Charles Flesfader

Parade ground, Cerberus, one dismal, foggy morn,
Weather-beaten face, beneath a battered old hat
This man was “Navy; ” to the sea, surely born,
With swaggering gait, he left no doubt of that.

Three rows o’ ribbons up on his chest,
Telling that he’d been there, to hell and back,
Hammering Hitler, Mussolini, and Tojo’s best
Even giving “Charlie” a serve too, this old Jack.

He was “Old Man Navy” mate, done the time.
Hard as nails, yet a father to us, funny sort o’ mix.
First put to sea in “Perth, ” dark days o’ thirty nine.
Saw him in the “Bat, ”years later, ‘bout seventy six.

“Canberra” and “Vendetta, ” too, countless ships b’tween
World War Two, Korea, Vietnam, almost everywhere.
Wasn’t an ocean he hadn’t fought, sailed or been.
Done the lot, “Old Man Navy, ” more than his share.

Despite being a man who had set so many guns firing
(He’d served in the turrets, earning a QA’s rate.)
He was a Man of few words, almost shy and retiring
And yet, leaving no doubt, he was Navy, mate!

Gunnery badges green with age and brine,
The buttons on his sleeve, hangin’ by a thread,
Head with a permanent fifteen degree incline;
How many young seaman been put to dread?