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 - 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