 |
| Photo taken Nov 15th, 1917, somewhere in France |
This is my grandfather. Private Gilbert Roy Oats, 43rd Battalion, C Company.
In January 1916, at the ripe old age of 21, he tossed in his former life as a farmer up at Moonta and travelled down to the big smoke to enlist. I wonder if he did so because he hated farming, or because he just wanted to be a soldier and answered the call like thousands of others. He signed up, named his mother Laura as his next of kin, trained at Morphettville, and became part of a battalion, apparently known as 'Glenelg's Own', formed on March 7th, 1916. I guess him, nor any of the others, not being from Glenelg was of no real importance. Just three months after forming, on June 9th, 1916, he and the rest of his unit (pictured below) embarked from Adelaide, South Australia, on board HMAT A19
Afric.
 |
| The 43rd Battalion, photo taken on the eve of embarkation, June 8th, 1916. My grandfather is in the front row, second from right |
I wonder if any of them were properly trained. I wonder if they had a clue what was about to confront them. I wonder if any of them knew how slim their chances were of returning home. I wonder if they even knew what the war was about. I wonder how many did come home. I wonder a lot of things.
What happened over the next two years, I guess I'll never know for sure. History books and war movies give us the bigger picture, but I wonder what happened to my grandfather specifically. There are a few family stories, but like all games of Chinese Whispers passed down over generations, I wonder how accurate the details are. He was definitely stationed in France and served on what was known as the Western Front; he was a stretcher bearer who retrieved and treated the wounded; and we believe he became engaged to a young French girl, whose name may or may not have been Madeleine. I wonder if he was a stretcher bearer because he was crap with a gun. Or if it was just because he was strong and fast. Maybe he knew First Aid before he went, or maybe he learned, somewhat horrifically, on the job. Mostly, I wonder what happened to the fiancee.
I know he may have carried, at some point, this book,
First Aid To The Injured, issued by the St John Ambulance Association in 1914. I know he owned it at some stage, because I have it.
 |
| Instructions for stretcher bearers |
 |
| 24th Edition, 1914 |
I wonder if he studied it whenever he could, or referred to it when needed. Or if it stayed in his pocket and he just treated the wounded soldiers as best he could amid the frightening chaos of war. I wonder if the book never even saw action, if it was left at home; it's in fairly good condition. I wonder how he came by the book. It is not his name written inside the front cover, you see. That honour belongs to Andrew Clifton Harcourt Reid, and is dated April 2nd 1916. Maybe they trained together, but Andrew dropped out. I wonder if Andrew was found unfit to be a soldier. I do know that Andrew's name produces no results on a Defence Force search. Further snooping reveals Andrew was born in 1897, married in 1918, and died in 1956. Maybe Andrew was a friend, and gave it to Bert before he shipped out. Or maybe Bert nicked it from Andrew. I wonder.
By August 1918, Bert was near Bray-sur-Somme, and apparently doing some of his finest work. He was recommended for a Military Medal on September 5th, 1918.
'On the 22nd August, 1918, during operations east of BRAY SUR SOMME, the Company's position was heavily shelled for a period of three hours. During the whole of that period Private OATS, who is a stretcher bearer, continued to dress the wounded and remove them to the Aid Post. He worked without shelter of any kind and at great personal risk. This is only one of the many occasions in which Private OATS has in a similar capacity shown an utter disregard of danger and a noble spirit of devotion to duty.'
~
From the Commonwealth Gazette, dated October 10th, 1919 (also listed in the London Gazette, June 17th, 1919)
I know I cry every time I read it. I wonder if it was a big deal at the time. I wonder if he was proud. Or if he just shrugged his shoulders and got on with his job.
I believe he was wounded, sent home, and given an honourable discharge. I've been told he had horrible shrapnel wounds. He survived. But I wonder how it happened. I wonder why I've never heard that story. If it was too painful to talk about. He was a quiet man.
I know he went back to the farm and met Marian, my grandmother, who was a schoolteacher in the area. She taught the children of the farm Bert worked on, even her future son-in-law (who was allegedly the only child she ever failed, poor Uncle Ken). They married in 1924 and their first daughter was born the following year. They named her Madeleine. Hmmm. My mother followed eighteen months later.
 |
| Marian and Bert's wedding, 1924 |
At 31 and 29 they were late to marriage. My grandmother lied about her age for most of her adult life, as she was older than Bert (wow, a whole two years), and that knowledge becoming public would have been embarrassing. I wonder if it really would have been so bad. I wonder if Bert even knew the truth. I also wonder when the name 'Oats' became 'Oates'. Was it a spelling mistake that crept in so often the whole family adopted it, or was it always meant to be 'Oates', and the 'e' just went missing along the way for a while? Nobody seems to know. I wonder if Bert misspelled his own name when he enlisted. I wonder if he even was an Oats or an Oates, and the rumours of a certain Mr Baldock being his real father were true.
 |
| Bert and Marian, undated, but believed to be on a Wedding Anniversary |
They moved to the city, but I'm not sure when, and Bert became a tram conductor. I wonder if there were other jobs first. I wonder if that was what he really wanted to do, or if his war injuries limited his choices. He saw the Depression and more war, but from the safety of home this time. I wonder if the second World War brought back memories for him. If he struggled through it from a distance.
 |
| Bert in his MTT uniform, taken in the back yard of their West Croydon home, 1945 |
Bert sustained a bad knee injury, allegedly when he fell off a tram. Although there were also stories of him being kicked by a horse on a visit to the farm, so I wonder if he was the first person to rort the Municipal Tramways Trust compensation system. I wonder if there even
was a compensation system to rort. Marian retired from teaching at the end of 1956 (when she was officially about to turn 60, but in reality was already 63), and Bert retired from the MTT in 1957, aged 62. I wonder if he was happy, relieved, or bored in retirement. If he was a contented, or a broken man.
My two grandfathers were named Bert and Ernie. I wonder if anyone finds that as funny as I do.
Bert died in 1967 when I was just 3. This may be one of the last photos taken of him. He is holding me. I wonder if he knew he was going to die soon.
 |
| Me and Bert, 1967 |
I have vague memories of being in a cemetery, standing among graves, holding my mother's hand. I wonder if it's a real memory, or something I've imagined. I wonder if my grandmother would have told me stories about him. If I had ever asked. If I had shown interest. If I had not been a typical, self-absorbed teenager, with little regard for family history.
I wonder if Bert had a happy life, or if he just existed. If the war affected him every day, not just physically. If he laughed heartily, or hollowly.
You might be wondering why I didn't write this to commemorate ANZAC Day, or wait until Remembrance Day. Maybe today, the anniversary of a young Bert Oats being photographed with his battalion before shipping off to a war on the other side of the world means more to me. Besides, he's my grandfather. I shouldn't wonder about him only twice a year on special occasions.
Someone recently said that if a piece of writing waffles on for ages, there had better be a point to it. There is no point to this. I wrote this for me. For my kids, maybe even my grandkids. So that they can know what I know, and what I wonder. I need to ask some questions, fill in some gaps. So maybe they needn't wonder quite so much.
 |
| Pte Oats, 1917 |
