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

W. H. Auden - Fleet Visit

I wouldn’t say this is one of my most favourite poems, though it has got pedigree style – W. H. Auden’s, Fleet Visit.  I put it in my collection because it’s about sailors and ships and I’m reluctant to reject any poem that takes me some way out to sea.  Still, the poem does get my back up a bit, because Auden obviously viewed the life of the Naval man as a wasted, purposeless life – even disdain and contempt, verse 3, ‘The whore and ne’er do well ……… at least, are serving the Social Beast; They (sailors) neither make nor sell – No wonder they (sailors) get drunk.’  From that, I can see Wystan would never have joined the Navy.  The poem breaks up into two parts – comment on the sailors and what he thinks of sailors in general (first three verses), and an acknowledgement in the last two verses that a warship’s design is a beautiful thing to look at, ‘pure abstract design, By some master of pattern and line.’  A warship riding at anchor is an impressive sight and even though Auden admits this, he can’t help taking a final swipe at the wasteful purpose of the whole thing, ‘Certainly worth every cent, Of the millions they must have cost.’ …………. Not!

Fleet Visit

(W. H. Auden 1907 - 1973)

 

The sailors come ashore

Out of their hollow ships,

Mild-looking middle-class boys

Who read the comic strips;

One baseball game is more

To them than fifty Troys.

 

They look a bit lost, set down

In this un-American place

Where natives pass with laws

And futures of their own;

They are not here because

But only just-in-case.

 

The whore and ne’er-do-well

Who pester them with junk

In their grubby ways at least

Are serving the Social Beast;

They neither make nor sell –

No wonder they get drunk.

 

But the ships on the dazzling blue

Of the harbor actually gain

From having nothing to do;

Without a human will

To tell them whom to kill

Their structures are humane.

 

And, far from looking lost,

Look as if they were meant

To be pure abstract design

By some master of pattern and line,

Certainly worth every cent

Of the millions they must have cost.

Auden wrote Fleet Visit in 1951.  The sailors are American and I would say the port visit is around Turkey or Greece (‘…fifty Troys’).  If you can get past the somewhat Navy/military bashing mood of the poem, then there’s a discovery that the structure is quite good (very good, for me).  Two things I look for in a poem – ‘content’ and ‘construction’.  I forgive Auden the content because he didn’t have a clue, never been there.  But for the structure, I admire the neat rhyme pattern and meter.

Discovering Auden’s, Fleet Visit got me digging back through drafts of a poem I once wrote about sailors and ships.  I called it, The Ship’s Plans, and I think it makes a fitting link to Fleet Visit.  When I dusted The Ship’s Plans off, I was surprised to find that I’d actually written the original draft in a three feet meter (trochaic trimeter), same as Auden, and I wrote it with five verses – same as Auden.  That’s where similarity finishes.  My poem is a fitting counter to the suggestion from Auden’s Fleet Visit that the whole business of warships and sailors is not an ennobling profession.  I disagree with that suggestion and it’s what I try to convey.  One thing I do agree on is that a ship is but a cold, inanimate object without her crew.  It may be ‘pattern and line’, ‘abstract design’, but it’s those ‘middle-class boys’ through their daily human interaction that breathe into a ship all the emotions of success, laughter, struggle, disappointment, joy, friendship, failure, perseverance ……. they give her a heart.  And far from being an inhumane heart, one that simply and indiscriminately, ‘tell(s) them whom to kill’, heart comes from a brave, free world with all the organization, skill, knowledge and know-how to take a ship to sea

1999.  I was browsing through a second hand book shop in Sydney.  In the military section I noticed an old man, bent over, intent on looking at fold out drawings in a book.  I moved closer to see what the book was.  It was a historical, technical publication on a type of WWII destroyer or corvette – maybe the Tribal class or even the Daring.  I felt he was not going to buy the book.  His interest was in re-living memories.

 

The Ship’s Plans

Old man,

Looking at the ship’s plans,

Boy, but does it feel good,

Would you like to be there,

Living where you once stood,

Spray salt wind in dark hair,

Sun upon your back tanned.

 

Old man,

Were you once the third hand,

Standing on the deck plates,

In the after fire room,

Did you make it first mate,

Maybe in the wardroom,

Braided gold on cap band.

 

Old man,

Remember while you still can,

All the lines and detail,

Just the way you left her,

Sweeping bow to fan-tail,

The swell of ocean summer,

Ship’s side smartly manned.

 

Old man,

Together at Tapaktuan,

Sailed into the Black Sea,

Joined her in Southhampton,

With lads ashore in Sydney,

Shipmates and companions,

Skipping down the gangplank.

 

Old man,

The catapult and capstan,

Maintop, bridge and wheelhouse,

Before the bosun’s store,

Magazines and gun mounts,

Just as you had left her,

There on the old ship’s plan.

                                                                                          J. O. White

Cyril Tawney - Ballads for the Navy

The Royal Australian Navy is about to celebrate one hundred years from when the first ships that were to make up the Australian fleet sailed into Sydney harbour, 4^th October 1913.  Before that, the ‘Australia Squadron’ belonging to the Royal Navy had responsibility to provide protection for Australia.  That responsibility transferred to the Royal Australian Navy when it formed in 1911.  The ships that arrived in Sydney harbour in 1913 to a patriotic public welcome were HMAS Australia, HMAS Melbourne, HMAS Sydney, HMAS Encounter, HMAS Parramatta, HMAS Yarra and HMAS Warrego.  This weekend we are going to celebrate and re-live that event with 50 warships and tall-ships from nations around the world gathering for a fleet review in good old Sydney town.  Nothing like having mates over for a party!  If you’re wondering where I’ll be on the weekend, I’ll be in Sydney!  It’s put me in a right mood to post something Navy, something early Navy.  My contribution is crafted from direct experience in the Royal Australian Navy, but the influence comes from a pommie folk singer called, Cyril Tawney who sang fantastic ballads about the Royal Navy.  It shows we are in need of more naval poets to capture our unique Australian traditions – I shouldn’t have to be copying from the poms.

Anyway, for historic nostalgia at this time of fleet celebration I could think of no better verse than Cyril Tawney’s, ‘Flotilla No. 23’.  Cyril sings this to the tune of Lili Marlene.  It’s a poignant telling of what life and conditions were like on a destroyer assigned to Russian convoy escort duty in the North Sea.  I believe the words were written by a couple of officers serving in the Flotilla.  They would have to have been!  I’m sure anybody who ‘was there’ would be awash with the mood and emotion captured in ‘Flotilla No. 23’.

 

                                               Flotilla No. 23

(Cyril Tawney 1930 -2005)

 

Up to Kola Inlet, back to Scapa Flow,

Soon we shall be calling for oil at Petsamo.

Why does it always seem to be,

Flotilla No. 23,

Up to the Arctic Ocean,

Up to the Barents Sea.

 

When we get to Scapa, do we get a rest?

All we get is signals invariably addressed,

Savage, Scorpion, from your Com (D).

“What brings you here? Get back to sea.

Back to the Arctic Ocean,

Back to the Berants Sea.

 

Now and then we get, a slightly different job,

But it’s always screening around the same old mob.

Watching the “A” boys prang the Hun,

With never a chance to fire the quarter gun,

Up in the Arctic Ocean,

Up in the Barents Sea.

 

Once we lay in harbour, swinging round the bouy,

Waiting for the drifter, but still there was no joy,

In came the signal, weigh, proceed,

At your best speed, great is your need,

Up in the Arctic Ocean,

Up in the Barents Sea.

 

Over in our mileage, due for boiler clean,

When we’re not with convoys, there’s shooting in between

Now as you have surely guessed,

We do our best, but need a rest

Out of the Arctic Ocean,

Out of the Berants Sea.

 

Battleships and cruisers lying round in state,

Watching poor destroyers sailing out of Switha Gate,

They’re the ships the papers call “The Fleet”,

They look so neat, but have no beat,

Up in the Arctic Ocean,

Up in the Barents Sea.

 

What it is to have a crazy Number One,

All the boys are chocker although they’ve just begun,

The Wretched pilot sits and drinks,

The Captain thinks, the whole thing stinks,

We hate the Arctic Ocean,

We hate the Barents Sea.

 

My emotive memory of the Royal Australian Navy takes me back to when our ships used to do lengthy deployments ‘up top’ around Singapore, Malaysia, Hong Kong and the South China Sea.  From 1971 to 1974 a tripartite force made up of military units from Australia, New Zealand and the United Kingdom were stationed in Singapore and Malaysia.  This force was known as the ANZUK Force.  It’s role was to ensure stability in the Singapore/Malaysia region following the full withdrawal of British forces.  Looking back, they were beautiful madcap days and we were sailors in the romantic tradition of sailors of that time.  Like ‘Flotilla No. 23’, I’ve tried to capture some of the mood and emotion of being deployed as part of ANZUK in my poem, ‘Up on the ANZUK Station’.  Happy one hundred years to the RAN.

 

2012.  My RN mates gave me a copy of a Cyril Tawney CD some time ago.  It had a song on it called ‘Flotilla No. 23’.  Cyril sung it brilliantly to the tune of Lili Marlene.  I carried it in my head for many years and wished I could capture some of the mood and emotion of time we spent at sea like the boys had in Flotilla No. 23 up in the Arctic Ocean.  It’s nice to be original, but then, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.  So I started putting my own words to the tune.

 

                                           Up on the ANZUK Station

 

Serving on a Daring in the China Sea

Six months on deployment, then another three

My girl has met a soldier from, the infantry,

Now she’s ditched me,

Set me free,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

Transit through the Sunda, shape for Singapore,

Two days steady steaming, the Navvy finds Johore,

A big Yank ship with marines on board,

Has put ashore,

There’ll be fights galore,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

Battling with a ‘genny’ when it won’t excite,

Stand-by trips a breaker, we’re as black as night,

Our passage through the basin’s tight,

What a sight,

They all take fright,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

Hanging out with bar-girls when the work is done,

They ask for me you buy one drink, and it’s never rum,

Then through primed and loosened tongue,

It could be fun,

I’ll buy just one,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

An S.M.P in honkers, we should be on the town,

But COM-D’s joined the squadron, it makes the skipper frown,

The crew last night, they let him down,

In grog they drowned,

Disgraced the crown,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

Waiting for a mail run that they cannot find,

It could be at Osaka or in the Philippines,

The helo transfer snaps it’s line,

Our letters float behind,

In the churning brine,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

Bullshit whiskey-tangos we meet off the strip,

I’m the tail gunner, sits in a Jindavik,

And this here’s Mick, he commands the ship,

It’s his last trip,

Shrapnel in his hip,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

Bang away at targets with our four inch guns,

Set three degrees of off-shoot, but we manage none,

The Brits with their tow say the shootings done,

They cut and run,

We’ve only just begun,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

Powdered eggs for breakfast, powdered milk in tea,

The cooks add more saltpetre, to every recipe,

They kill appetites in their baine-maries,

Where we beat disease,

Pussar’s food succeeds,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

We make up our fresh water, you’d think we’re making gold,

Caught underneath the shower, when I ran it cold,

So I will be watching the vaps I’m told,

I’ll be the Chief Tiff’s moll,

Til I’m quite old,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

Wack-a-tack is bunked in, our mortar metadyne,

Along with chinkie tailors and a dozen dhobey lines,

A sub could attack us from behind,

Now we must decline,

So solly, not good time,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

Stokers drag their click-clicks up to the quarter-deck,

Off watch they act like tourists, paid to rubber-neck,

The bosun’s mate makes a sure-thing bet,

He will not get,

A soot blow yet,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

 

Back home to Sydney harbour in need of much repair,

A chance to spin our dits, to girls with golden hair,

But alone in the pub we sit and stare,

For they don’t care,

That we’ve been up there,

Up on the ANZUK station,

Up top in the China Sea.

                                               J. O. White