April 11, 2024

Help for Heroes

One of the most remarkable achievements ever of individual Liverymen raising money occurred last May when the Clerk (Peter Swanson) and three of our members, Past Master Julian Keevil, and Wardens Ronald Kirk and Arthur Richards took part in the BIG BATTLEFIELD BIKE RIDE from Paris to London via… well, read on. This is an edited version of Ron Kirk’s account.

This was the toughest physical challenge I have ever done, and why I was doing it I shall never know. Apart from the prime objective of helping our wounded, the camaraderie of wonderful people from all walks of life was unforgettable.

I owe my sponsors a great debt of gratitude, and also appreciation to my long-suffering wife, Sue, for supporting me throughout the training and preparation.

Following the tragic events at Woolwich Barracks and in Paris, our ride was to take on another dimension. The mood of the British people had obviously been stirred.

My final dedication must go to the families of Lee Rigby and the French soldier attacked in a Paris railway station.

The ride was supposedly 380 miles, but my colleagues measured it at 424 miles, and in my case 450 miles, having taken the scenic route a couple of times. In total, we climbed the equivalent of 14,500 feet. The route took us through farm tracks with nasty water-filled potholes, across loose gravel and mud, not to mention the cobblestones that both shook your eyeballs and could throw you off at any moment.

The rain and cold wind were incessant, and at one stage some of us started to suffer from hypothermia.

The terrain also took a great toll on the bikes and our backup mechanics. I went through two sets of tyres and inner tubes. Others faced punctures, broken spokes, chains and gear sets. When ex-Marines and TAs start suffering, you know you are in for a battle of wills and stamina.

All the effort proved worthwhile, as the ride raised in total some £2m and our team, “The Four Musketeers,” raised over £11,000 and we are still counting.

I am 68 years old and live a very comfortable life in Saint Malo, France. My most normal exertion is raising a glass of red wine to my lips. It was our leader, Peter Swanson, Clerk at that time to our Livery Company, who asked by email whether I cycled and whether I was doing anything at the end of May. It wasn’t until after I had attended the next Livery function that I realised I had been volunteered!

My fellow Musketeers were also a bit mystified as to how they had become involved. Other press-ganged members were Past Master Julian Keevil (an ex-Marine aged 65) who had travelled all the way from Virginia, USA, and Arthur Richards (50), currently Warden of the Livery with long experience in the Territorial Army.

The Four Musketeers gathered at St Pancras Station at the Eurostar Champagne Bar, where Peter required us to wear our Musketeer hats complete with feathers (red, white and blue) representing the main arms of our Forces. We all pledged our Musketeer allegiances and wished ourselves a safe and successful challenge as we mingled with the various teams.

As we began to be surrounded by our soldier amputees, it began to dawn on us what we had let ourselves in for. Like most of us who are unfamiliar with wounded people, we tend to look at the injury first and then the person second. Our trip changed it to seeing the person first, and then observing the obvious injury. At times black humour came into play. Asking at the bar for someone standing behind me to give a hand with the drinks, I was given the answer, “I would if I had one!” The fortitude of these guys did get to you emotionally. You either wanted to cry for them, or just laugh along in their highly motivated company.

Crossing into May

After an 8.30am start from our Paris hotel, we navigated through the rush hour in the drizzle to the official starting point at Les Invalides for Le Grand Départ at 11.30am. The French wished us “bon courage” en route and somehow we all managed to arrive more or less together. Julian, however, had the bad luck to split his tyre and have a puncture even before the start.

Bearing in mind the purpose of the ride, the choice of the starting point could not have been more appropriate. Les Invalides was the first purpose-built hospital and home for wounded veterans created in Western Europe. It was the inspiration for our own Royal Hospital, Chelsea. It also houses Napoleon’s Mausoleum and a statue of him in his characteristic pose.

We were entertained by a small military band and officially sent on our way by the Duchess of Cornwall, who arrived to shake us by the hand and wish us well. I expected her to concentrate on our wounded participants. To my slight horror, she then decided to move amongst us and so I had to scramble to put the camera away and take off my wet cycling glove as she shook hands with us.

The Military Commander of Paris gave an official speech reminding us that Napoleon was looking down on us (met with some amusement). He recalled the tragic events of just a week ago and made it known we were all brothers in arms fighting against barbarity and evil in all its forms.

At last we were on our way and spent the next twenty miles or so winding through the suburbs of Northern Paris, seemingly stopping at every traffic light. At last we got out onto the open road and started to put some miles behind us.

It continued to rain and the wind made it very cold, despite our over-jackets. The first challenge of the day was navigational, as we caught up with the first group who had taken a wrong turning and were doubling back. Clearly a red arrow sign had gone missing, but we resumed our ride through a village and then down a long steep hill.

The next minute the rider in front of me went down and I had to steer round him before braking and going back to check him out. He had apparently tried to pull into a slip road and didn’t see the small lip to the pull-in, taking the front wheel from underneath him. We cleaned up the grazing on his leg, applied some bandages, straightened up his bike and then resumed on our way. Kindly, a French pedestrian and lorry driver also helped out with first aid.

There were lots of punctures en route, even at this stage, but I just kept rolling.

By lunchtime we were all wet and miserable and looking forward to some hot food and a drink. I could only manage the drink and had difficulty taking in any carbohydrates without feeling nauseous. Clearly the exertion was taking more out of me than anticipated.

The lunch venue was somewhat surreal, with two camels and a long-horned cow tethered in the ground by us. The circus had come to the village!

Within a few minutes of stopping, we were beginning to shake with the cold and were in danger of hypothermia, so we cut short the lunch and resumed cycling to get warm again.

If we did not know already, this was no stroll in the park. Our wounded comrades were an inspiration. No moaning, they just stuck to the task. We just had to keep going as we couldn’t let them down now.

Later the weather abated and in time we arrived at Nery, not a particularly well-known site but, in the view of some historians, the pivotal point at which the Germans were prevented from taking Paris in the First World War.

Nery is an ancient village made up of large houses with thick walls which, over time, had formed natural fortresses. It sat on the edge of a deep ravine, on the other side of which was a large plateau. It was on this plateau where we now stood that German cavalry suddenly appeared out of the morning mist of 1st September 1914.

What happened next became known as “The Affair at Nery” and led to the award of three VCs to members of “L” Battery.

Up to this point the Germans were advancing quickly across France and, had they been able to maintain their momentum, they would have taken Paris. It was here that “L” Battery, with its capability of firing 15 rounds a minute straight into the advancing charge and, in the face of a veritable bloodbath, was able to repel the advancing German troops. This caused the German High Command to reconsider its tactics and, in doing so, the French and British were able to reinforce their lines around Amiens and the River Marne.

A Captain Bradbury fought valiantly, despite having both his legs blown off when fetching ammunition, and whilst commanding the last three guns to oppose twelve on the other side. Two were quickly knocked out, leaving only one gun under the direction of Captain Bradbury. Private Nelson and Battery Sergeant-Major Dorrell resisted the advance for two and a half hours before reinforcements arrived.

When the fighting subsided, Captain Bradbury had his injuries attended to and then they dragged him into the local cemetery to recover. Unfortunately, he died of his wounds and was buried there, but Sergeant-Major Dorrell survived to a ripe old age.

Had it not been for their fierce resistance, the First World War may have taken a different turning. In the Imperial War Museum there is a photo of a British cannon, taken at the time, where a German shell had fired into precisely the hole in the barrel, splitting it apart. It is now displayed with a flower protruding where the shell had struck.

Our next stop was a small clearing in the Forêt de Compiègne, where in 1918 the German forces surrendered to the Allies and where also, in 1940, in deliberate humiliation, the French were made to capitulate to Hitler.

Whilst General Pétain may not have had much choice if he was to save the lives of millions of Frenchmen, he was detested for conceding that French prisoners would not be repatriated and that they would be executed should they take up arms with the Allies. This was regarded by many as an unnecessary concession.

It was, for me, the most poignant historical site of all. It demonstrated the linkage between the First and Second World Wars, and the failure of politicians to avoid such awful conflict.

The entire German High Command attended the signing with Hitler. It represented a triumph of barbarity and evil. The French must have been devastated as they lost all they held dear, seemingly forever.

Wednesday 29th May

I was now having trouble taking in any carbohydrates at breakfast. Also, I had developed a heavy cold. Wiping my nose with tissue, then my cycling gloves, was useless, and in the end I just gave up and let my nose run. With rain dripping off my helmet and a gooey mess from my nose, I was a sorry sight.

About 10 miles on and we stopped at the Vignemont French and German Cemetery to pay our respects. There were other nationalities too, with headstones denoting Jewish and Moslem faiths.

It struck me that this was the European Union of the Dead when fellow human beings cannot resolve their differences peacefully. This must have driven the founders of the European Union. Had the EU been formed half a century earlier, the world would have been a totally different place. We owe it to the men lying in these graves to give our forthcoming decision over our membership the quality of debate and critical serious thinking it deserves.

Thiepval

The site commemorates 72,000 graves of British and South African men who died in the Battle of the Somme but have no known grave. It is the place I particularly wanted to be, to give my personal dedications to my grandfather, Charles Lowe, and prayers on behalf of the Hill family to their grandfather, Arthur Holmes.

I looked for James Lowe, my great-uncle’s name (after whom I bear my middle name and who died in the area from a German grenade whilst acting as a motorcycle dispatch rider). Maybe it was his genes that gave me a love of motorcycles throughout my life. Sure enough, I found his name.

At each of the ceremonies our ’embedded’ Jesuit priest said a few words. We laid our wreaths, sounded the Last Post and recited, “We will remember them,” and sometimes a poem. On this occasion the words from our priest struck a chord. His theme was that we have a choice in life: “entitlement” or “gratitude”. I fall into the latter camp and could not be more grateful for the happy and contented life I lead with my dear wife, Sue.

It was a nightmare coming through Amiens over very rough cobblestones. I decided to walk, as the front wheel was in danger of wedging its narrow rim into the large gaps. It proved sensible as Julian went a ‘purler’ and fell off, trying to avoid a tractor.

Lots of mechanical problems for riders on the way included a broken saddle, spokes, chains, split tyres and punctures. These are quite rare occurrences normally, but on this ride were popping up with undue regularity.

I am not sure how I completed the last 8 miles to the hotel as I was absolutely shattered. It must have been the lack of food beginning to take effect. Fortunately, the roads were by now quite good, and I was able to gently pedal to my hotel and have a hot bath to relieve the pain in my legs.

Thursday 30th May
Amiens to Le Touquet (Etaples)

When It Rains It Just Pours!

I managed to force down a croissant for breakfast. Today was going to be quite a challenge. My runny nose was not too bad, and I was managing to cycle reasonably well, but about 20 miles into the ride, I was climbing a long steady hill when I noticed my back tyre was soft and obviously knew I had a puncture.

Just as I was taking out the spare tube and tools, my two ‘Guardian Angels’ turned up in the form of Danny and Davey, two Coldstream Guards. As they were about to pass me, they shouted, “Are you OK, Ronnie, do you want a hand?”

“If you could,” was my reply, and before I could turn the bike on its saddle, the wheel was off, and the tyre and tube were out, ready for replacement. It looked as if a piece of flint had penetrated the tyre, so we decided to change both the tyre and tube. It was just like a Formula 1 pit stop and I was on the road again in a jiffy.

After this, disaster struck again. I had been struggling to look far enough forward to see the red arrow direction signs because my stiff neck was now giving me real ‘gyp’. At a crossroads, where I should have turned right, I went straight on up a 1,500 metre steep climb.

The sheep in the adjoining fields looked at me with some curiosity, as they didn’t often see cyclists pounding up a hill to nowhere. I wondered why nobody seemed to be overtaking me as I wasn’t going that fast. At the top was a T-junction with no direction markings. Apart from a bus shelter on the corner of the bend, there were just two houses, all shuttered up, and one road sign. Spookily, there was no traffic at all. And so it continued for the next hour.

Clearly I was taking the scenic route.

Studying the map, I recognised that the road sign pointed to a village we were supposed to pass through and decided to follow the road to the right, down the hill again on the other side, only to meet another T-junction with no road signs whatsoever. Rather than compound the problem, I retraced my steps, went back up the hill and picked up the previous sign to the village. But I was hopelessly lost.

The only thing left was to call for technical assistance. I managed to call the number on my French mobile and left a message of my location and a call for assistance. Thirty minutes went by without a call back and when I tried to ring again, I found my mobile was out of coverage and probably the first message never got through.

It seemed the only thing left to do was retrace my steps and get back onto a busier road and possibly get mobile coverage from there. Then I noticed my front tyre was as flat as a pancake and I had used all my spares that morning.

Well, I was really stuck now!

Fortunately, in the next ten minutes, whilst I considered my options, a lady strolled down the road from literally nowhere and in my best French I explained my predicament. She didn’t have a mobile phone with her but said if I could just wait for the school bus, her daughter and she would try and help.

Ten minutes later the school bus duly arrived. After an animated conversation with the entire bus, it transpired that the driver had a mobile and she called in my technical support. Another 30 minutes and the van arrived to pick me and the bike up and I was transported to the lunch spot.

Phew!!

Friday 31st May

Etaples Cemetery

Emotionally this was my most demanding day. I had been chosen to read the poem at the Canadian Cemetery where 290 Canadians are buried. They were an important force in liberating most of the French ports from Le Havre all the way up to Calais.

My brother-in-law’s father landed with the Canadians on Juno Beach so I resolved to do my best to recite the poem for him, the lost, and the 11 Canadians who had joined us on this trip. It is difficult saying the words at the best of times, but when you feel the responsibility of doing your best for everyone it is difficult not to choke.

Wimereux Cemetery

Climbing out of Boulogne, one passes the cemetery of Wimereux where Colonel McCrae, the soldier poet famous for his poem “In Flanders Fields”, is buried. It seemed appropriate that his words would be repeated at our next stop

The climb was long and tedious and made all the more demanding by the headwind as we reached the top. I managed to take a breather at the top and take on some water, as I now could be sure I would make the next stop in time for my reading.

Our priest again said a few words beforehand to focus on what we were doing, our wreath was laid, the Ode of Remembrance recited, the Last Post sounded and I read John McCrae’s poem.

Our team had come through quite a lot at this stage but we were still together, cheerful and determined to complete the ride into London.

Fortress de Mimoyecques
Site of V3 Rockets

This is a little-known location, an old quarry hidden away in the French countryside and which was at one time home to the German V3 rocket gun.

Fortunately for us, the intelligence collated on thousands of prisoners of war (mainly Polish) being gathered in an unlikely location, and its railway tracks, identified it early on as a potential rocket launching site. It was to be one of Group Captain Cheshire’s last raids, which successfully bombed the site and eliminated the threat.

Again, my Guardian Angels were on hand to help me out for the rest of the day. First my bell fell off my bike on descending a hill, which Davey doubled back for and then promptly did a temporary repair until the next break, when he fixed it permanently. I now couldn’t get the bell off even if I wanted to, as it is almost welded to the handlebars!

On the next occasion, as we were nearing the end of the ride, they shouted again, “Are you OK Ronnie, not far now and we’ll get you a nice cup of tea at the next stop.” Sure enough, as I cycled in, absolutely shattered, there they were with a cup of steaming hot tea in hand saying, “Have a gulp of this, it will make you feel better.”

What great guys to have around.

It was great to get to Calais, even though we had another four miles more than the others for our Holiday Inn Hotel. It was well worth the effort; lovely rooms, nice hot bath, great staff service and I was even able to wash all the mud off my bike with a hot water hose.

Thankfully it was also the first time I ate a decent breakfast and I felt a million dollars again.

Sunday 1st June
Calais to Dover via Ferry (P&O) and Chatham (Counting House)

With all our bikes stacked at one end of the ship we came within sight of the White Cliffs of Dover. There was an impromptu sing-along on the aft deck.

As we left the ferry, the Customs and Police formed a Guard of Honour and applauded us off the boat, giving many of us a ‘high five’ to send us on our way.

Battle of Britain Chapel, Lee Fane Memorial

Our first stop at the top of the long hill out of Dover, we commemorated those Battle of Britain pilots, many of whom would be limping home on literally a wing and a prayer. At the centre of the site there is a statue of a pilot wearing his flying jacket, sitting on his haunches looking skywards as though searching for his fellow pilots to return.

After the formal ceremonies, we heard the sound of a Merlin engine, and then appearing over the cliff came a Spitfire swooping over our heads and doing a victory roll.

Then it was on to Chatham for the night.

Dinner at Gillingham Football Club

We had a great dinner in the function room of Gillingham Football Club. The food was excellent, the band and singer terrific and the company wonderful. Everybody at this stage was letting their hair down, dancing around the tables to the music. We even had the band play “Take Me Home, Country Roads” to West Virginia, the US state Julian had travelled from.

Sunday 2nd June
Chatham to Blackheath (We’ve Made It at Last)

Not being sure how my stamina was to hold out, and that we had to arrive at Blackheath by 10.00am, I decided, on Arthur’s strong advice, to skip breakfast and start before anyone else.

The climb out of Chatham went well, but there were still more testing hills along the original Pilgrims’ Way which made progress difficult on the single-track roads. You simply could not get rolling to a sustained speed. I also felt the fatigue setting in and was unable to maintain any momentum.

There was a little light relief along the way as I managed to join up with Lacey, a Sun Page 3 girl, who had stopped for some more photographs and texting messages on her iPhone. I had great respect for her. She had stuck it out and clearly was trying to make the best of what she could do to establish herself apart from her modelling.

About 10 miles from Blackheath, Arthur caught up with me. I said that I must stop at the next available place for something to eat and a coffee, as it was evident by then that we would arrive well in time. A few miles later we stopped at a petrol station which had a wonderful café inside and I tucked into a large bacon bap followed by a Costa Coffee (tax paid).

Arthur joined me and as we sat there, several riders had the same idea.

It must have been quite surreal for the manager to see so many cyclists turn up, many with arms and legs missing, unclipping themselves from their bikes. It reminded me of the scene from the film “Reach for the Sky” when Kenneth More, playing Sir Douglas Bader, walked into a local pub with his chums, all of whom had been injured in some form and he himself on his tin legs.

Finally, Blackheath was reached, where officially our event was completed and we would be presented with our medals, and in our team’s case a red T-shirt, to be worn on the final parade down The Mall to Horse Guards Parade.

We were accompanied by 1,200 other cyclists who had joined us from as close as Clapham to as far as Edinburgh. This was going to be quite a cavalcade into London.

Blackheath to Horse Guards Parade

Lined up in groups of the three colours—red, white and blue—plus the gold for the amputees, we gradually moved forward in convoy on our way to Whitehall.

Just a mile into the ride, my gears were giving off the most awful grinding noise. I thought, “Oh no, not now, with no back-up and just a few miles to the finish, don’t let me down.”

The problem at first wasn’t obvious, but then I saw a metal protection plate had worked loose and was jamming the gear change. Whilst everybody passed by, I pulled the bike onto the pavement and yanked off the offending part and freed up the gears. It was then a matter of catching up with the rest and joining the tail end of the red T-shirts.

Phew, that was a close call!

It was then I became aware of the hundreds, then thousands, of people lining the streets all the way into London, clapping, cheering, waving flags and sounding their car horns. The whole nation—men, women and children, all ages, ethnicities and religions—were cheering us in. At one point, as we crossed Tower Bridge, the noise was so deafenin that it seemed as if we were in the middle of a stadium for the European Football Cup Final. It was quite moving.

Into Whitehall, we completely filled the road from end to end. There were a handful of Turkish Demonstrators but they were completely swallowed up by our overwhelming numbers. The Two Minutes’ Silence at the Cenotaph and Memorial to the Women of the Second World War was respected impeccably. After the Service, we continued down Birdcage Walk, around to Buckingham Palace and then down the Mall to finish at Horse Guards Parade.

My family were on the corner before turning into Horse Guards Parade and I was able to hear my name called out “It’s Ronnie, he’s here,” waving the Union Flag at the same time. My sisters, Sheila and Debbie, were particularly thrilled as they were featured prominently on the ITV coverage during the news.

In Horse Guards Parade there was a 30 minute concert and announcements before we dispersed, in my case to ride to Wellington Barracks to collect my kit and get a taxi to Saint Pancras. Then I had a slight mishap when I fell over backwards wearing my cleats, my legs gave way, but fortunately I landed on everyone’s soft luggage to give me a gentle landing and some amusement to my fellow participants.

My taxi driver kindly offered the fare as his contribution, which I thought was a magnificent gesture, and in line with all the other wonderful support I had received from people who did not even know me.

All my sponsors are going to receive a copy of my reflections, save for the taxi driver, whose email address I have mislaid amongst all my kit, blast!

I hope this in some ways captures a little of the experience, but donors can obtain some video clips of the event by Googling ‘Help for Heroes BBBR 2013’ where they will find coverage of each day’s trials and tribulations.

The Ride has changed me. I am a little more humble than before, and very much more grateful for the life I now have.

On the return ferry to Saint Malo I was recognised by one of my French students. I thought to myself “I am now back home with my wife, Sue and wonderful friends in a very nice comfort zone, but thanks to Peter Swanson, I had an experience I will always treasure.”

I witnessed the finest aspects of the Human Spirit at all levels. Could this song from Mariah Carey be true? — followed by the lyrics of her song “Hero.”

There’s a hero

If you look inside your heart

You don’t have to be afraid

Of what you are.

There’s an answer

If you reach inside your soul

And the sorrow that you know

Will melt away.

And then a hero comes along

With the strength to carry on,

And you cast your fears aside

And you know you can survive.

So when you feel like hope is gone

Look inside you and be strong,

And you’ll finally see the truth

That a hero lies in you.