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SAILOR
Have you stood on a bridge at midnight
Not a bridge over a rippling stream
But the bridge of a warship steamer
Deep laden and slim of beam
Have you gazed out into the darkness
With rain blinding spray and sore eyes
Cursing the fate that brought you
To a race with so poor a prize
Have you sweated in a red hot galley
Over a pot of Irish stew,
Cursing the three bell dinner
And waiting for a good hot brew
Have you toiled deep down in the bilges
Deep 'neath the lubber line mark
Where the engines grind out their horse power
And the stokers spew in the dark
If you have, then you'll understand me
And the story I'm trying to tell
Of men who leave home love and comfort
For a modified form of hell
You think it's all plain sailing
On beautiful tropical seas
Basking on deck in the sunshine
And fanned by a gentle breeze
But no, they sweat to the sun in the tropics
And they freeze to the bone at the poles
Facing natures mighty wrath
Hungry for human souls
So if tonight your window panes rattle
And you complain that you cannot sleep
Think of the life these sailors lead
Out on the raging deep.
For these are just poor mortals
Drifting in life's human stream
Who fight and win their battles
Nightmares to you, if you dream.
These are the men ordained by God
That the words of your prayer may come true
"Give us this day our daily bread"
And give the poor sailor his due.
Anon
Stoker's
Lament
Now each of us from time to time, has gazed upon the sea.
And watched the warships pulling out, to keep this country free.
And most of us have read a book, or heard a lusty tale.
About the men who sail these ships, through lightening, wind and hail.
But there's a place within each ship, that legend fails to reach.
It's down below the waterline, it takes a living toil-
A hot metal living hell, that sailors call the "HOLE".
It houses engines run by steam, that make the shafts go 'round.
A place of fire and noise and heat, that beats your spirits down.
Where boilers like a hellish heart, with blood of angry steam
Are of molded gods without remorse, are nightmares in a dream.
Whose threat that from the first roar, is life living doubt,
That any minute would with scorn, escape and crush you out.
Where turbines scream like tortured souls, alone and lost in hell,
As ordered from above somewhere, they answer every bell.
The men who keep the fires lit, and make the engine run.
Are strangers to the world of night and rarely see the sun.
They have no time for man or God, no tolerance for fear,
Their aspect pays no living thing, the tribute of a tear.
For there's not much that men can do, that these men haven't done.
Beneath the decks, deep in the holes, to make the engines run.
And every hour of every day, they keep their watch in hell,
For if the fires ever fail, their ship's a useless shell.
When ships converge to have a war, upon an angry sea,
The men below just grimly smile, at what their fate might be.
They're locked in below like men fore doomed, who hear no battle cry,
It's well assumed that if they're hit, the men below will die.
For every day's a war down there when the gauges all read red,
Twelve hundred pounds of superheated steam, can kill you mighty dead.
So if you ever write their sons, or try to tell their tale,
the very words would make you hear, a fired furnace's wail.
These men of steel the Public never gets to know
So little's heard about the Place, that sailors call the hole.
But I can sing about the place, and try to make you see
The hardened life of men down there, cause one of them is me.
I've seen these sweat soaked heroes fight, in superheated air.
To keep their ship alive and right, though no one knows they're there.
And thus they'll fight for ages on, til steamships sail no more,
Amid the boiler's mighty heat and turbines hellish roar.
So when you see a ship pull out to meet a warship foe.
Remember faintly, if you can, the men who sail below.
Author:
Unknown
Our
Flag wears the stars that blaze at night,
In our Southern skies of blue,
And a little old flag in the corner,
That’s part of our heritage too.
It’s
for the English, the Scots and the Irish,
Who were sent to the ends of the earth,
The rogues and schemers, the doers and dreamers,
Who gave modern
And
you, who are shouting to change it,
You don’t seem to understand,
It’s the flag of our laws and our language,
Not the flag of a faraway land.
Though
there are plenty of people who'll tell you,
How when
That little old flag in the corner,
Was their symbol of freedom and light.
It
doesn’t mean we owe allegiance,
To a forgotten imperial dream,
We’ve the stars to show where we’re going,
And the old flag to show where we’ve been.
It’s
only an old piece of bunting,
It’s only an old piece of rag,
But there are thousands who’ve died for its honour,
And shed of their blood for OUR FLAG.
Why I Liked The Navy
I
LIKED
standing on the bridge wing at sunrise with salt spray in my
face and clean ocean winds whipping in from the four
quarters
of the globe, the ship beneath me feeling like a living thing as
her engines drive her through the sea.
I
LIKED
the sounds of the Navy, the piercing trill of the boatswains
call,
the syncopated clanger of the ships bell, the harsh
squawk
of the main broadcast and the salty language and laughter of
sailors at work
I
LIKED
Navy vessels, sleek darting destroyers, plodding fleet
auxiliaries, dark submarines and dedicated survey vessels
I
LIKED
the proud names of Navy ships - Melbourne, Sydney
I
LIKED
the lean angular names of Navy destroyers Anzac, Vendetta,
Vampire, and Voyager
I
LIKED
the tempo of a Navy band blaring through the upper deck speakers
as we pull away from the tanker after refuelling at sea
I
LIKED
the pipe "libertymen fall in" and the spicy scent of a
foreign port
I
LIKED
sailors, men from all parts of the land, from city and country
alike and all walks of life, I trust and depend on them
as
they trust and depend on me for professional competence,
comradeship and courage, in a word they are shipmates
I
LIKED the
surge of adventure in my heart when the word is passed Special
Sea Dutymen close up"
I
LIKED
the infectious thrill of sighting home again, the waving hands
of welcome from family and friends. The work is hard
and
dangerous, the going rough at times, the parting from loved ones
painful but the companionship of robust Navy laughter
the
all for one and one for all philosophy of the sea is ever
present
I
LIKED the
serenity of the sea after a day of hard ships work, the beer
issue, watching flying fish flit across the wave tops
as sunset gives way to night
I
LIKED
the feel of the Navy in darkness the masthead lights the red and
green navigation lights and the stern light,
the
pulsating phosphorescence of radar screens
I
LIKED
drifting off to sleep lulled by the myriad of noises large and
small that tell me that my ship is alive and well and
that
my shipmates on watch will keep me safe
I
LIKED
quiet middle watches with the aroma of cocoa on a winters night
I
LIKED
hectic watches when the exacting minuet of haze grey shapes
racing at full speed keeps all hands on a razor edge of
alertness
I
LIKED
the sudden electricity of "action stations" followed
by the hurried clamour of running feet on ladders and the
resounding
thump of watertight doors and hatches as the ship transforms
herself from the peaceful workplace to a
weapon
of war ready for anything
I
LIKED
the sight of space age equipment manned by kids clad in overalls
and sound powered phones that their
grandfathers
would still recognize
I
LIKED
the traditions of the Navy and the men who made them and the
heroism of the men who sailed in the ships of yesteryear.
An
adolescent can find adulthood. In years to come when
sailors are home from the sea they will still remember with
fondness and
respect the ocean in all its moods, the impossible shimmering
mirror calm and the storm tossed grey water surging over
the
bow, and then there will come again a faint whiff of stack gas,
a faint echo of engine and rudder orders a vision
of
the bright bunting of signal flags snapping at the yardarm a
refrain of hearty laughter.
Gone
ashore for good they will grow wistfil about their Navy days,
when the seas belonged to them
and
a new port of call was ever over the horizon, remembering this
they will stand taller and say
"
I was a Sailor once, I was part of the Navy and the Navy will
always be part of me"
THAT'S WHY I LOVE THE NAVY
HMAS Cerberus Museum - Link
Sailors in the Making
HMAS Cerberus in the '60s - Link
Life on the Ocean Waves - Interesting Read - pdf
The Demise of Jack Tar - author unknown.
He was a happy go lucky sort of bloke; he took the good times with the bad.
He didn't cry victimisation, bastardisation, discrimination or for his mum when things didn't go his way.
He took responsibility for his own sometimes, self-destructive actions.
He loved a laugh at anything or anybody. Rank, gender, race, creed or behaviour, it didn't matter to Jack, he would take the piss out of anyone, including himself. If someone took it out of him he didn't get offended; it was a natural part of life. If he offended someone else, so be it. Free from many of the rules of polite society, Jack's manners were somewhat rough. His ability to swear was legendary.
Jack loved women. He loved to chase them to the ends of the earth and sometimes he even caught one (less often than he would have you believe though). His tales of the chase and its conclusion win or lose, is the stuff of legends.
Jack's favourite drink was beer, and he could drink it like a fish. His actions when inebriated would, on occasion, land him in trouble. But, he took it on the chin, did his punishment and then went and did it all again.
Jack loved his job. He took an immense pride in what he did. His radar was always the best in the fleet. His engines always worked better than anyone else's. His eyes could spot a contact before anyone else's and shoot at it first. It was a matter of personal pride. Jack was the consummate professional when he was at work and sober.
He was a bit like a mischievous child. He had a gleam in his eye and a larger than life outlook. He was as rough as guts. You had to be pig headed and thick skinned to survive. He worked hard and played hard. His masters tut-tutted at some of his more exuberant expressions of joie de vivre, and the occasional bout of number 9's or stoppage let him know where his limits were.
The late 20th Century and on, has seen the demise of Jack. The workplace no longer echoes with ribald comment and bawdy tales. Someone is sure to take offence. Where as, those stories of daring do and ingenuity in the face of adversity, usually whilst pissed, lack the audacity of the past.
A wicked sense of humour is now a liability, rather that a necessity. Jack has been socially engineered out of existence. What was once normal is now offensive. Denting someone else's over inflated opinion of their own self worth is now a crime.
AND SO A CULTURE DIES.
Enough
is enough. This certainly must be the finish!
We Are Broke
Please circulate widely!
Every Australian should know about
this travesty...........
Isn't
this a right bloody ripoff by K. Rudd and Wong!!!
Well,
would you believe it....flooding throughout Queensland and the Government asks
people to
donate to an appeal set up to help the victims of flood in places such a
Roma and Charleville in Queensland.
The Governments, Federal and State, are appealing to the public (once
again - bearing in mind the bush fire
victims in Victoria still haven't - in the majority of cases - received
much, if any, financial assistance from the
millions we Australians contributed to that appeal) to come to the aid of
the victims of flood in Queensland
(they really have suffered greatly and really do need all the help they
can get).
Well hello!!!!!!!!!!!!...the
Australian public have been asked again to help disaster
victims....Governments, at this time, have contributed nothing, but ordinary
Australians should.
That, however, is not the case where Indonesia (where Muslim inhabitants
are rapidly approaching 80% of that
countries total population) is concerned. How much money did we give
them just a short time ago...where did
that go....not much to any 'victims'.
Well.....believe
this. Today is Thursday the 4th March, 2010 and they are imploring
us to donate and help the flood victims in Queensland because they still don't
have 'emergency funds' in place to help Australians during a crisis.
But just yesterday,
Wednesday the 3rd March, 2010 (yes, yesterday, suckers) the Federal
Government announced that they would give Indonesia 30
million dollars (of your money) to help them....wait for it.....'preserve
forests'.
To preserve
forests...! Do you believe it......they have got to be kidding (the
Indonesian government is almost solely responsible for the decimation of
Indonesian's forests and they justify it on the basis of 'we need the money').
Thanks Kevin, what a
magnanimous gesture, we knew we could depend on you....you false pretender,
criminal
b*****d, who wants to be the world leader of 'who knows what'.
When did you ever get a mandate to give 'our' money away to foreigners,
for any cause, let alone on the basis of climate change. Absolutely nobody
else in the world believes all the crap - but you...and we truly doubt that you
believe it either Kevin...eh...isn't it simply about taxing us further, so you
can give it away and ingratiate yourself to all and sundry (what a wonderful man
you are).
Have a look at the
attachment from the Daily Telegraph, Wednesday 3rd March, 2010 page 19.
This is bullshit. When,
oh when, are Australians going to wake up....
Laws of the Navy ... pdf
New
Generation Veterans
We
honour our old veterans, we honour them with pride,
And
read of all the horrors they have carried deep inside,
We
know they served in Asia or
We
know that fateful landing on Gallipoli’s dark shore,
Wherever
Aussies fought, we know there are so many more,
But
now a new young generation needs our help as well,
They
too have been to war and suffer with their private hell.
Though
losses are not classed as great, their fears are just the same,
Those
electronic hidden bombs, still injure, kill or maim,
They
fight against an enemy they find so hard to see,
Who
mingle in the market place, then cause much tragedy.
Insurgents
in
Or
roaming in
The
suicide stealth bombers, don’t care who they hurt or kill,
Then,
with their own beliefs, they try to break our forces will.
Our
fighting Aussie spirit shows on any foreign land,
They’re
in the skies, they’re on the sea, or on the desert sand,
Now
many are returning with the horrors they still see,
And
living with their nightmares, suffering bureaucracy.
I
know on ANZAC Day, we all remember with a tear,
But
ALL vets, young or old, they need our help throughout the year,
Support
and listen to their stories, when they do get told,
Let’s
honour our NEW
veterans, just like we do our old.
David
J Delaney
10/02/2010 ©
HMAS VOYAGER MODEL
The model is just over 16 feet/5m long. It was scratch built by Ken Taylor.
The scale used was 1/24. It took over nine years to build.
T&PI War Veterans To Miss Out On Payout
Sent:
Monday, December 08, 2008 8:09 PM
Can you please pass this to your lists for widest dissemination?
Norman
J Rowe, AM
Qld 4212
0418 258 158 (mob)
International +61 7 5530 8757(ph/fax)
+61 418 258 158 (mob)
normie@bigpond.net.au
normie@normierowe.com
www.normierowe.com
MELAMINE
CONTAMINATION
&
BAR CODES .... PDF
Agent Orange and Prostate Cancer ... pdf
Read this and remember get your check ups
Well said Tom
UNCLASSIFIED
It must be that time of the year again, the following was sent to Channel 7
Sunrise program on the 3 SEP 08 0635h in response to Kochie getting on his
soapbox and suggesting we change the union jack for the aboriginal flag.
Your remarks on the Australian flag have surprised and shocked me, I am an
Australian soldier that has served my country for over 16 years both at home
and deployed overseas. Your suggestion that we should get rid of the union
jack and replace it with the aboriginal flag is insulting. It is only while we
were a British colony and eventually an independent country in 1901 that the
modern Australia was formed. By your reasoning as a democracy we should have a
Chinese or Greek or Irish flag in the top corner as there are more people from
this background than of the indigenous population. You went to the middle east
last year to see our serving soldiers and you were quick to come back a sprook
about how professional the soldiers, sailors and airman were over there and
how they were doing our country proud. It is amazing how short the medias
memory is when it chooses to, because those same service men and women you
spoke of are the proud custodians of the customs and traditions of the
Australia Flag. Currently tens of thousands have now served under that
Australian Flag in Iraq and Afghanistan and East Timor. You only need look at
the young people at gatherings such as ANZAC Day, Australia Day, or even
backpacking across the world to see that they are not ashamed to be seen
wearing or draping the flag over themselves. Kochie if you find our flag that
offensive then I suggest you have a long hard look at yourself in the mirror
and ask yourself a simple question, " Am I really proud to be Australian
and the things we have accomplished over the last 200 years". If the
answer is no then I suggest you leave this country as there are plenty of
people in other countries that are literally dying to come here and be part of
this great nation. I personally think your ego has got the better of you
Kochie, and you have got some sort of god complex, but that another thing I
can fix since I live in a democracy were the freedom has already been paid for
with the blood of our young and continue pay to serve our country. I have been
a loyal watcher of sunrise since the very beginning, but this is the final
straw, today I start watching the other channels in the morning. P.S. I won't
expect a reply as I'm sure you will just delete it because after all I'm
soldier that the media couldn't give two stuffs about unless I stuff up and
then the media is quick to bash the Army on any pretext to increase the
ratings, and I will take the liberty to pass this email onto everyone I known
in the Army so they can know about your comments too.
SGT Tom Cross
Proud member of the RAEME MAFIA
SACRIFICE
AND RECOGNITION [PDF]
HAVE A LOOK AT THIS AND THEN READ THE
ARTICLE
HEROES AND ATHLETES below
Let There Be No
Moaning at the Bar
Old sailors sit
And chew the fat
About things that used to be,
Of the things they've seen
The places they've been,
When they ventured out to sea.
** **
They remembered friends
From long ago,
The times they had back then,
The money they spent,
The beer they drank,
In their days as sailing men.
** **
Their lives are lived
In the days gone by
With the thoughts that forever last.
Of the bell bottom blues,
Round white hats,
And good times in their past.
** **
They recall long nights
With the moon so bright
Far out into the lonely sea.
The thoughts they had
As youthful lads,
When their lives were wild and free.
** **
They know so well
How their hearts would swell
When the flag fluttered proud and free.
The underway pennant
Such a beautiful sight
As they plowed through an angry sea.
** **
They talked of the chow
Ol' cookie would make
And the shrill of the bos'n pipe.
How salt spray would fall
Like sparks from hell
When a storm struck in the night.
** **
They remember old shipmates
Already gone
Who forever hold a spot in their heart,
When sailors were bold,
And friendships would hold,
Until death ripped them apart.
** **
They speak of nights
Spent in bawdy houses
On many foreign shore,
Of the beer they'd down
As gathering around,
Telling jokes with a busty whore.
** **
Their sailing days
Are gone away,
Never again will they cross the brow.
They have no regrets,
They know they are blessed,
For honoring the sacred vow.
** **
Their numbers grow less
With each passing day
As the final muster begins,
There's nothing to lose,
All have paid their dues,
And they'll sail with shipmates again.
** **
I've heard them say
Before getting underway
That there's still some sailing to do,
They'll say with a grin that their ship has come in,
And the Good Lord is commanding the crew.
Courtesy of C.M.
The Spirit of ANZAC
I saw a kid marching with medals on his chest,
He marched alongside Diggers marching six abreast.
He knew that it was ANZAC Day – he walked along with pride.
He did his best to keep in step with the Diggers by his side.
And when the march was over the kid was rather tired,
A Digger said, "Whose medals, Son?" to which the kid replied,
"They belong to Daddy, but he did not come back…
He died up in New Guinea, on a lonely jungle track."
The kid looked rather sad then and a tear came to his eye,
The Digger said, "Don’t cry my son and I will tell you why.
Your Daddy marched with us today – all the blooming way,
We Diggers know that he was there – its like that on ANZAC Day.."
The kid looked rather puzzled and didn’t understand …
But the Digger went on talking and started to wave his hand.
"For this great land we live in, there’s a price we have to pay.
For we all love fun and merriment in this country where we live.
The price was that some soldier his precious live must give.
For you to go to school, my lad and worship God at will…
Someone had to pay the price so the Diggers paid the bill.
Your Daddy died for us, my son – for all things good and true.
I wonder if you understand the things I’ve said to you?"
The kid looked up at the Digger – just for a little while…
And with a changed expression, said, with a lovely smile:
"I know my Dad marched here today – this is ANZAC Day.
I know he did. I know he did … all the blooming way."
D. Hunter
(a veteran of shaggy Ridge with the 2/12 Battn in WWII)Courtesy G.T. & The Buzz
HEROES AND ATHLETES.
By
Paul Martino, Sapper, Nui Dat south Vietnam 70/71. Son of
Kenneth
Martino, R/O HMS Hardy, Torpedoed North Atlantic Run WW II; Grandson
of Dominic Martino, Soldier, Green Howards. Machine Gunned France WWI.
The Athlete
T
he Swimmer touches the tiles, winning his race by 1000th of a second,He is hailed mightily throught the country as a "Hero."
The overweight Weightlifer lifts and extra 10lbs. He too is called a "Hero."
The too-lean Cyclist in fancy colours wins by a lead of milliseconds.
Apoplectic newscasters go into hysterical cardiac fits.
The Javelin Thrower’s spear goes that extra yard, yet another "Hero"
The sweat stained runner wins by two yards and we’ve got another "Hero."
Let the screaming thousands of sightless, mindless drunkards, loose,
Headed by our disgusting cricket mad, overenthusiastic Prime Minister, lose
on a cricket Pitch,
And if you believe him, we have a team of the greatest "Heroes" who ever
existed.
"Heroes" all, these sportsmen, if you are uncaring and believe in fairy stories-
For this is the new cheap sensationalism. Every Australian athlete is now a
"Hero," Merely to stir up long wanted forgotten patriotism, to forget about
the real Heroes.
To quickly forget those who actually gave their all, and get on with "real" life,
That the pampered Athlete might continue his life of uninterrupted luxury.
That he might immediately receive the best medical treatment to be had,
The best clothes money can buy, the finest food, and luxury accommodation,
Ticker tape parades, screaming crownds of the ever forgetful at every move.
More of a welcome that the most true Hero, existing in peaceful silence, ever
got."Hero" the soft, pampered, Athelete is definitely not!
The Hero
Lays quietly, in peace, forever at rest in a turbulent false
world
In mysteriously, well tended endless soft rolling green fields
Scattered around the world, all enveloped in an eerie peaceful silence.
In acres of fields lined with hundreds of thousands simple white crosses
In absolute parade ground precision of the living.
No cheering of the enthusiastic apoplectic sports commentator here,
No enthusiasm by any Government Official, or Prime Minister of note,
The true Hero all too quickly forgotten by those many who never served.
And yet luckily, there are those of us, who returned,
Left to remember as we grow old,
And remember we will. Forever.
For there’s Homage to pay.
And pay you will, you spoiled majority.
Those same families who never served, the same sons of the same rich,
For we will never let you forget the real Hero beneath those humble
white crosses
Laying in eternity, silently at peace, in those roughly hewn graves,
These are the Heroes. These are the men and women, who gave their all,
Who really went the extra inch, who lifted far more than the ten pounds
In living conditions unimaginable by today’s generations.
Their opposition was deadly aplenty, their lot – filthy ragged clothing,
bad food, Expected to perform their best in all weather, hot, cold,
raining, dry, and freezing.
Day or Night. Rested or not. Neither hunger nor thirst a factor of any
consideration.
No clean clear smooth quiet, peacefully pathway for these men and women.
No first class medical treatment, for strains or painful wounds, on call
day and night.
And yet shamefully you all forget, they too won their competition
regardless!
Except there was no handshake at the end of their race. Just exhaustion.
Out of respect for the true Hero, get it right. An Athlete is after all, just
an Athlete.
The surviving Hero often arrives home
in the quiet darkness of night,
No greetings, Medals in his pocket, kitbag on his shoulder,
Expecting no more. And getting even less.
Courtesy G.T. & The Buzz
THE SPECIAL BREED – THE ENGINE ROOM BRANCH
Since the war ended, there’s been many stories told
Of heroes on the upper deck, these sailors brave and bold.
Facing enemy aircraft, dodging enemy shells,
Their gunnery ever accurate, as the ship rides o’er the swells.
I’m the first to say with pride, the ‘SHROPSHIRE’ had the best.
For many times they saved the ship, when put to the test.
But spare a though for the engine room branch; the stokers born and bred.
Whose job it was to propel the ship and the engineer who led
The "dustmen" as they are affectionately known, are a special breed,
But not too much is written about their various deeds.
Down in the engine room spaces where temperatures rise so high,
At action stations, for days on end, never seeing the sky,
Where it’s roasting hot in daytime and boiling hot at night,
And the bravery thought of bully beef, made you lose your appetite.
Where the screaming of the turbines, play havoc with your ears,
And your throat gets dry and parched and you’d love an ice-cold beer.
Where the dynamos are as hot as hell and the devil wanted to know,
"Could he swap them for his furnace and take them down below?"
When we were called to action, we were quick
From watchkeeping in the engine room to handling shells in the bowels of the
ship.
Or, up on the four inch gun deck, to tote the shells
So, the gunners could keep firing and maybe have a spell.
The telegraph spins around and orders from bridge come through
The stokers are quick to act, as they know their jobs
The skipper needs precision as he handles the tiller,
Again it is the stokers who help him manoeuvre the ship.
Then comes a lull in action and heads to nearest port
The "upper deck" get a "Make and Mend" stokers report for duty,
The engines need attention, vats are full of scale,
The boilers have to be shut down and clean before sailing,
Pumps and bearings to overhaul, before morning light,
These are necessary, so, we work through the night.
This will benefit all the crew, with water, heat, power,
For drinking, cooking, dobie-ing, and nice hot showers,
There’s much more I could write, re the engine room branch,
And I guess I’m biased, when given half a chance,
But were would all the sailors be, if not for the engineers’ crew.
Who always get them home, when a leave is due.
Indeed, we were a lucky ship and toast the whole ships’ crew,
They were the best ships’ company, a skipper could have, ‘tis true
It’s just that stokers are quiet achievers, out of sight and out of mind,
And to be recognised for their efforts, would be rather kind,
So, when the accolades are bandied about, with unbiased attention,
Spare a thought for the stokers … just give us a mention.
Jim Murtagh.
(Jim Murtagh had the distinction of being one of only three engine
room branch that served from before commissioning to the paying-offof HMAS SHROPSHIRE. She commissioned into RAN 20 Apr 1943 and paid off 20 May 1947. Ron Frasa HMAS SHROPSHIRE)
Courtesy G.T. & The Buzz
The Final Inspection
Courtesy C.M.