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

 

Shakespeare - now entertain conjecture of a time

Like most everybody else, I’m caught up in the birth of the royal baby, Prince George – a time for reflection on a myriad of things, what with our elections coming up and the push that will come from parties to become republic or stay with the monarchy.  My wife looks at the news clips, and pines, “what a shame Diana couldn’t be there, they loved their mum,” as she transfers the love and value of her own family.  While I find my thoughts dwell on privilege, duty, ancient tradition, royalty and other lives played out in English monarchs, some of whom were proper bastards.  But then a couple of days ago I’m watching a BBC documentary on Prince Harry, about his role in the army throughout Iraq and in Afghanistan.  I was quite taken by this picture of a modern Royal, an ordinary young man, but a man in a position of influence and he comes across as being a decent sort of bloke.  I admired his obvious liking and acceptance among the troops and his relaxed leadership qualities.  And that then took me to Henry the Fifth, the only play I’m familiar with from William Shakespeare.  Henry V was one of my studies at school, but I know nothing from that.  It’s only now that I understand, wanting to understand, and I discover a language that is so polished and beautiful.  When I read my favourite acts of Shakespeare I feel we are losing our ability to express the elegant English language – well, among the people I know, anyway!  For this post I have to tell you how much I love reciting, ‘Now entertain conjecture of a time’, from the play Henry V.  The act imagines the scene in the camp of the English army on the night before battle with the French at Agincourt in 1415.  King ‘Harry’ reminds me of how I think our modern young ‘Harry’ would be.

Now entertain conjecture of a time

(William Shakespeare 1564 - 1616)

Now entertain conjecture of a time

When creeping murmur and the poring dark

Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,

The hum of either army stilly sounds,

That the fix’d sentinels almost receive

The secret whispers of each other’s watch:

Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames

Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face:

Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs

Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents

The armourers, accomplishing the knights,

With busy hammers, closing rivets up,

Give dreadful note of preparation.

The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,

And the third hour of drowsy morning name,

Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,

The confident and over-lusty French

Do the low-rated English play at dice;

And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night

Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp

So tediously away.  The poor condemned English,

Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires

Sit patiently, and inly ruminate

The morning’s danger, and their gesture sad

Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats

Presenteth them unto the gazing moon

So many horrid ghosts.  O! now, who will behold

The royal captain of this ruin’d band

Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,

Let him cry ‘Praise and glory on his head!’

For forth he goes and visits all his host,

Bids them good morrow with a modest smile,

And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.

Upon his royal face there is no note

How dread an army hath enrounded him;

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour

Unto the weary and all-watched night;

But freshly looks and overbears attaint

With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;

That every wretch, pining and pale before,

Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.

A largess universal, like the sun

His liberal eye doth give to every one,

Thawing cold fear.  Then mean and gentle all

Behold, as may unworthiness define,

A little touch of Harry in the night.

 

And so our scene must to the battle fly;

Where, - O for pity, - we shall much disgrace,

With four or five most vile and ragged foils,

Right ill dispos’d in brawl ridiculous,

The name of Agincourt.

 

I defy anybody, having read Now entertain conjecture of a time, who then denies any feeling of being taken to the very midst of those English soldiers on the night before their struggle in the battle of Agincourt.  For me, the expression in the poem reflects a gentleness that captures King Henry’s true character and also matches the mood found in the depth of night and early morn.
 I’ve trolled back through some of my early work to find something that touches on the feeling of ‘Harry’ walking among his troops.  The closest I come is, Battlegroup.  It’s a feeling more than a poem that I wrote in a quiet, early morning moment.  The pulse is the gentleness before the sheer destruction of battle.
1987.  On HMAS Canberra exercising with a US Navy battle group.  We are coming into position to commence a refuelling run on a tanker - USS Passumpsic. It's pre dawn.  The sky is still dark.  Other ships are stationed all about us.  We move up into position and start refueling.  The feeling is one of powerful technology.  There is comfort and protection from the dark and the cool of the morning in the purposeful progress of these huge pieces of steel gliding easily on the sea.

 

Battlegroup

Early morning light,

out in the Pacific,

steaming south -

south east into a pink cloudy sky,

a light swell rolls us,

alongside ‘Passumpsic”,

embellicled by black,

looped fuelling hoses,

diesels loud in a racing thump

from her high funnel,

orange floods wash a warm glow

over enclosed tank decks,

contrasted with,

striking blue police lamps

picking out station markers,

away astern where ‘Midway’ surrounds herself

with other ships,

a block of dark angles and mastheads,

jewelled with red warning beacons,

blink, blink of aircraft lights,

as helicopters lift from the mass and glide along the sea,

going about the business of war.

                                                        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.