drinks and unaccountably, salutes were goffas; one drank a goffa or ‘threw’ one to a superior officer. The naval salute is different to that of the army and air force. Reputedly, the hands of the Royal Navy’s sailors (the ‘tars’ of sail days) had perpetually tarry palms from handling and scaling the ship’s ‘standing’ rigging, tarred to protect it from the sea; therefore it was decreed that they would salute with palm inwards to hide the unsightly blackness. The air force, army and most other disciplined services of the Commonwealth countries salute with the palm outwards.
A buzz (rumour) could be discussed with our oppos (friends) over a brew or a goffa. At the end of the day one might do one’s dhobi (washing) and if low on soap powder, one might purchase some dhobi dust, perhaps along with a goffa, from the ship’s canteen. In the navy, most objects were ‘dhobied’ including oneself under the shower, clothes, vehicles and aircraft. Slops was clothing and uniform provided by the navy. A complicated knot was a ‘bunch of bastards’. An easy task was ‘a piece of piss’.
Officers’ evening meals in the wardroom were formal. A WRAN or RAN steward would present a card to the diner outlining the joints (main courses), and one would choose, for example, Joint Two. Officers were charged Mess bills for food and drinks through their allocated Mess number, which the steward would note. Rations and Quarters was a charge deducted from the officer’s pay for basic food and accommodation if he lived ‘on board’ in the wardroom of a land base. Later, he may live ‘ashore’ in private accommodation. Later still in life, he might live with his young family in the married patch in a house provided by the navy, or privately rent with a small subsidy from the service.
In a naval wardroom, officers were expected to dress for dinner. If you wore civilian dress (‘mufti’), you were to approach the senior uniformed officer present (usually at the bar) and ask him to ‘excuse your “rig”’. While I was in Cerberus, that was invariably an elderly, tipsy Education Officer of Irish descent, perched on a bar stool, who would reply with, ‘Oi don’t like yer tie, but oi’ll let yer go joost this once.’
Operational units and ships would occasionally hold a banyan (barbecue) at some beach, with plenty of beer, and goffas for the very few non-drinkers. For watch keepers at their posts: duty sailors and officers, their scran would be brought to them in a ‘fanny’ (billy-can or Mess tin). ‘Fanny’ harks back to the gruesome murder of little Fanny Adams in nineteenth century England; cynical English sailors of the day speculated that her butchered remains had found their way into the Royal Navy’s victualling system. ‘Victuals’ (pronounced ‘vittles’) was food and consumables. ‘Sweet Fanny Adams’ has generated an abbreviation that is in common use among impolite society today.
A comic book (some of the apprentices were as young as sixteen) was a ‘mickey duck’, and an improbable yarn, an outright lie, a film or a novel was a ‘dit’. If one was on good terms with the ‘chippie’, the carpenter, his workshop might provide you with a ‘rabbit’. Rabbits were anything obtained for free, favours, or presents brought home from some exotic port, often for your ‘squarie’ (girlfriend).
Sailors were organised into Divisions for administrative and disciplinary purposes. Divisional Officers were responsible for their sailors’ wellbeing, discipline, reports and promotion. It was a challenging job and additional to the officer’s primary duties. Divisions was also a regular parade held on the ship’s quarterdeck, where all turned out in ceremonial dress, whites or ‘blues’, (the colour actually almost black) according to the season. Naval drill is somewhat different, the term ‘attention’ is not used, as the command is ‘ho’. For example, ‘Squad, ho!’ The air force was known as the ‘crabs’, because reputedly they could be commanded to march sideways, whereas army personnel were ‘pongoes’.
My joining rank in the Royal Australian Navy was ‘midshipman’, an ancient term. In centuries past, boys as young as eight joined Royal Navy warships as midshipmen, effectively apprenticed officers, to be inculcated in the ways of the sea and naval battle, living with their peers in the ship’s gunroom, often located in the ‘middle’ of the ship. My rank insignia comprised black shoulder boards that carried a white square topped with a brass button. In naval folklore, young midshipmen of the days of sail would often neglect to wipe their noses, so handkerchiefs were buttoned to their uniform reefer jackets, which gave rise to the formalised insignia and the terms ‘snotties’ or ‘reefers’ for midshipmen.
A mixed bag of potential naval aviators gathered in Cerberus’ wardroom on that first afternoon. We had been directed there from the gangway, and met by Lieutenant Jones. Jones sported gold Observer’s ‘wings’ high on the left breast of his dark blue, almost black, winter uniform coat, and he was responsible for transforming a group of civilian boys into naval officers, fit for training as aircrew. He would excel at his job, using just the right mix of formality, friendliness and support. Among my group were the long-haired and cheerful Ray from Goondiwindi in Queensland; Tony, an urbane graduate of Italian descent; and other boys from all over Australia with varying degrees of hair-length and age. There were also several older, worldly-looking lads who were obviously more comfortable with their new environment than the rest of us. They were previously enlisted sailors, who had applied for and been accepted for officer and aircrew training. Collectively we were known as Basic Aircrew Training Course Number Four of 1976 (BATC 4/76), and Lieutenant Jones very quickly apprised us of the fact that we had been engaged as naval officers first, and aircrew second.
Not all of us were prospective pilots. Half our group had been recruited as observers. Naval observers were the equivalent of the air force’s navigators, sensor operators and air electronics officers, a highly specialised and demanding role. Jones ushered us to our accommodation in the gunroom, which was basically a dormitory. After organising scran for us in the wardroom, he advised us to ‘get an early night.’
The flicker of harsh neon lighting shattered our sleep at 0500 the following morning. So it began: a run in the chill Victorian winter darkness, dhobi (shower), breakfast then haircuts, where Ray’s long blond locks fell to the floor. There was a uniform issue at ‘slops’ then lectures began: naval ranks, the ships in the fleet and the structure of the navy’s hierarchy.
From the outset, midshipmen were regarded as officers, unlike the air force’s aircrew cadets, and incongruously we had to be saluted by passing ratings and petty officers in this training base. However, a drill instructor summed up the general attitude to us by saying, ‘I don’t mind calling you “sir”, because I know I’m superior.’ The ex-sailors on our course were charged with mentoring, leading by example and occasionally, making known our shortcomings. A young and unsophisticated eighteen, early in the course I was told in no uncertain terms that my table manners left much to be desired. Chastened, I paid particular attention to the ‘knife and fork’ lecture on wardroom etiquette. Wardrooms were formal and the navy excelled at silver service.
Several times a year, a wardroom would host an even more formal ‘Mess Dinner’. After cocktails, the officers in black tie and Mess jacket (and their ladies if it was a mixed affair) would file in, waiting for the President of the Mess to take his seat at the head of the vast table. The meal would proceed genteelly with the clink of cutlery and wine glasses, a quiet buzz of conversation, the stewards solemnly waiting on the diners, and perhaps the ship’s band in one corner, playing quiet and appropriate music.
After the meal came time to ‘pass the port’. A huge decanter of port wine would be slid along the table, always to the left, in accordance with tradition, ensuring that the decanter never left the surface of the table. Legend had it that in the ancient Royal Navy, naval officers loyal to Scotland’s ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’ would pass the decanter over their glasses of water, an unspoken tribute to the exiled prince, ‘over the water’. After the game was up, the navy decreed that the port decanter was always to be in contact
