Back 30 years or there about,
Sailor boys were firm and stout.
Fed on backie, rum and bum,
Life at sea was hard, but fun.

Our leader then, could not disguise,
The sheer extent of his massive thighs.
He wasn't 'To the Manor born',
But of the workers, our Big Norm!

Down at Defence they got a call,
The French, he said, have got my gall,
In fact, he boomed, to be specific,
They're blowing up the South Pacific!

I've called them on the telephone,
And diplomatic, had a moan,
Asked if they can tell me why,
They're ultivating mushrooms in our skies,
But have they answered - no such luck,
Frankly they don't give a F...tinkers!

Well, the Chief of Naval, being on the ball,
Said "Send the Navy, proud and tall"
Just like when we fought the hun,
We'll send the frigates, well, maybe one!

Of all the funnels, grey of line
That ride blue water, cleft the brine,
Get underway, make steam, patrol
Around the rim of Mururoa Atoll,
Defy the Frogs with a suitable protest
That reflects the size of Big Norm's chest!

Defence Chiefs pondered, how to proceed,
And carry out this noble deed.
We'll send Otago, she's the best.
If we can pry her away from Calliope West.

Two Ton Tyrell had a minor fit,
What about our half life refit
CNS said that's Okay
You can chip and paint along the way
Stop your whining, earn your pay.
Go out rusty, come back grey!

Big Norm was there to call the tune.
That Thursday morn, quite late in June.
Up the gangway, buit for two,
We watched in awe, Big Norm coming through!
Take no prisoners, go with haste.
Said the man squeezing down the starboard waist.

At attention, procedure Alfa
We prepare to battle Beta, Gamma.
Radiation to detect
A blue dosimeter round our neck.

When will we return we say,
As we gingerly slip and sail away.
With fuel for a 6 day eastward track
How the hell will we get back?

Supply, we hear is Rarotonga bound,
With ample fuel to go around.
Christ, we'll be at sea for months,
Forgotten souls, a Frenchman's lunch.

Buggar that, cry the lower deck
But the married men say what the heck.
The missus makes me tow the line
Extended sea time suits me fine.

To lend our mission official credence,
Grandpa Colman's great descendant,
Fraser Colman lends his presence,
With his beaming smile of effervescence

What a joy on an MP's pay
Just drink the wardoom dry all day
Tick the mess bill, stay below,
To hell with my port folio!

But another on board who could not get pissed
Was young Shaun Brown the journalist
In the BWO creating copy
Even when the seas were choppy
Radio the news back home
So that we don't feel alone

As weeks roll by we wend our way.
Penthouse and Playboy keeping frustrations at bay.

But in Otago's Ops room, were plotters play,
Sailors rarely want to stray,
Coz in times past I've heard them say,
Strange things have happened by the JYA.

But mission bound we steam along,
Make up ditties, re-write songs.
We chip and paint all bloody day,
Boredom must be kept at bay.

Then Daily Orders, which are always sus,
Caused an uproar, made a fuss.
Surely this was said in jest,
A Miss Otago beauty contest.

And so it was on the quarterdeck,
Us poor OD's were made to trek,
Dressed with mop heads and other tresses,
To make it look like we wore dresses.
A wardoom panel did the judging,
While us poor bastards got a grubbing,
From senior rates with lust in sight,
Saying, "Don't go anywhere dark tonight"!

A stoker he was judged the best,
With beer tabs laced across his chest.
What was his prize, I can't imagine,
But I hear he got it from the XO's cabin.

Now at the Atoll day by day,
From 12 miles out we had our say.
Overhead French aircraft flew,
Their Navy came and watched us too.

We flew the flag of battle colour,
Teasing,taunting, but no other
Official action could we take,
Our reputation was at stake.

The French flew close, they'd finger and taunt,
Their arrogance to freely flaunt.
We just waved and gestured back,
But soon our tempers had to crack.
So come one morn as the Frogs flew by,
They got a taste of Kiwi pride.
Clear lower deck and spread 'em wide,
200 buttocks mooned the side.

Link the broadcast, Two-Ton roared
I'll punish every man aboard
His anger bubbled unabated
As we raised our shorts feeling quite elated.

Our work complete, our point made clear
The skipper said, we're out of here
Canterbury thinks they can hack the pace
So they're on their way to take our place
I've hailed them on the speakerphone,
They'll take Fraser, we're off home.

But alas it came to pass
Two weeks went by, oh what a farce
Relieve us, Canterbury, give me a break,
Salt water did contaminate.

Leader class can kiss my arse
Long live the Whitby.

Written by Dave Earl N19677
Chief RS (Retired)