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

 

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

Kipling - Naval ballads.

When you look at poems that Rudyard Kipling wrote, you realise poetry is continually evolving and reflects the social beliefs of it’s time.  Kipling definitely captured the Queen Victoria age of Empire, solid Christianity and the English ‘gentleman’ made up of courage, dignity and sacrifice.  But now his work is such a thing of the past.  Who would try to write in his style and content (who could write like him, not having experienced the Victorian age)?  I must admit I’ve used Kipling as an influence for some of my attempts.  One Kipling poem from which I borrow the first line and rhythm is, The Ballad of the Clampherdown.  This is a great naval poem that you can recite.  It tells of a passing era and tradition – sailors learning to fight with cutlasses and putting ships alongside to board in hand to hand combat.  I believe the Clampherdown was the last British ship in which the crew boarded with cutlasses.  It’s a long poem but here it is complete:

 

The Ballad of the ‘Clampherdown’

(Rudyard Kipling 1865 - 1936)

It was our war-ship ‘Clampherdown’

Would sweep the Channel clean,

Wherefore she kept her hatches close

When the merry Channel chops arose,

     To save the bleached marine.

 

She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton,

     And a great stern-gun beside ;

They dipped their noses deep in the sea,

They racked their stays and stanchions free

     In the wash of the wind-whipped tide.

 

It was our war-ship ‘Clampherdown’

     Fell in with a cruiser light

That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun

And a pair o’ heels wherewith to run

     From the grip of a close-fought fight.

 

She opened fire at seven miles -

As ye shoot at a bobbing cork -

And once she fired and twice she fired,

Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired

     That lolls upon the stalk.

 

‘Captain, the bow-gun melts apace,

     ‘the deck-beams break below,

‘Twere well to rest for an hour or twain,

And botch the shattered plates again.’

     And he answered, ‘Make it so.’

 

She opened fire within the mile –

     As ye shoot at the flying duck –

And the great stern-gun shot fair and true,

With the heave of the ship, to the stainless

     Blue,

And the great stern-turret stuck.

 

‘Captain, the turret fills with steam,

     ‘The feed –pipes burst below –

‘You can hear the hiss of the helpless ram,

‘You can hear the twisted runners jam.’

     And he answered, ‘Turn and go!’

 

It was our war-ship ‘Clampherdown’,

      And grimly did she roll;

Swung round to take the cruiser’s fire

As the White Whale faces the Thresher’s ire

      When they war by the frozen pole.

 

‘Captain, the shells are falling fast,

      ‘And faster still fall we;

‘And it is not meet for English stock

To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock

      The death they cannot see’.

 

‘Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B.,

      ‘We drift upon her beam;

‘We dare not ram, for she can run;

‘And dare ye fire another gun,

      ‘And die in the peeling steam?’

 

It was our war-ship ‘Clampherdown’

      That carried an armour-belt;

But fifty feet at stern and bow

Lay bare as the paunch of the purser’s sow,

      To the hail of the Nordenfeldt.

 

‘Captain, they hack us through and through;

      ‘The chilled steel bolts are swift!

‘We have emptied the bunkers in open sea,

‘Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be,’

      And he answered, ‘Let her drift.’

 

It was our war-ship ‘Clampherdown,’

      Swung round upon the tide,

Her two dumb guns glared south and north,

And the blood and the bubbling steam ran forth,

      And she ground the cruiser’s side.

 

‘Captain, they cry, the fight is done,

      ‘They bid you send your sword.’

And he answered, ‘Grapple her stern and bow,

‘They have asked for the steel.  They shall have it

      Now;

‘Out cutlasses and board!’

 

It was our war-ship ‘Clampherdown,’

      Spewed up four hundred men;

And the scalded stokers yelped delight,

As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight

      Stamp o’er their steel-walled pen.

 

They cleared the cruiser end to end,

      From conning-tower to hold.

They fought as they fought in Nelson’s fleet;

They were stripped to the waist, they were bare

      to the feet,

As it was in the days of old.

 

It was the sinking ‘Clampherdown’

      Heaved up her battered side –

And carried a million pounds in steel,

To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel,

      And the scour of the Channel tide.

 

It was the crew of the ‘Clampherdown’

      Stood out to sweep the sea,

On a cruiser won from an ancient foe

As it was in the days of long ago,

      And as it still shall be.
 

I’m thankful to Kipling for showing me the way to a rather lengthy naval ballad I wrote, Fate of the Konigsberg.  This is another experience where finding the first line was a breakthrough for me – the rest flowed and I could complete the poem in a matter of days.  I was fascinated by this story when I did some research on the ships my wife’s grandfather (Fred) served in during his time in the Royal Navy (he served in both World Wars).  I’ve got a copy of his service record and a few old photographs of matelots out in Africa, socialising with white ladies and eating watermelon from the back of a flat-bed truck – then war broke out.  Fred was on HMS Astraea – that led me to the story of the German cruiser SMS Konigsberg and how she was blockaded and scuttled herself up the Rufiji River.  We hear a lot about the German pocket battleship Graf Spee and the battle of the River Plate (1939), but little do we know that a similar event occurred twenty odd years earlier in WW1.  Thankyou Rudyard Kipling:

 

2007.  Linda’s grandfather, Fred Johnson served on HMS Astraea which was an aging cruiser on the East Africa station at the start of WW1.  SMS Konigsberg was a more modern cruiser based at Dar es Salaam capital of German East Africa.  Konigsberg’s fate was due mainly to lack of good maintenance facilities available to the Germans.  It is an historic event that shows the role maintenance can play in tipping the balance of win or lose; succeed or fail.

 

                                             Fate of the Konigsberg

 

It was the German cruiser Konigsberg put on a turn of speed,

When she saw the City of Winchester steaming into the First World War,

Gave chase for the coal which she soon retrieved,

Ere The City was sent to the Gulf of Aden floor.

 

But the coal burns quick in the Konigsberg and soon she must take more,

From the crew of the collier Somali somewhere on the open sea,

Where Astraea waits and the Pegasus hunts to even up a score,

Between a willing foe and aging ships of the British Admiralty.

 

Not only coal but a home free port was the German cruisers need,

But panic reigns in Dar es Salaam where Astraea’s shells now fall,

And decisions made give the ship no heed,

Sink a barge to block the port entry becomes the harbour master’s call.

 

Loss of home is a bitter blow for the Konigsberg to share,

As Captain Looff along with his crew search the African coast for shelter,

Which they find in the form of a jungle lair,

Five miles up where the waters shelve in the Rufiji River delta.

 

The Konigsberg hides but her killer urge in days must be relieved,

So she slips one night from her fetid lair to run with the moon and stars,

And is drawn by bow to an ambush scene the killer can’t believe,

Pegasus tied to her berthing lines in the Port of Zanzibar.

 

It was the German cruiser Konigsberg stood off ten thousand yards,

Brought the barrels of her four inch guns on the British ship to bear,

And Pegasus sitting calmly still completely caught off guard,

Is never a match for a killer rogue hunting from a jungle lair.

 

With duty done bold Captain Looff plans escape for his ship and crew,

So the course he sets is around the Cape and on to Germany,

Then death rattled up from the engine room and the Konigsberg captain knew,

The plan is doomed we are condemned escape will now not be.

 

Away to the north race three fine ships best of the British kind,

The Weymouth, Chatham and Dartmouth too led by Drury-Lowe,

With orders fresh to shape due south the Konigsberg to find,

And when she is found to act with haste and crush the dreaded foe.

 

It is cunning keeps the Konigsberg out of her searcher’s reach,

Safe in the delta draped in vines acting out repairs,

Until Lowe brings Cutler in his flying boat hired from a Durbin beach,

To fly the Rufiji River mouth, find the German from the air.

 

Though Cutler is a daring man and the Curtiss a top machine,

Neither was ready for the deadly reach of the guns of the German raider,

Or the Konigsberg crew who took fine aim from off the starboard beam,

Shot out of the sky, the plane is destroyed and the pilot taken prisoner.

 

Days become months for the Konigsberg as sailors count them by,

Trapped in a land where biting flies and fever death abounds,

Each man waits in the stifling heat the moment he must die,

For their ship in the river so far up is almost run aground.

 

A fate is planned for the Konigsberg across the world in Malta,

Where sits the river gunboat Mersey and her sister ship Severn,

Two shallow drafted monitors made fit for work in the Delta,

Now taken in tow and on their way with a wish for safe return.

 

July at the end of a long snail tow and the Konigsberg lookouts sight,

Two black shapes that appear to be off the point Gengeni Island,

The news sweeps through the German crew and their captain makes to fight,

Remember men the Fatherland, of us, our ship, and all that we have planned.

 

When morning comes the ships engage their cordite burning hot,

Guns crews toil in darkened holds with fear and mighty strength,

Ere the Konigsberg in due course takes a fatal ranging shot,

And then the monitors make their gunfire walk along the cruisers length.

 

It was the German cruiser Konigsberg settled on the river bed,

When she sunk herself with a scuttling charge preference to surrender,

Abandoned yet still battle proud for the merry chase she’d led,

Whereupon the British raised their caps on high,

cheered death of the German raider.

                                                                                            J. O. White