Two topics of interest in our post-war navy which have appeared in the pages of this publication are “The Fallen Estate of the Petty Officers” and “The Lack of Leadership in the Ranks of the Junior Officers.” It is generally agreed that the recent war was the underlying cause of these two situations and that remedial steps are needed. To this pair might be added another: “The Decline of Naval Terminology and the Descent of Naval Phraseology.”* This subject might seem of small caliber when compared with the other two, but correction of it will assist in rectifying the first two.
A few years ago there was a pleasant scene which occurred on the fantails and forecastles of our ships. During the early days of World War II it became less common and now it is seldom seen. This is unfortunate for (lie scene had significance.
Gathered around their favorite bitt after knocking off ship’s work would be the boatswain’s mate of the division, his leading seaman, and about a dozen seamen. Their conversation would go something like this: “What’s that thing they call a fiddley, Boats?” The boatswain’s mate explains in detail. He points out the fiddley on the port side of number two stack. Then the nigger- head, the manger, the apron, and other less- known parts of the ship are dealt with in question and answer form.
“And what’s the difference between a barbette and a turret?” one of the more alert asks.
This is explained, but with some stumbling over the fine points. The leading seaman has his cue.
“Hey, Boats- What’s the piece of gear up in the forward locker they call a commander?”
The answer is given with reference to marline spikes and fids. Unschooled in the formal science of teaching, years of instructing men had developed an instinct which told him to drive home a lesson with an illustration. One suitable for the purpose would follow; an old classic and a favorite of all good three-hashmark topside hands: “We were puttin’ an eye in this hawser and I sent this kid forward to fetch a commander. The kid comes back and tells me the Exec is plenty sore. ‘He says if you want him,’ the kid is half shaking when he tells me this, ‘You know darned well where his room is.’”
And those dozen seamen never forgot the difference between the two types of commanders as long as they lived. They were made well aware of the distinctions between spikes and fids, both large and small; and what is more important they took pride in that knowledge.
The present lack of interest in learning and using proper nomenclature is regrettable. 11 is most probably a manifestation of the transient outlook on all things naval —an outlook which unfortunately was possessed by so many who entered our branch of the service during the war.
The deck, to be sure, is still called the deck, the bow is called the bow, and the galley called the galley; but for that matter they are called by the same names aboard yachts. However, after those few have been mastered along with bulkhead, stanchion, topside, port hole and the like, little attention seems to be given to learning the remaining sea-going nomenclature.
I
The writer has served in four destroyers during the past five years. All of these destroyers have been of the Gearing class: long hulled, twenty-two fifties. It should follow that the steering gear motor room should have but one proper name and should be referred to by those who are in any way connected with it by that one name alone. This has not been the case. Steering gear room, steering motor room and steering engine room are some of the names which it is given. “A grammatical purist—what harm lies in the interpolation of a few words?” some might ask. “What does it matter if the officer of the deck, the quartermaster of the watch and the first lieutenant all refer to it by slightly different names?—it is in the same place and they all know where it is.”
Those bringing up these arguments might be justified in them if the room were referred to by those three names alone; but we Americans being what we are and the “American language” being what it is with its fluidity and adaptability, the variations of steering gear motor room do not stop with these three. Among other names used to refer to this room are steering aft and after steering. With these, confusion rears its unwelcome head. To some, steering aft or after steering means the steering gear motor room; to others, however, it means the secondary conning station. Need the seriousness of such an inconsistency be pointed out?
Even the deck on which the secondary conning station is mounted is victim of multiplicity in naming. Probably oh-one deck is the term most suitable for this deck, carried on the ship’s plans as superstructure deck. The name plates on the doors and hatches in this area being labeled “0 1” keep the shorter term before the eyes of the ship’s company. This same deck is called gun deck, boat deck and torpedo deck. It seems that men are determined to avoid using such a lengthy term as superstructure. A man will usually have two names for this deck: one, his own favorite name; the other, the predominant ship’s name. The boatswain’s mates and seamen prefer boat deck, the gunners favor gun deck, and the first lieutenant and his damage control parties lean toward oh-one deck. The effects of this inconsistency, however, are not as serious as the secondary conn-steering aft mix-up; for most of the ship’s company are aware of the four or five different names of the superstructure deck.
Another set of terms which are used with too much interchange are brow, gangway and gangplank. To some, the brow is a section of the gangway; to others it is any gangplank that is owned by the shore establishments. Though there is a similarity between brow and gangplank, neither of these two should be confused with gangway. Yet there are many with a reasonable knowledge of terminology who cannot even determine a point of departure in explaining these three terms. This may be due to scanty definitions of these terms in seamanship texts. Knight’s, the most comprehensive of all when it comes to these three, brushes off brow with “a portable gangway.”
II
There is a common device used in everyday speech whereby a person who cannot instantly recall the name of an article calls it a “gimmick”, a “gizmo”, or “thing-a-ma-jig.” These are variations of “that thing,” which is used these days only by little girls to refer to a person they do not like. The only justification for use of the “gimmick” device of speech aboard ship would be in reference to some of the units found in the complicated maze of the internal circuits of our electronic contrivances. In many cases not even the experts know what to label certain units. (This on the authority of instructors at the Navy School for Radarmen at Boston who in turn arc backed up by the scientists from M.I.T.) Other than these electronic units, however, all parts of the ship and ship’s gear worthy of being labeled are given names. Some of these names are obscure and not everyone would have need to know them. The jack-o-the-dust, for instance, would probably not know the astern throttle valve from the main injection valve. It is unlikely that he would ever refer to them; but it would be a poor engine force in which the officers and leading men did not have the names of those two valves on the lips of their tongues. It would be something less than good leadership should those men fail at an early and opportune time to impart the names of those valves to the men under them. And “what-you-may-call-it” or “gizmo” should not enter into the explanation.
The use of those weak and lazy substitute words is evident throughout the ship. The estimation of the navigator does not rise in the eyes of any person when in the chart house he points to a three arm protractor and says to his assistant, “Set up that gimmick on these bearings . . . .” An instant’s concentration would have brought “protractor” to his mind. There seems to be an unforgivable carelessness in such an action. Use of the “gimmick” device by a commissioned officer is license for its use by those under him,.
Laziness of speech evidences itself when generalization of particulars is employed. Too often every form that lines are worked into are called knots. Good seamen wince when they hear a sheet bend or a rolling hitch referred to as a “knot.” Often when rigging for light towing, two hawsers are bent together and a double carrick formed. When a plank is thrust down the middle a seamanlike affair results. To refer to this as a “knot” is downright lubberly; but by actual count more have called it just that— a “knot,” than have called it a “bend.”
Anyone who serves in a ship has at one time read or been told that the general class of knots is divided into hitches, bends, and knots; and that this last is a knob in a rope. But the first two terms arc falling into a class with gudgeon and pintle: useful and common, often seen but seldom referred to.
Carelessness of phraseology will sometimes lead to embarrassing situations. Although the lifelines and gunwales perform a similar function aboard a vessel, they are physically quite different and there should be no difficulty in distinguishing between them. Recently on a Caribbean cruise one of our destroyers was moored to the dock in the port of Kingston, Jamaica. The vendors on the dock were dealing with men of the duty section who were leaning over the port gunwale in the area aft of the break of the bridge. The officer of the deck, concerned that a pint or two of rum might find its way aboard ship along with the baskets, woodwork articles and other West-Indian souvenirs that were being passed aboard, decided to break off the traffic.
“Stand clear of that life-line,” he said to the men who were leaning against the gunwale. About half of the men backed away. The remainder stood where they were and looked aft to the area where the gunwale ended and the lifeline began. That was the quarterdeck area and only the watch was there. The OOD repeated his order, “Get clear of that lifeline, 1 said.” The men at the gunwale looked at one another and then at the OOD. “He’s talkin’ right at us -lie must mean us.” In all it took over a minute and it required a repetition of an order—and shouting—to clear the side of the ship at the gunwale. Undoubtedly the OOD had at one time been taught the difference between a lifeline and gunwale; but past carelessness in phraseology asserted itself.
III
Even in the realm of the “passing of the word” laxity in phraseology has asserted itself. Up to a few years ago “all hands” meant just what the words implied. With the exception of the trenchant “this is no drill,” it was the most effective attention capturing cry that we had in use. Part of its former importance has been taken by the verbose “the attention of all hands is invited to . . . .”
To those on watch, “all hands” brought a surge of thanks for their having the watch, because in many instances they would be excused from the action which would follow. To the remainder of the ship’s company it was among other things the signal for a burst of invective. The message for which it was the preface was usually unpleasant. “All hands, lay out on the dock,” “All hands, stand by the boat falls,” and “All hands, provide and equip for abandon ship,” were typical. But whether or not a man was on watch, “all hands” did its work; regardless of the opinions it brought forth, it got results. When the cry went through the ship, men kept quiet and listened and prepared to take action. For it included them all.
A secondary use of “all hands” came in the middle of information being passed. For instance, after the announcement of the time and location of divine services, “all hands” were told to knock off playing cards, that the smoking lamp was out and to maintain silence about the decks during the service. Happily its use in this manner is still properly followed. With the exception of its use with certain of the general drills, however, this is not true of its primary use. The manner in which it is usually used today, both afloat and ashore, contradicts itself. It still calls everyone, but its message does not pertain to everyone that it calls. In fact it usually has significance for only a few of those who hear the word passed. I t is used in a manner similar to “now hear this,” “hear there,” and “now hear you there.” The first, incidentally, is the only attention caller that has sanction. The second and third are a few of the offspring of the first. The range of these offspring is amazing. Not long ago in an East-Coast Receiving Station a no- hashmark seaman on the public address system broke out with “Hear, Hear . . . .” That went out to over six-hundred people among whom were two ex-right-arm chiefs who glanced at one another and slowly shook their heads. They had given up fighting the variations. Where does it stop?
Typical of the new use of “all hands” are: “All hands who desire to register allotments lay up to the disbursing office.” Or: “All hands desiring early chow . . . .” Yet another: “All hands that are interested . . . .” In short no distinction is being made between it and “all men” or “all those.” People reason that it is readily available so they use it. The flaw in that line of reasoning is that with its present use with restrictive modifiers it does not have nearly the strength that it had when used exclusively as a compound noun in direct address. As yet there is nothing to take its place. Another good term has gone by the board because of overuse and abuse. It has gone the way of miracle and glamor and confidential.
There are a few words passed aboard ship, however, which seem to increase their value because of leeway allowed in the wording. A few commanding officers insist that each passer-of-the-word follow a set call that he has laid down; but by far the most allow each man his own version. It is interesting to note that no set wording for “sweepers,” “mess gear,” “laps,” or “reveille” are in any of the available texts. These include The Bluejacket's Manual, Watch Officer’s Guide, Naval Orientation, BuPer’s Scamanship and the various petty officer’s study courses. One of the study courses lists the 66-word reveille of the British Navy but fails to list one of our own Navy.* Five boatswain’s males were interviewed this spring and each gave a different version of reveille. None varied markedly from the others and all resembled the words near the beginning of the British favorite—the “lash and stow—reveille, reveille” section. Only one of the boatswain’s mates recalled seeing the wording of reveille in printed form. That was on a sheet put out by the Yorktown sometime before the war. The others sang it out in a manner similar to the way they had heard it aboard their first ships. All were aware that they differed from one another but none saw any value in holding to a set form. Perhaps they were right. In ages past, the old tales which were handed down through the years by word of mouth became folk-lore, and as folk-lore those tales possessed qualities which made them more valuable than all but a few written works. The tellers of the tale and the listeners alike tolerated no light treatment of them. The above mentioned boatswain’s mates when questioned sang out their versions with verve and all were proud of their version. It has undoubtedly been the experience of many of us that a reveille vigorously sung out was followed by an equally vigorous rousing-out-of-bunks by the man who passed it.
V
In the speeded-up Navy of today there is no room for redundancy. The pace is too rapid to tolerate needless repetition. And yet throughout the Navy, afloat and ashore, we hear such glaring examples of redundancy that a lexicographer in search of suitable illustrations hearing these need search no farther. This is a common type: “The ‘E’ division laundry petty officer lay up to the laundry and draw the ‘E’ division’s laundry.” There is no exaggeration in that, nor is there in this: “Number fifty-two loading crew report to the loading machine for loading drill.” Brevity, the soul of wit, is often suitable for more serious purposes.
One of the reasons for the present unhappy condition of our phraseology lies in the lack of exact definitions. Let us consider amidships. In general the glossaries fail to reach a common ground with this term. One in fact, the otherwise well-written Naval Orientation, a NavPers text, even goes so far as to disagree with itself. At the beginning of chapter 10 it reads: “Amidships is in the vicinity of the middle portion of the vessel as distinguished from her ends.” Two hundred pages later in the glossary it reads: “Amidships: usually in the line of the keel…”
On most ships of the Navy amidships passageway means either of two passageways. It is fortunate that they intersect, because only a right-angle turn is required to put a person in the proper one should he in answer to a call to lay up there have made an incorrect guess and first gone to the wrong one. A pharmacist’s mate, for example, who repairs to what is his first choice in amidships passageways to tend a man in need of aid, can, because of that intersection, traverse both passageways in a short while. Of course he could get to the man more rapidly if he knew which of the passageways to go to first.
On some ships this situation has been corrected by commanding officers who have designated the passageway paralleling the keel as the fore-and-aft passageway and the other as the athwartships passageway. The damage-control parties are among the first to benefit from this differentiation. During the war that old standby, Our Navy, made an attempt to remedy the situation. That magazine suggested that the fore-and-aft line be labeled the amidship line and the athwartship line be called the midship line. The distinction was too subtle, however, so they discontinued the endeavor after a few issues.
In addition to poor definitions, works on naval terminology are guilty in many instances of complete omissions. There are terms spoken every day which are not found in the texts. Not one of the books already mentioned lists snaking, deckpads (treads), knife edges (of coamings) or dog wenches—to name a few. Nor are all to be found in bradford’s A Glossary of Sea Terms, The Naval Institute’s own New Naval Phraseology, or even René de Kerchove’s masterly International Maritime Dictionary with its nearly one thousand pages averaging ten definitions to the page. All four terms are common and use is made of them every day. The latest Knight’s has two illustrations where snaking is shown, yet even it fails to mention snaking. A thorough perusal of naval books will offer no synonym. It seems strange that this word, so common to all forecastle hands of destroyers and cruisers, has gone unlabeled; for many a life has been saved by this net affair which extends from the center line, the housing line, to the deck.
It is characteristic of young men to spend as much time thinking up an excuse for not knowing something as in searching for the answer. And it must be admitted that the Navy, in the main, is made up of young men. The omissions in our texts, their repeated failure to agree with one another, and their too-brief definitions all offer an easy excuse. Here is an example of the last factor. It is found in the glossary of a text (not Knight’s) used since the early days of the war, a text still in every day use (Brow: a portable gangplank. Gangplank: see brow).
VII
What seems to be called for is a comprehensive volume, well illustrated and arranged in dictionary form. The text should be concerned for the most part with naval terminology. A short section on the evils of redundancy and tautology would not be amiss in this proposed volume, nor would a set of model “words regularly passed.” The need for this last section, pointing out rather than leading to, should not be underestimated. During the war on some of the smaller ships and at many of the bases, where anyone who had entered the service before 1941 was esteemed a singularity, the ties with the older traditions were very slender. Lack of guides—-of channel markers of custom—was often the cause of unpleasant and unnecessary effects. Once again reveille offers a good example. The wording of it in many instances departed from the form with which we are familiar and assumed forms ranging from “Sunrise in the swamps —grab your socks ...” to wordings that cast doubt upon the legitimacy of birth of the sleeping men or made reference to a parenthood, not human but canine. During demobilization some good men left the Navy with a bitter taste in their mouths—and not all of them were over-sensitive souls. Happily those days are of the past, and those ill- manner ways are no longer with us. They were the exception, it is true, and now a man entering the Navy need have no concern over aspersions of others about his honor. We will respect a man just as long as he will allow us to respect him. but the day might possibly come again when the ties of tradition once more become slender; and a few buoys planted now to outline the channel of good taste and tradition surely seem justified.
Compiling this needed text would not be an easy task, for there is much untangling and first-hand research lying ahead of him who makes the attempt. Especially would this be true of the first' section, the part most like our present glossaries. Ren6 de Kerchove in the preface to his excellent work (1947) said that he purposely omitted all matters solely concerned with naval war vessels and naval affairs in general. He no doubt saw the hazards entailed in their inclusion. His publisher, D. Van Nostrand, evidently is not going to undertake this task and the Cornell Maritime Press seems to specialize in works of a lighter nature.
VIII
A scanning of a few pages of naval terminology will reveal a marked congruity in the nouns: sturdy, concrete and possessing the best qualities of the Saxon strain in our language. Of the more common terms in use only two seem to be near a mid-point of transition. These are bluejacket and lamp. Both, indeed, are past the mid-point as regards the spoken language; but securing them in their written form are some sturdy moorings. Lamp is listed as lamp in the Standard Stock catalog, in pertinent Navy manuals, and even on the boxes and cartons in which they are packed; but a person who says the word aloud will find that explanations arc in order. “Smokin’ lamp out?” some will ask. Others will belabor the utterer of lamp with comments on lanterns and queries as to the failure of the ship’s electrical system. Our careless speaker will know better next lime, and will say, as everyone else, “bulb.” At the present time bluejacket is referred to only in connection with that fine manual which recruits discard all too soon after reporting aboard. Whitehat, which made its appearance during the last days of the war, has replaced it in the realm of the spoken word. But other than bluejacket and lamp in our nomenclature, nouns, which are the body of it, are well entrenched and threats from synonyms occur less than would at first be supposed.
This quality in our nouns would be one of the less unpleasant factors in a compilation of a text on terminology. A person engaged in such an undertaking would be amazed when in his field work he goes to the bases and ships and overhears the general run of talk. He would hear a phraseology differing greatly from that which a scholarly study of naval texts would indicate. If aboard our newest cruisers it would strike him odd that men avoid use of the fine term tumble-home and say, instead, “the way the sides curve in.” And overhearing a man who has just returned from the dispensary telling his division officer, “They put me on a sick-list with other people that don’t have to go to bed but can’t do any heavy work”; he could not help but think that something is lacking in leadership when the officer fails to tell the man that the proper term is binnacle list. Something more than a “very well” in acknowledgement of the man’s statement is called for.
IX
It has been the author’s privilege to be topside guide for the new men who report aboard for duty. In conformance with the Bureau of Personnel’s policy of familiarization and indoctrination, these men are taken on an extended tour of the ship. This tour requires the better part of a day and includes both topside and below deck stations. A hearty interest in learning the terminology is indicated by the numerous and diverse questions they ask while on their way to and at the various stations. These questions continue even after the detail has been secured.
That interest soon decreases when the men merge themselves in with the crew. Then they repeatedly hear the fo’castle called the front porch and the ladders called the stairs. Their high school drinking fountain which became a scuttlebutt in boot camp, once more, as far as many of the men aboard ship are concerned, becomes a drinking fountain. They will stand their first watches as messengers and if they have the watch during evening colors, the odds are that they will be told something on the order of, “Go back by the flag pole and stand by to pull down the flag.” Hearing this improper phraseology they cannot help assuming that there is jesting behind it; but there is an air about jesting that they do not find here. Among the older men aboard there will be a few who use what seems to be a proper phraseology, who will be listened to with a degree of admiration—the admiration of the novice for the expert. Admiration, yes; an attempt at imitation—perhaps. If the expert is the one gunner’s mate in a ten-man section who uses tompion, the others calling it a gun plug, then his example will not be followed. “Do like most of the other guys do, and you’ll get along best,” is a cardinal rule closely followed by new men aboard ship. They too, even if aware of tompion, will call it a gun plug.
* The formal definitions of phraseology and terminology will be held in this discussion. These list terminology as the system of terms belonging to a science, art or subject—the nomenclature—whereas phraseology is the manner or style of verbal expression.
* The no-longer-issued Bugler’s Manual lists the notes for reveille, but few ships carry buglers these days. The tunes of reveille’s accompanying calls, “up hammocks” and “all hands", for use on the pipe are listed in the BM2 study course. Used alone, however, these last two calls lack the ring of authority which comes only from bellowing lungs.