RICHARD RITCHIE

Pvt. Richard “Dick” Brown Ritchie was born in Scotland in 1922.  He came to Canada when he was six years old, the youngest of 13 children.  He was teased endlessly by children because of his very thick Scottish accent and from that age he worked tirelessly to lose his accent completely. 

He met the love of his life, Elsie when he was 17.  She was 15.  When he was 20, he told her that he had to enlist to defend “his” country, Canada, and went to the enlistment quarters to do so.  He stood 5’10 and barely tipped the scales at 120 lbs.  The recruitment officer suggested he join the Air Force and not the Army as he would make a perfect “gunner”.  The only problem with that was that my Dad did not want to kill anyone!  So, they were not sure where they could use this little, skinny kid.  He was accepted and told to get things in order because he could be deployed at any time.  He was going to be an ambulance driver. 

My parents were married quickly because my Mom wanted to be his wife and not a girlfriend waiting for him to return.  Shortly after, he was sent to Halifax to await the long trip to the UK on the Queen Mary.  My Mom went to Halifax on the train from Toronto as he was being deployed and wives could go there to say their farewells.  All travellers had to give their seats to the soldiers traveling.  My Mom sat on her suitcase for most of the trip!  They had little time together when he shipped out and she returned to Toronto not knowing what the future held for either of them. 

Dad used to tell us stories of his adventures driving the ambulance.  He swore the Germans used that Red Cross on top of his vehicle as a target.  He had a rifle that he was to use to defend the injured in his truck.  Many times, he was forced off the roads into ditches.  Many times, the injured passenger in the truck was a German.  He remembered one time when he was run into the ditch and thrown out of the truck.  He felt a barrage of shrapnel hit his backside and legs.  He thought that was it.  Not soon later he discovered that the “shrapnel” was a barrage of gravel that flew up from the spinning wheels of the ambulance!  He learned to put in an IV and how to take it out again.  Many years later when he was in hospital, he had had enough and wanted to leave so he took out all the tubes in his arm and prepared to walk out.  The nurses caught him and had to put him back in bed and “hook” him up again.  Later they told us that he took out his IV’s better than any of them could!  

He had many stories, but he never told us a lot.  Nor did he ever tell my Mom.  He kept the horrors of war to himself, but we, as children, had to watch every news clip on TV about WWII.  The one thing my Dad never brought up was the Holocaust.  We were never taught about it in school then and the first I heard of it was when I was an adult with a child of my own, watching the TV series.  I called my Dad and asked if this was true.  He didn’t say anything and gave the phone to my Mom.  I asked her and she said, “yes”.  And that was that.  Years later, my Mom told me that Dad was one of those that had to go into Bergen Belsen when they were liberated to “clean up”.  I can’t imagine the horrors he had to face.  They were so profound that he refused to talk about it to any of us, except my Mom.  He, fortunately, returned, physically uninjured.  But he must had suffered PTSD long before it was known to be an illness. 

When he passed away, my Grandmother, his mother-in-law, gave my Mom a letter he had written to her.  In it he told my Grandmother that he loved her daughter more than his own life.  That he was being faithful to her and that she was the only “girl” he ever loved.  That he would never do anything to hurt her (and he didn’t).  And that if anything happened to him, that she would promise to take care of Elsie.  I still have that letter. 

Many years later, my Mom finally convinced him to go to the UK.  He hadn’t returned since the war and didn’t want to go back.  They decided to go there for Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee.  So, they went to the passport office to get passports for their travels.  He was shocked and deeply hurt when he was told that he wasn’t a citizen.  He served in the Army, defending Canada in a war and he wasn’t a citizen?  Somehow, they expedited the system, and he was granted citizenship and a passport and were able to visit London.  It was difficult for him, but when he saw that it was a vibrant city, rebuilt and thriving, it somehow helped him get over the atrocities that were engraved in his mind.  Dad passed away in 1993. I have his medals and the wonderful memories. 

Submitted by Carrolle Lefebvre