Virtual
War Memorial
Australia

Son of Ralph and Elizabeth Gofton; husband of Flora Shaw Gofton, of Sawarai, Papua. 

YOUR WIFE & CHILDREN THINK OF YOU STILL FLO, ELA & MORESLEY GOFTON

DEATH OF "HARDY" GOFTON
Mr. Ralph Gofton is in receipt of the sad news of the death of his brother, Pte Harry Gofton, who is reported killed in action in France on March 27th.  Pte Gofton enlisted in Cairns about 18 months ago, coming thence from Port Moresby. Mr. Harry Gofton (better known as "Hardy' Gofton) was well known throughout Northern Queensland as a horseman of  the first rank, and used to do a good deal of race riding in his younger days. He afterwards threw up his profession as a jockey to follow up show riding, and was a very popular  figure in Towers and other show rings. "Hardy" Gofton used to ride a good deal for Mr. Geo. Coleman on such horses as Kimberley, Gold Dust and Pebble, and he was in the Saddle on Demon when that horse put up the first North Queensland record, 6ft 1in. On the following year he broke the record on Polish at 6ft 3ins. The late Mr. Gofton used also to be a  fine rough rider and was seen on several occasions taking part in buck-jump riding competitions.

Going to New Guinea in 1909, he followed the plantation life, and was manager for Mr. Bruce, a one time well-known drill instructor of Charters Towers. Pte Gofton will be mourned by all lovers of good sport, and much sympathy is extended to his wife and two children in New Guinea.

"Hardy" Gofton, who, by sheer lack of fear and cheery disregard of personal danger, attached to a love of adventure, won the hearts of the sporting community, and earned the prefix of "Hardy".  In thorough appreciation of his daring, we came to call him "Hardy", and when the casualty lists were published showing the name of "Private Harry Gofton" few if any of the older goldfields people, thought of connecting the two.  There was something so dashing, so deonnair, so carelessly gay, about "hardy" Gofton that it was difficult to think of the splendid viatlity of the man and couple it with cold irrovocable death.  Yet it was he, the same gallant lad who had earned our hearty plaudits when he popped the big clumper Kimberley over the six foot jump on the Towers ground, or there let the fractious black Pebble fly his fences.  The same lad who, for the fun of the thing, would have a go at "Dargan's Grey," or hop on to old Garfield, and win the Towers Brush Hurdles.

"Hardy" Gofton had disappeard from the ken of most of us for some years.  He got married and settle down in Papua, but we hear of him now and then as a great leader and manager of "boys", or as winning the big races at the Port MOresby annual.

A few years ago, I dropped across him at a Wild West show in Ciarns, where the buckjumping was in aid of the hospital.  "Hardy" had a little wooly-headed Papuan boy with him.  He had brought the boy to Queensland to show him the sights.  For a while we three sat on the fence together watching, but "Hardy" soon lost himslef in the sport, and though only a moment before he had been stating he was "too old for this game", he soon hopped off the fence and was right in the thick of it.  Some one recognised him and yelled, "Ha, hardy " hello Hardy."  Then, like a wave, "Let "Hardy" have a go," went singing round the ring and for the honor of the old goldfield, off came the coat and "Hardy" was up on top of a snorting brute, and nto him for his life.  The liquid balck eyes of the little Papuan, all aswim with fear and pride of his boss, bulged from their sockets, while his frizzled wool almost lost its kink.  What a show it was, with "hardy" and that lithe sinewy Hindoo Bella Sing, roping and riding bullocks, buckjumpers, wrestleing on horseback, until every think had been ridden that was worth while.

Then, tired, covered with sweat and dust, we went home, "Hardy" explaining "I couldn't resist; haven't seen a horse for years." What a gallant fearless chap he was, a graceful horseman, with faultless nerve and seat, the stoicism of a Red Indian, and the happy laughter of a boy.  What a soldier he must have been, what a trusty pal to have had in the slushy dank and miserable trenches of France. He must have heartened up his comrades with his happy nature and contagious laughter.  Life was all a lark with "Hardy", a bauble to be juggled with.  He had staked it without reservation on the chances of many agame.  He had so often shaken the leather box containing the sacred cube in happy defiance, in the unrelenting fate, that live without hazard must have been dull indeed.

So when the war broke out, and startled humanity, who but he should answer the call?  Away amid the gloomy jungles of fair Papua its urgent voice came acalling him, so quitetly, and without ostentation, this very gallant Australian chap stepped out of the tropic night and answered it.

And now he is dead, men tell us, but we who knwe him as a vivid youth pulsating with life, abrim and running over with courage, and the will to dare, find this hard to realise, only we know that the war gods are taking of our best and keep acalling; so impotently yet with all our heart and soul, as in the old odl days, when this very gallant Australian boy used to electrify us into bursts of spontaneous applause as he rattled a horse at a fece, we clap our hands together and call aloud :

Bravo Hardy! Well done !!