block).  Shep Woolley still entertains in the UK with stage shows, private and corporate events …. I would love to attend one of his shows.

It’s Roll on my Time Boys

(Shep Woolley 1940? - )
 

Chorus:

and it’s roll on me time boys…..roll on me time,

this is my last trip…..on the Grey Funnel Line,

so I'll say farewell to…..the wind and the brine,

and sing you a song called…..roll on me time.

 

well first we have Stokers…..that work down below,

they give us fresh water…..and make the ship go,

well the ship’s broken down boys…..don’t that sound fine,

but in the cold tap there's diesel…..and in the hot one brown slime.

 

and next we have RP's…..with hands on their hips,

with chinagraph pencils…..and puckered-up lips,

well they'll get us there boys…..whatever the cost,

well where are we pilot…..we’re bloody well lost.

 

and there stands the G.I……so tall and so proud,

his voice never made sense…..but God was it loud,

and now the old G.I……is all dead and gone

they’ve give him his brains back…..and christened him POM.

 

and next we have Tiffies…..a cool bunch are these,

if you want to be one…..you need G.C.E.'s,

and to be G.C.E.'s boys…..you need a brain in your head

it's amazing how much work…..can be done from a bed

 

well then there is Vernon…..I’ve heard the bell ring,

they do demolition…..and listen for pings,

but the Sonar men too boys…..are wearing a frown,

cos what can they ping now…..the Criterion’s down.

 

well me time it is rolled boys…..no I’m not glad,

sometimes they’ve been happy…..sometimes they’ve been sad,

so I’ll raise me glass boys…..drink your health with me wine,

and hope that you’ll join me…..with roll on me time.

I would like to have added an image of Shep Woolley, but something's gone wrong with the computer and I can't figure it out.  My link for the post is the Navy poem I prepared for the boys this ANZAC day.  It’s called Bombora (ballad of a greenie).  If you haven’t figured out why it’s called that by the end of reading, then ask me for an explanation.

2012.  Electricians in the Navy are called ‘greenies’ on account of the green colour signifying the electrical engineering branch and worn on officer’s shoulder boards.  Healthy rivalry exists between all the branches, though many love to pay out on the ‘greenies’ - perhaps because of their being more intelligent - well, not always all, as the branch will attest.

                                        Bombora (ballad of a greenie)

 

He was big and both slow and it seemed he must go,

Having failed every branch in the Navy,

But a psychologist said, I’ve examined his head,

And I think he would make a good greenie.

 

So E.M. he was made, finished half of his trade,

And was posted to sea from Nirimba,

Now it’s not a surprise when the lads saw his size,

That they went and named him ‘Bombora’.

 

But they didn’t explain why they gave him the name,

So he’s loud and he’s proud when ashore-a,

Bombora’s the name, green steam is me game,

And I eat roots and leaves like a whore-a.

 

Back on board they all fear, he’s no engineer

He’ll work on a circuit alive,

If a problem won’t focus he’ll polish with crocus,

And raise a T.S.M One Forty-five.

 

But he knows a bit more about Faraday’s law,

Enough to bluff his superiors,

So they leave him alone with freedom to roam,

All day on the decks of the uppers.

 

Neither stokers below with pumps running slow,

Nor cooks without power for scran,

Or even the skipper, broken down in the cutter,

Will interfere with the work on his tan.

 

A green canvas bag and a greasy old rag,

Is all that remains of his tool kit,

One key combination, rubber tube insulation,

And a mirror he might use like a dentist.

 

He can bounce a red-dick from up off the deck

Catch and twirl it about in his fingers,

While scratching like mad at his nuts and his butt,

Through a hole in his overall pockets.

 

And what he cannot do, with a roll of twin-flex or two,

Well you wouldn’t even be trying,

From telephone line to seizing and twine,

But the best was his magazine wiring.

 

With the test lamp he uses and eighty amp fuses,

He could black out the ship in a minute,

Then run like the hell so no one could tell,

He’d been anywhere near the burnt limit.

 

Bombora! they yell, why can’t you ever tell,

Ohms from the Amps on an AVO,

And what was your thought, when you meggered for short,

On the arse of the Deputy MEO?

 

But enough was enough, and the sea was up rough,

On the day they called out for Bombara,

Come in and sit here coaxed the ship’s engineer,

While I mark up your P.P One Alpha.

 

You’re too valuable lad, and it makes me look bad,

If I held you back here as a greenie,

So my recommendation is a change in your station,

And to hell with the naval psychology.

 

In a matter of time, having signed on the line,

The crew is down one in it’s number,

Though for reasons not given, efficiency’s risen,

And a blackout’s a thing to remember.

 

Now some nights in G.I. beneath still summer skies,

When the Ensign’s been put away dreamy,

And the rattle and din of the dockyard’s packed in,

Hark, the ghost of a big and wet greenie.

 

Bombora’s the name, green steam was my game,

But now I’m a docky-yard copper,

If you greenies are late getting out of the gate,

It’s because I searches your bags good and proper!

                                                                                                                        J. O. White