Paralympic Heroes

by Cathy Wood

  And at the end of it all, the white hats worn by the British team were in much demand. ‘When the [Closing] Ceremony was over, the spectators wanted our hats as souvenirs, so we let them have them,’ wrote Tommy Taylor and Michael Beck.

  The 1964 Games boasted accommodation for the athletes in the same Village used by those competing in the Olympic Games a month earlier, on an old US Army base with single-level bungalows. It would be another 20 years before such parity was seen again.

  Undoubtedly, for many of the 70 or so strong British Team of 1964, Tokyo was one big adventure with a few sporting events thrown in. And while the events the athletes competed in, such as Archery, Wheelchair Fencing, Swimming, Table Tennis and Athletics, were enjoyed, they were by no means the only memories the athletes came away with.

  Take Daisy Flint, for example, a swimmer who later reflected on the real highlight of her Tokyo trip: a visit to the hairdressers. On the day of the Closing Ceremony, she and five teammates decided, as every self-respecting woman in their position would, that getting their hair done was a priority if they were to look their best later in the day. So off they went to a local salon where, having been treated like royalty, they were then told it was all on the house. But Daisy and the girls had spent a little too long under the dryers and when they emerged, realised there was no chance of getting back to the Village in time to be changed and ready for the Ceremony at 4.30pm.

  Sensing the urgency, their interpreter got the girls back onto their special bus and then promptly disappeared out of the salon only to re-emerge some minutes later from the back of a police car. Then, with lights on and siren blaring, the car weaved a path through rush-hour traffic for the bus so the girls could get to the Ceremony on time. ‘Sometimes I wonder if it all was not some marvellous dream,’ a delighted Daisy wrote.

  The party atmosphere did not end there. Back in the UK, then Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, invited them all to a reception at Number 10 Downing Street, creating yet another moment to savour for the returning athletes.

  Until the mid-1970s thousands of government-owned blue three-wheel trikes were supplied to the disabled so they could be independent and get around. These three-wheeled contraptions, with a tiller to steer and brake much like motorbike handles and an engine at the back, were widely regarded by the disabled and other road users as both lethal and unreliable. True to form, when the day came for the Number 10 reception, many guests decided to drive themselves to the heart of the British Government and park their trikes right outside. All went well until the time came for them to go home. ‘One of the team couldn’t get his trike started,’ remembers Caz Walton, ‘so he got one of the nearby Coppers to give him a push start.’

  ***

  Within the medical confines of Stoke Mandeville Hospital Ludwig Guttmann was revered by his patients, who were eternally grateful for his interventions, which invariably saved them from near certain, premature death. Others marvelled at his desire to change society’s view on the disabled, his boundless energy and a spirit undiminished by prejudice and negativity. ‘Never’ was not a word in the Guttmann vocabulary. Some, like Caz Walton, observed and enormously respected his presence even though she herself was not a Stoke Mandeville patient. ‘He was a workaholic, and an autocrat,’ she says. ‘You always knew who was in charge. I admired him a lot: he inspired me, he was afraid of nothing. It did not matter what the problem was, he would tackle it. I never saw him despair of getting a result if that is what he thought was right. If it meant climbing Everest, he would do it.’

  In the foreword to Susan Goodman’s 1986 book, Spirit of Stoke Mandeville, the Prince of Wales himself wrote, ‘No battle on behalf of his patients was too small to excite his complete interest and dedication. He was a man of genius and his personal warmth and humour were infectious.’

  Although a short man with a very strong German accent he never lost, despite living more than 40 years in his adopted country, Guttmann was a big character. Whether his domineering, fearless approach came from his upbringing or that he survived unimaginable degradation and segregation as a Jew living in Nazi Germany in the years before the outbreak of the Second World War is unclear, but whatever the reasons he had, and never lost, a deep sense of humanity.

  Born to an Orthodox Jewish family in Tost, Upper Silesia in Germany on 3 July 1899, the eldest of four and the only boy, Guttmann, although frequently described as ‘autocratic’ and ‘stubborn’, was a deeply compassionate man whose early life influenced his future career. When he was three, the family moved to the industrial town of Königshütte and it was here, in 1916, in the middle of the First World War, that his school class was asked to complete a population census. Guttmann was given the task of covering the coal-mining district and the poverty and deprivation discovered in the course of this exercise left a lasting impression on his conscience, as did his first encounter with paralysis, a year later, in 1917.

  He volunteered as an orderly at the local Accident Hospital for Coalminers and he witnessed the arrival of a young coal miner, who had been paralysed from the waist down. As Guttmann began to show an interest in the man’s condition, one doctor told him not to waste his time as the miner would be dead within six weeks. Five weeks later, after a series of urinary tract infections and pressure sores caused fatal sepsis, the miner died, an experience Guttmann never forgot. ‘Although during future years of my career I saw many more such victims suffering the same fate, it was the picture of that young man which remained fixed in my memory,’ he said.

  After school he studied to be a doctor at the University of Breslau, combining his training with a passion for physical activity and sport, particularly fencing. By 1924, having passed his medical exams, he was looking for a job in general medicine when he was told by a friend there were no general vacancies and he should, instead, consider going to the ‘floor below’, where the department of Neurology and Neurosurgery had an opening. ‘Somewhat dejectedly, I did. And perhaps more than any other, those words shaped my whole life and future career,’ he later said. He took his friend’s advice, was offered and accepted the job. It was this decision which ensured the rest of his career was devoted to neurology rather than in the service of paediatrics.

  By 1933, conditions for Jews in Germany were becoming increasingly intolerable and Guttmann, who by now was working in a hospital in Breslau, lost his job. In the July he took up a position at the Jewish Hospital in Breslau, later becoming medical director. He was rising to the top of his field and hoped Hitler’s grip would not last long, but by 1938, the net was tightening. First, he was ordered to discharge all non-Jews from the hospital and then, on 9 November 1938, he endured the infamous Kristallnacht (or ‘Night of Broken Glass’) when synagogues were ransacked and set on fire and thousands of Jews rounded up and sent to concentration camps.

  On 9 November Guttmann instructed his staff to admit any males who presented themselves at the hospital, and more than 60 did. The following day, the Gestapo insisted on being told why there had been so many overnight admissions so Guttmann took them on a ward round, frequently inventing conditions as he moved from bed to bed so that the men could stay and be saved from the camps. In the end, only four were removed from his care.

  By 1939, it was clear Guttmann would have to leave Germany. With an established international reputation, which had taken him to other countries to assist with complex cases, offers to work abroad were not in short supply. But he chose Britain. Guttmann finally arrived in England on 14 March 1939 with his wife Else and two young children, Dennis and Eva. The following day, Germany invaded Czechoslovakia and the turmoil of World War II was about to begin.

  Initially Guttmann and his young family lived in Oxford, where he worked for many years on various research projects. Then, in 1943, he was asked if he wanted to run a new spinal unit, which was opening up in readiness for the anticipated war casualties. He accepted on condition that he could put his theories into practice unchallenged: his terms were met.

  Despite o
fficial Government backing for his plans, Guttmann arrived at Stoke Mandeville to find himself swimming against a formidable tide of prejudice and defeatism. Even the nurses and physiotherapists viewed caring for paralysed patients as a lost cause. After all, even if the patients did survive, they would surely only be living out their days full of despair, or so it was believed. ‘It is amazing to think that not many years ago, treatment of paraplegics was generally regarded as a waste of time,’ The Prince of Wales wrote in his foreword to Spirit of Stoke Mandeville.

  Guttmann’s methods, and how life was for the disabled living in Britain in the 1940s, are documented elsewhere in medical and historical journals. Suffice to say, as his work took root and the cynicism around a long-term future for the disabled lessened, so the Games began to grow in size as the number of events contested and teams entered expanded. Guttmann always wanted Britain to field the biggest teams: whether it was his gratitude to the country that gave him and his family a new home or simply competitiveness, he was always keen for his adopted country to win most medals. ‘His ambition was for us,’ recalls Caz Walton, who experienced Guttmann first-hand. ‘And he was very driven. He always thought of himself as British, or seemed to, and he would support us against Germany.’

  At Stoke Mandeville Guttmann was rightly regarded as a saviour. Much to the surprise of his medical colleagues, he had taken on the least appealing area of medicine at the time – paraplegia – and embraced it with conviction, passion and an unshakeable belief in change.

  But not everyone who made up the British Paralympic Team of the 1960s and 1970s came to it because they were patients at Stoke Mandeville. There were other spinal units around the country, such as Lodge Moor in Sheffield, Promenade Hospital, Southport, and Edenhall and Philipshill in Scotland. They had athletes and teams of their own, but not all of them shared a universal affection for Guttmann.

  ***

  One man who wasn’t a patient at Stoke Mandeville and felt the unyielding side of Guttmann was a young Philip Craven. Today, he is chairman of the International Paralympic Games (IPC) and a man who has had a huge impact on the direction of the modern Games.

  Philip’s story begins in Farnworth, near Bolton in Lancashire, where as a young boy growing up, he was talented enough to be asked by his school to represent them at swimming and tennis but sufficiently belligerent to decide early on he didn’t like training and much preferred competing instead. It was a character trait that some years later, in entirely different circumstances, would stand him in very good stead.

  Philip was passionate about football, spending hour after hour wearing out his shoes by kicking a ball around the yard. It was a commitment not matched by natural talent. ‘I was useless,’ he says.

  In 1965, aged 15, football got a competitor for his time in fell walking, an activity he thoroughly enjoyed. So it was natural enough that rock climbing would inevitably follow and in September 1966, at the age of 16, he set off with some friends for Wilton Quarries, near Bolton, with its vast array of climbs for all abilities. The teenagers felt confident the Quarries would offer something suitable for them to practice on. Together, they chose a climb which didn’t appear unduly difficult. It began well enough but before long became increasingly severe with a small stream running down from the top, which made conditions underfoot slippery and difficult for the boys to get a grip: Philip’s friends were reluctant to carry on.

  By way of encouragement he offered to lead and clear a path the others could then follow. Despite his lack of experience, he made the ascent with relative ease only to find himself face to face with a big rock. Checking it was stable enough to hold him, he pulled on the rock to make sure. The rock stayed firm, so Philip put his entire weight on it, expecting to be able to pull himself safely up. Instead the rock dislodged, taking him with it and back down the 10 metres he had just climbed. The ground beneath was uneven and as he landed on his hands and feet, he was thrown back, somersaulting onto a rock and breaking his back. The force of the fall was such that he blacked out and when he came round, he was so badly winded that he was sure he was about to die. It would be the last rock Philip Craven ever climbed. He was taken to hospital in Bolton and then, the following day, transferred to the North West Spinal Injuries Centre at Southport, where a long, four-month hospital stay began.

  Some would regard being paralysed as a 16-year-old, on the verge of entering manhood and all that offers, as utterly devastating. For Hilda and Herbert Craven, Philip’s parents, this was an unimaginable blow, particularly for Herbert. At a time when they thought their son was about to gain independence and go out into the world, suddenly they found themselves becoming increasingly protective and concerned for his future.

  While Hilda set about reorganising the house to accommodate their son’s new, less-mobile state, Herbert was in shock. ‘My dad was struck asunder by it, even though he didn’t show it,’ Philip remembers. ‘He was very affected by it.’

  He himself, meanwhile, took a rather different approach. Initially, as he learnt how to manoeuvre his chair in and out of various everyday situations, he was reluctant to venture out and be seen outside his parents’ house in the local community until he was more confident of his skills. Before long, he was getting out and about once more. ‘I would get in my three-wheel trike and drive to Southport, which was 40 miles away, because nobody knew me there,’ he says.

  After about a year he had overcome his early inhibitions and was happy to be seen out and about in Farnworth. By now he had come to terms with having wheels instead of legs and decided to make the best of it. ‘I found myself in a situation and I wanted to carry on living my life. At the age of 16, I probably didn’t know what that life was going to be and maybe, that was a big benefit because I had more of a blank canvas. I wasn’t married, didn’t have a job and I was at a school I could go back to. I didn’t think, “I am going to fight this”, or have a reaction to the fact I was now living life in a wheelchair – I just knew I had to live with it,’ he says.

  The accident had another unexpected benefit. Since he had spent four months in hospital, he successfully argued he could never make up the time and should do two, rather than the then-standard three A-levels instead. ‘Being Philip Craven, I did exactly what I wanted,’ he says. By the time he did go back to school, he had an inkling sport was going to become increasingly central to his life. ‘I could play sport and concentrate on something I already liked,’ he said. Although he didn’t realise it at the time, he had already glimpsed the sport he was to become so proficient at.

  Just two days after his accident he had seen wheelchair basketball being played from his hospital window. He was captivated by the speed and excitement of it, although another year would pass before he tried the game for himself. But as soon as he did so, he was hooked – before long Philip was training and playing for Southport, the club attached to the Spinal Unit, where he went after his accident. In those days it was often spinal units that provided teams who played against other spinal units. In June 1967, less than a year after his accident, Philip made his first visit to Stoke Mandeville, where Southport was playing in the National Games. He also took part in Swimming and Slalom events, where participants navigate a series of obstacles in their chairs.

  He was still only 17, young and inexperienced, and yet was surprised at the paternal way in which patients addressed Ludwig Guttmann. ‘They were calling him Poppa Guttmann,’ he says, adding, ‘I was an independent individual, who did not like being told to do too much by anybody. To them, he was a Papa – someone who looked after you. At 17 or 18, I didn’t want anyone looking after me.’

  By 1968, Craven was playing wheelchair basketball but not yet well enough to be considered for the British team at the Paralympic Games, which, following the Games in Rome and Tokyo, were held in Tel Aviv, Israel that same year. This applied only to the Paralympic Games, however: the Olympic Games took place in Mexico City, but medical experts believed it would be too dangerous for paraplegics to live, and com
pete, at such high altitude, where oxygen was less readily available.

  Instead, they arrived in Israel shortly after the end of the Arab/Israeli Six-Day War. According to competitor Caz Walton, the occasional dog-fight was still going on overhead. ‘You could see the planes having a go at each other,’ she recalls.

  As each Paralympic Games took place, the organisers were learning a little more about what was needed and required at venues to ensure events for the athletes, and their carers, proceeded without incident. In Israel, this was still a work in progress.

  The Opening Ceremony was held in Jerusalem and a long line of buses left Tel Aviv to get the athletes there on time. On arrival, some, understandably, needed to use the conveniences, which had been set up in special tents. Unfortunately, the Israelis misjudged the height of wheelchair athletes and completely forgot the helpers would not be in wheelchairs at all. As a result, instead of wheeling or walking into private tent facilities, many found their heads poking out of the top.

  ‘They [the Israeli hosts] were a bit rough and ready,’ recalls Walton. ‘I did Table Tennis, Wheelchair Basketball and Pentathlon.’

  Back home, in 1969, Philip Craven, now 19, began life as an undergraduate at Manchester University, where his interest in wheelchair basketball developed into something else. At the time Manchester University were national basketball champions and Philip would spend hours training alongside them, watching how they played the game, what worked and what didn’t, and adapting skills from the stand-up game into shots and techniques of his own. Some of what he learned later stunned his wheelchair opponents. ‘That is what transformed me into a great player,’ he says.

  And this was not just the arrogance of youth. Philip Craven became one of the finest wheelchair basketball players in the world, using weekdays to train and learn from the Manchester University team and weekends to play for Southport’s wheelchair basketball team. Gerry Kinsella, an athlete born with polio and who first met Craven when he was 19, recalls a young man who was passionate about the sport and very good at it. ‘Philip was an exceptional athlete,’ Kinsella says. ‘A lot of people did sport for therapeutic reasons, but he and I did it because we loved the game and wanted to be the best we could.’