Ode to 7/1/70

We didn't know what hit us, and it's prob'ly just as well,
"What the f***'s a 'DONGA', it looks like a prison cell!"
"FALL IN, ya scrawny bastards!", yells some big-mouthed, noisy pratt,
"What does that mean, matey?" asks a smiling Poteratt.

Two hundred and fifty teenage boys embarked on their adventure
To join the Navy and see the world was their proposed indenture,
But as we watched the monkey's fist collect with Pottsy's head,
We realised this was nothing like the brochures we had read!

Soon they had us running, but they call it "doubling" here,
They shaved our heads and issued us with all our Navy gear,
We found out what that "SCRAN" thing was and who could jack the line,
And despite the things we heard before, the food was mighty fine.

"Yes, Sir" this, and "Yes, Sir" that made you an LJR,
But jump the fence and not get sprung made you a f***ing star!
Dodging Top Shits, LEFT-RIGHT-LEFT, sewing on your patches,
Duck walk with your kit bag and taking sleep in snatches.

Movie nights on blankets on the cold, hard, wooden floor,
Stained with the blood of JRs past who fought the boxing war,
The gym contains the echoes of whines from long ago,
And the ever-present shouts of "FINGERS" and "Wall-bars, GO!"

Nervously we'd mill around when Pay Parade was piped,
Ten bucks, a f***ing gold mine! Most of us were hyped!
Some, of course, carried on like they were still in slumber,
Like "Wild Man" Pcino who yelled out his laundry number!

For three long months we waited for the day they'd set us free,
In cliques of alphabetical friends we broached the gates with glee,
Midst taunts of "SEAWEED SUCKERS!" we faced our recent past,
For we would never be the same, for us, the dice was cast.

Dancing with the Moll Patrol at the Stella Maris club,
Fighting off the skinheads and sneaking into pubs,
Running hard to beat the clock as midnight came around,
Then trying to explain the Brandivino that you'd "found"!

Just like jail, we had a unique barter scheme,
Like cigarrettes and fabulon and plugs for the washing machine,
Cash was always handy but there seemed to be a drought,
'specially when a slab of Emu Bitter cleaned you out!

Racing through the ranks from JR1 to JR2,
It wasn't just our bum-fluff or our thin physique that grew,
Our pay went up a smidgen, but it didn't seem that much,
Enough for most of us to get our bells pegged and crutched.

In and out of trouble, getting chooks and twos and twos,
Getting sprung for skulking Church and getting sprung with booze.
All these things meant nothing when finally came the day
We all joined the Navy at our passing out parade.

Most of us look back and reminisce about that year,
And remember it with fondness as the start of our career,
But I shall not forget the sounds that through the night would creep,
Of 16 year-old teenage boys as they cried themselves to sleep.

Choco. 23 August 2007.