Ruths Story

I was born in 1919, the year after the Great War ended, and grew up in Bishop Street. One of my earliest memories is of a man who used to stand, every day, at a wall opposite St. Columb’s Cathedral, with his cap on the pavement beside him. I say ‘stand,’ but he had obviously had one leg amputated; his other leg was damaged and he could barely support himself on crutches. There he would be, regardless of the weather, worn out and dishevelled, quietly and gratefully nodding acknowledgement of any small coins dropped into his cap.

I remember my father explaining to me that he was a soldier who had been badly injured in the war, and had no other way to support himself. It was instilled into us children that we must never mock or belittle him and that his past, if we knew it, would undoubtedly be in great contrast to his present circumstances.

Later in life I would find out that the Londonderry Corporation had been inundated with despairing letters, from war windows, and families where the breadwinner had come home physically and mentally destroyed. They wee appealing for food, clothing, or financial help. I don’t think there was any. All too often, the old soldiers were excluded from Commemorations; they were an embarrassing and cruel reminder of what had been done in the name of humanity.

The Bishop Street soldier?

One day, he wasn’t there any more.

I hope and pray that his war was finally over.