Paralympic Heroes

by Cathy Wood

  For example, Christopher Reeve, best known for his role as the superhero Superman, broke his neck after being thrown from a horse in 1995 and became a quadriplegic. Or Formula One Team Manager Sir Frank Williams, who became a paraplegic after a crash in a rental car he was driving in France in 1986.

  Who knows what coming to terms with the reality of a life changed forever is like, or the emotions inevitably brought up? But one thing is for sure: in those early hours and days, once survival has been established, the role of those most closely involved is vital.

  Would hospital staff ever approach these cases with anything other than a positive outlook for the person in their care? The answer, of course, is no. And yet, inconceivable as it may seem to us today, as recently as the early 1940s patients with severe, traumatic spinal cord injuries were looked upon as poor, useless ‘cripples’ with no value to society in their new, injured form. It was believed nothing medically could be done to help them and so they were left to die. Average life expectancy after suffering a paralysing injury was only three years. The two big killers of the time were urinary tract infections, leading to kidney failure, and septicaemia. To make matters worse, patients were often left alone and, all too aware of their slim chances of survival, became deeply depressed.

  But as the 1940s progressed and the Second World War dragged on, things were about to change. By 1943 the British Government were making plans for a push on the second front in the spring of the following year. The aim was for European forces to make one final effort to bring the war against Germany to its conclusion. The Government feared this would lead to an influx of men spinally injured from battle and in preparation, asked neurologist Ludwig Guttmann, a German émigré who fled to England with his wife and young family on the eve of the outbreak of war to be in charge of a specialist unit at Stoke Mandeville Hospital. Guttmann accepted on the condition he could put his theories, which he had been researching for many years, into practice without being challenged.

  On 1 February 1944, the 26-bed unit opened to almost universal scepticism. It was called Ward X. Few could understand why Guttmann would, by choice, embark on such a career path. Ten years later, in 1954, the Superintendent Physiotherapist of the time, Dora Bell, reflected on what they all thought about it at the time: ‘It is just 10 years that [sic] news filtered through that a ward was shortly to be opened for paraplegics, perhaps even two wards,’ she wrote. ‘What a soul-destroying thought. Should we hand in our resignations?’

  One of Guttmann’s first tasks was to challenge and alter the entrenched belief that a person with paraplegia – a loss of function of the lower limbs and trunk, usually caused as a result of injury to the spinal cord or because of a congenital condition, such as spina bifida – could only live a futile life.

  When Guttmann arrived in Britain it was believed a paraplegic would never be capable of simple tasks such as getting dressed or putting on shoes, so what was the point of giving them any kind of physical rehabilitation in the first place? Guttmann fundamentally and consistently disagreed with this perception and, as a foreigner in a new job in a new land, had nothing to lose in trying out his own new methods.

  These methods, including insisting patients be turned every two hours – to prevent pressure sores – and making them participate in a programme packed with various tasks and activities, were radical. And since it was still more than 30 years before the introduction of the Patient’s Charter, they were also obligatory.

  His motive was not to turn them into elite sports performers; after all, the Paralympic Games, as we now know them, were not even in existence. His motives were far more wide-reaching. He had a deep-rooted desire to rehabilitate each disabled person in his care, restore their independence and allow them an opportunity to learn a trade or skill, such as woodwork, clock repair or typing, so that when the time came for them to be discharged they would, once more, contribute to society in some purposeful way.

  Guttmann also wanted to challenge the belief that the disabled were to be patronised and pitied rather than embraced as human beings with the same gifts, talents and worth as everyone else, non-disabled or not. And he knew that participating in sports activities was far more beneficial for the psyche than repetitive physiotherapy. ‘The great advantage of sport over formal remedial exercise lies in its recreational value,’ he said. ‘By restoring that passion for playful activity – the desire to experience joy and pleasure in life – so deeply inherent in any human being.’ And he knew then what we know today, which is that sport benefits all. ‘The aims of sport for the disabled as well as the non-disabled are to develop mental activity, self-confidence, self-discipline, a competitive spirit and comradeship.’

  One sporting activity patients had to participate in was archery. Not only did it help build strength and coordination, but it was also the perfect sport to help the paraplegic reintegrate into society, a key Guttmann aim. And, unlike other sports like swimming or wheelchair basketball, in archery the shooting ‘line’ is identical whether the archer stands or sits.

  And so, for whatever reason, on 29 July 1948, exactly the same day more than 4,000 non-disabled athletes from 59 countries would take part in the Opening Ceremony of the XIV Olympic Games at Wembley, north-west London, Guttmann organised an archery competition between two teams of disabled ex-service personnel. On one side, a team from The Royal Star and Garter Home in Richmond, Surrey, on the other the Stoke Mandeville crew. In all, 14 ex-servicemen and two ex-servicewomen participated in the contest. The Royal Star and Garter won and was awarded the Archer Shield Trophy.

  Whether organising the event was a brilliant piece of advance planning or just a coincidence that became more significant with the passage of time isn’t clear, but this is the earliest example of sporting competition among people with a physical disability in Britain.

  An early 1948 article entitled, ‘Bus and Bowmen at Stoke Mandeville’, published in The Cord, a journal for paraplegics, reports on the contest and pictures the eight-strong winning Royal Star and Garter team but makes no mention of the Olympic Games or the Opening Ceremony. ‘Many old friends gathered for what was really the first paraplegic reunion in this country, and it was good to see how well many of those who had left hospital were getting on,’ the article reported. ‘The archery competition between teams from Stoke Mandeville and The [Royal] Star and Garter was held under the supervision of Mr Bilson, the Champion Archer of England, and was won by the visitors.’

  It went on to say, ‘The archers gave an impressive display and we hope they will soon have a chance of challenging American and Canadian paraplegics at this excellent sport.’

  And so it was that two teams took part in one sport on one day in the summer of 1948, in what was called the Stoke Mandeville Games for the Paralysed; it was to change the course of disabled sports participation for ever.

  Small as this inaugural event was, Guttmann knew it was a turning point. ‘It was the first archery competition in the history of sport for the disabled. It was a demonstration to the public that competitive sport is not the prerogative of the non-disabled, but that the severely disabled, even those with paraplegia, can become sportsmen and women in their own right,’ he said.

  Initially, the event was a ‘Sports Festival’ but over time these summer sports gatherings became the Stoke Mandeville Games and they would happen every June. According to his daughter, Eva Loeffler, her father got rather carried away by the success of the second Games, in 1949, and uttered the now-famous words so often associated with his name: ‘I prophesied that the time would come when this, the Mandeville Games, would achieve world fame as the disabled person’s equivalent of the Olympics.’

  According to Eva, since the assembled audience was made up of athletes, their helpers and family members no one present doubted her father’s conviction. But some years later, writing in The Cord of 1964, Guttmann remembered the day he made that speech. ‘Very few of those present shared my conviction, but nevertheless I never gave up hope that th
is dream would become reality,’ he wrote confidently.

  It was a confidence well placed for, sure enough, by 1952, within three years of making that speech, Guttmann was well on his way. The Medical Director of the Military Rehabilitation Centre in Doorn, Holland, asked if he could send a team to compete in the Games. Guttmann agreed and in 1952, his infant Stoke Mandeville Games had international representation, although the team from Holland came from a rehabilitation centre rather than, at that stage, being representative of the Dutch nation. In 1953, participants from North America took part as a team from Canada arrived and so the presence of international competitors grew.

  Participants, and the sports they competed in, increased with every passing year, with the Stoke Mandeville team competing against teams from other spinal units around the UK. Once those Games were over, the best athletes would be picked to represent Great Britain at the Stoke Mandeville International Games, the forerunner to today’s Paralympic Games. The International Games would be held each July.

  It all began, though, in the grounds of Stoke Mandeville, when 14 men and two women shot arrows at a distant target. Out of doubt and despair, the tiny shoots of something positive and fulfilling began to emerge. Individuals, who only years earlier would have been written off and expected to die, were showing how powerfully transforming and empowering Guttmann’s theories, once put into practice, were.

  His vision had form.

  ***

  When your world’s been turned upside down by a life-altering accident you don’t necessarily want to hear how lucky you are, but in Margaret Maughan’s case there was a small element of luck on her side – Guttmann’s rigorous approach to rehabilitation was in full swing when she arrived at Stoke Mandeville. And the first thing she noticed was how many others were in wheelchairs, a total novelty given her near isolation in Africa.

  ‘My first experience, which was totally amazing, was lying in a bed in a ward of 20,’ she says. ‘It was so friendly. Everyone would get up and do all the daily things they had to and then young men would come in from other wards and everyone would go off to the pub in their wheelchairs. A lot of them were ex-service people, who had been injured in the war. In hospital the emphasis was on sport – everyone had to do it the whole day.’

  Typically that would mean getting up and dressed for the day and then doing a skill-based class such as woodwork. This would be followed by swimming, physiotherapy and lunch. Afternoons would follow a similar pattern, with activities such as archery or table tennis and then further physio. ‘By the time it got to 5pm, I was shattered,’ she admits.

  As Margaret got stronger, so she was encouraged to concentrate on what she could and would do in her future life rather than what she could not. There was no time for self-pity or despondency. ‘You were encouraged not to feel sorry for yourself,’ she says.

  Despite the bonhomie of other patients and the packed daily schedule there were, inevitably, moments of physical pain and grief at a life irreversibly changed. In the early days of treatment patients had to spend six months lying in bed to allow broken bones to heal. To help this process and ensure the damaged spine remained straight during the initial healing period, hard sand bags would be placed end-to-end against the patient’s spine.

  Although necessary, it was also unbearably painful and uncomfortable, and it was during one of those periods, in great discomfort, Margaret began to cry. Just as she did a man she’d never met before appeared at her bedside: it was Guttmann. ‘He told me I hadn’t to be soft, but to be positive and not to give in to this,’ she recalls. ‘It was how my life went on from there – I am not a crier.’

  On another occasion she made the mistake of telling Guttmann she was tired of lying in bed. His response was a 10-minute lecture, audible to everyone, on why she was on no account to be bored, but soon she had less time for this as her days became increasingly filled with activity. Then, one day, together with other patients, she was told to go to the back of the hospital, where something special was going on. She describes what she saw as, ‘a strange collection of people from different countries in wheelchairs.’

  It was the annual Stoke Mandeville International Games – and she had no idea she was about to be part of it.

  According to Guttmann’s PA Joan Scruton, it was in May1959, not long after Margaret’s repatriation, that the idea of holding these International Games outside the UK was first discussed. The Olympic Games were being held in Rome from late August in 1960 and Guttmann and his team talked with the Italian Istituto Nazionale Assicurazione contro gli Infortuni sul Lavoro, or INAIL, (a public body providing insurance for those who have accidents at work) and a spinal unit in Rome about holding the International Games in that city once the Olympic Games had ended.

  The Italians were enthusiastic and over the months, plans took shape. After the Olympic Games ended, the wheelchair athletes would move in, with events being held on the nearby Acqua Acetosa sports ground, onto which athletes could easily push their own wheelchairs. In the early days it was only those with a spinal cord disability who competed. Other categories, such as athletes with a visual impairment, Amputees and Cerebral Palsy were not included for many years.

  During 1959, word began to filter out about holding the Games in Italy and while much planning had to be undertaken, the news was met with excitement. ‘The prospect of a meeting on the same spot as the Olympic Games as well as the wonderful journey to Rome brought imagination to a height,’ wrote Andre Castello of the Swiss team.

  Meanwhile, forced to take up archery as part of her rehabilitation, Margaret quickly discovered she was rather good and found herself winning the monthly competitions that took place. In December 1959, eight months after returning from Malawi, she was well enough to leave hospital and return to her parents’ house in Preston. Nearby was a local club, Preston Archers, which Margaret joined and where she was immediately welcomed. ‘I was the first disabled archer,’ she recalls. ‘I was a curiosity.’ By June the following year, 1960, Maughan had been invited back to Stoke Mandeville to compete at archery in the National Games.

  When Guttmann arranged the very first Archery competition in 1948 he was at pains to point out sport was for all, not only the elite and certainly not just for the non-disabled. For him participation was the most important factor and with this in mind, he ensured competitions were arranged into categories that ranged from ‘beginner’ to ‘medium’ and finally ‘top’ so that everyone could take part.

  Participating in the middle group at the Stoke Mandeville Games, Margaret won, somewhat to her surprise. ‘Nothing else was said and I went home,’ she recalls. Some time later a letter arrived in the post inviting her to join a team going to Rome in the September. ‘I didn’t realise it was going to be such an important thing,’ she says. ‘To me it was just so exciting – I was going away again!’

  The letter instructed her to turn up at Stoke Mandeville, which she did. There, according to her, a team of 70 assembled. All underwent a physical examination to make sure they had no pressure sores before being passed fit to travel. Each was issued with a woolly green tracksuit, a smart blazer for special occasions and a hat before being loaded onto a coach bound for Heathrow, known then as London Airport.

  At the airport the coach drew up alongside a specially chartered plane that was waiting on the tarmac. The athletes were then individually lifted from their seats and carried to a catering truck, which was capable of transporting four wheelchairs at a time to the door of the plane. From there they were once again picked up and carried to their allotted seats. ‘It took hours,’ Margaret remembers, but despite the painstakingly slow process, the excitement was palpable. ‘They made such a fuss of us,’ she continued, ‘and when we landed in Rome there were lots of photos.’

  The XVII Olympic Games ended in Rome on 11 September 1960. A week later flags were still flying outside the Olympic Village as it prepared for the arrival of 400 disabled athletes and their assistants from nations representing all five c
ontinents: Argentina, Australia, Austria, Belgium, Canada, Finland, France, West Germany, Great Britain, Greece, Ireland, Israel, Italy, Lebanon, Malta, Norway, The Netherlands, South Rhodesia, Sweden, Switzerland, the USA and Yugoslavia.

  The teams got together the money to pay for their travel to Rome in various ways – the Argentinians raised commercial funds and sold bonds during Wheelchair Basketball matches, while the Australians collected £10,000 through public subscription. And for some of the teams, just getting to Rome meant extremely lengthy journeys. The Argentinians spent 23 days at sea, while the Swiss travelled in groups by train and road, some of the latter detouring en route to take in a few of Italy’s sights, such as Lake Maggiore and Venice, along the way.

  An Irish team of five competitors – one woman and four men – arrived late after the captain of their Aer Lingus flight asked if they minded staying in Winterthur, near Zurich, for the night as he felt the weather to be too inclement to cross the Alps.

  ‘Would we mind?’ wrote Father Leo Close. ‘We were delighted! A night in Switzerland at the expense of Aer Lingus – who would turn down an offer like that? To add to our enjoyment, Captain O’Callaghan of Aer Lingus, in typical Irish fashion, told us to be in no hurry in the morning, for we were so late now a few more hours would make no difference. We had a very pleasant night there and a lovely drive through the Swiss countryside to the Airport next morning.’ Little did they realise just how lucky they were.

  When the British team arrived at the Olympic Village they were in for a shock. The carefully planned, wheelchair-accessible rooms were no longer available and they instead found themselves accommodated in a rather less suitable block of flats, which were located on stilts. The rooms were only accessible by a dog-leg set of 16 steps or by a plywood ramp, which was far too steep for wheelchair athletes to push themselves up. Athletes could only get up if there was someone at the bottom who could carry them. ‘I have never lost so much weight in so little time,’ Jean Stone, who was one such carrier, recalls.