I survived three plane crashes
- by Trevor Warner DFC
This is one of three war stories. Bill Lofthouse and Wilfred Wieners belong to a fast-dwindling group of people who can remember the Second World War. Trevor Warner fortunately told his story before he died. He was an RAF bomber pilot. Bill was a sailor on the British side, and Wilfried was born in Germany during a bombing raid. Historical enemies, they have now become firm friends.
Read their remarkable stories.
Trevor's Story
On three separate occasions during the war God spared my life.
When war broke out I went to a Unit to learn to fly Wellington aircraft. Our training was scanty to say the least, and it seemed to me I was up against everything and everybody, and my own efforts to live were a failure. There was something lacking in my life which I could not define; I had lost a number of friends, and my faith was at a very low ebb.
The reason was not hard to find:
I had not really surrendered my life to God.
First Escape
One night in May 1941 we were circling the flare path to land, when our aircraft was suddenly attacked and set on fire by an enemy intruder which sneaked up behind us, and before I knew what had happened, we were plunging earthwards in flames. We struggled to land the aircraft somewhere ahead but could not see where we were going because of the reflected glare from the burning wing. By the mercy of God, we crashed into th woods which considerably softened the impact and undoubtedly saved our lives.
I was thrown down into the fuselage and for what seemed ages was trapped in the flames, unable to get out. I cried to God in desperation, thinking I was going to be burned alive. Like the Psalmist I could say: “The cords of death entangled me, the anguish of the grave came over me; I was overcome by distress and sorrow. Then I called on the name of the Lord.” (Ps. 116: 1-4) And the next moment I was on top of the cockpit not knowing how I got there. As my pupil and I fell over the side of the blazing fuselage and ran for our lives,, the aircraft blew up behind us.
I spent the next three months in hospital recovering from burns and shock and realising that God had spoken to me. I determined that from that day my life should be given to His service.
This resolution was made in all good faith. When I began flying again, my life was closer to God. I admit that at times I drifted away. I rarely spoke to anyone of what the Lord had done for me and I missed many opportunities to witness for him. But as the months went by, I had a strong sense of being in God’s will, and from that moment I experienced a peace of mind which is hard to describe and which seemed to allay all doubts as to the future. Instead, I found I had a great sense of calm in spite of the pressure of work at that stage of the war. I experienced “The peace of God which passes all understanding,” (Phil 4:7).
Second Escape
In September 1944 I began operation with a heavy bomber squadron now flying Lancasters.
I shall never forget the day after Christmas 1944, when we made a raid in the Ardennes salient, on a target, with close army support. It was such a beautiful day that it was hard to believe there was really a war. The sky was clear, and we were following the first wave of aircraft into the target when suddenly we were hit by heavy flak in three places, damaging the port inner engine, severing the elevator trimming cables and intercom circuit, and setting both gun turrets on fire. Due to damage to the bombing gear, we could not bomb the target, so, steadily losing height, we turned for home. Our load was 15,000lbs of high explosive bombs, and the aircraft was on fire from the mid upper turret rearwards, not far from the bomb bay. The crew fought the flames very bravely amidst exploding ammunition for about half an hour, whilst I struggled to control the aircraft. I remember so well praying desperately to God for the physical strength I needed, realising that this was a supreme test upon the result of which all our lives depended. By the grace of God we landed safely at an emergency field in France with most of the bomb load, and with the aircraft still on fire in the rear. The rear gunner had been killed by the flak and the aircraft never flew again.
How the undercarriage did not collapse on landing or the elevators jam in the air cannot be explained; it was a miraculous answer to prayer.
Third Escape - the Last Sortie
Perhaps my most thrilling experience of the power of Almighty God to “keep us from falling” was my last sortie. Little did I realise as I left the briefing room that this would be my last trip.
As I left the briefing room on that cold, grey afternoon, little did I dream that one of those dreaded telegrams would before long be on its way to my home, and those of my crew.
I was soon dressed for flying and with my crew drove out in the Flight van to the dispersal point where our heavily laden Lancaster, Crusader 2, awaited us in the already greying twilight. After a last cheery word from the ground crew, we climbed aboard the aircraft and as soon as we had checked our equipment, started the engines and warmed them up. Each engine was then run in turn to make sure it was giving full power before we waved away the chocks and taxied out for take-off. As we were detailed for the first wave of attack, it was not many minutes before we were thundering down the runway into the gathering dusk.
Everything was going well as we circled for height, waiting to set course. Soon we crossed the lighted airfield for the last time and turned on to our course for Reading. As we climbed higher into the bright starlit sky, we could see around and behind us, the red and green navigation lights of the other aircraft as they began to join the bomber stream. We were in good company and it gave one a feeling of pride and thankfulness to God to belong to this great force of aircraft, manned by such brave companions, gathering its strength to strike at the heart of the enemy. Dangers unknown lay ahead, but we were well content with the righteousness of our cause, and with God’s help we were prepared to face them. Soon below us we could see the occasional glint of old Father Thames, as we passed over Reading and altered course for Beachy Head. On we shoved, under the steady control of the automatic pilot, occasionally feeling a ‘bump’ as we hit the twisted slipstream of some other aircraft ahead. Before long we could see the dim outline of the English coast faintly below, and then we were out over the dark, uninviting waters of the Channel. Twenty minutes passed and as the French coast slipped beneath our wings we altered course once again, this time for a turning point behind our lines on the Rhine.
On we flew over the dark French countryside, keeping below 4,000ft in order to conceal our approach from the enemy radar. Occasionally a shooting star would leave its fiery trail across the starlit heavens, vanishing again into the vastness of space beyond. After about an hour we reached the longitude 03 east and turned out our navigation lights as we began our long climb to operational height. Oxygen masks were attached and each member of the crew checked his supply. This check was then repeated periodically throughout the remainder of the trip. By now we were close to the enemy lines and as we climbed higher the heavily laden aircraft became less responsive to the controls in the rarefied upper air. The four throttles had been fully open for some time now, and a long blue tongue of flame stabbed the darkness from each of the exhausts as the engines roared their song of power and defiance, carrying us ever higher into the darkness of night. Not far away I could see wicked star-like flashes as enemy flak burst in the sky ahead. A typical Ruhr reception awaited us; one of the most intense flak barrages anywhere in Germany. Night fighter flares too, were hanging like yellow lanterns in the sky, before vanishing again into the darkness.
We were now only twenty minutes from the target, and whilst the flight engineer checked the engines and fuel, I ran through our method of attack with the bomb aimer over the intercom. As I reached down to check the operation of the bomb doors, I could see far below us to port, white patches on the clouds, as searchlights tried vainly to pierce them. Suddenly a burst of flak to port made me turn sharply away and as we regained course, we saw flak bursting where we had been only seconds before. White, stabbing jets of flame cutting through the darkness below indicated the path of enemy jet fighters out for our blood.
An ugly red glow, suddenly lighting the sky to starboard, grimly warned us that the enemy was not up for fun. One of our comrades went plunging down in flames from the guns of an enemy fighter. The night sky was by now alive with bursting flak, orange fighter flares and tracer ammunition. Ahead, but far below, we could see the target flares suspended like a giant chandelier, motionless in the darkness. The target indicators were due to go down at zero minus 3 - any time now - to mark the exact aiming point for the huge fleet of aircraft approaching the target. Yes, sure enough, above the yellow flares, suddenly burst cascades of brilliant green stars, floating slowly downwards towards the target. Red markers quickly followed and soon the dull glow of bursting bombs added to the conglomeration of colour on the clouds.
A sudden strong desire to fling the aircraft into a dive away from the target gripped me, but our job was not yet done! We still flew on, straight and level as more long seconds dragged by whilst the photograph was being taken. My eye was on the winking red light of the automatic camera indicator, as it flashed its warning to me to keep steady yet a little longer, then at last to turn away.
As we banked sharply to port I caught a glimpse of the target -a mass of red, orange and white flames mingled with green and red target indicators, far below. As I levelled the aircraft up again, I suddenly saw an enemy twin-engined fighter against the sky above us. I warned the gunners and as we pulled up, the top gunner opened fire, but the enemy disappeared into the darkness, apparently untouched. A moment later, however, the rear gunner reported the fighter coming into attack from the starboard quarter. As the enemy closed I waited until the last minute to give the gunners a chance to fire, before throwing the aircraft into a dive away.
Again we could see no result as the tracer from our guns streaked towards our opponent, and again we lost him in the night. Then the fighter closed in for a second attack and suddenly tracer shells flew past us. We dived violently away to avoid his fire and for a second time he vanished in the darkness. As we levelled up to try to regain course, he came in for yet a third attack; and this time our rear guns were silent!
As we levelled up from our dive, the fighter closed in for a second attack and suddenly tracer shells flew past us below. We dived violently away to avoid his fire and for a second time he vanished in the darkness. As we levelled up to try to regain course, the fighter came in for yet a third attack; and this time our rear guns were silent! As I was about to fling the aircraft into yet another evasive dive the enemy’s fire set the starboard outer engine alight. A few seconds later the starboard inner also caught fire and all our efforts to put out the fires proved useless. I gave the order “prepare to abandon aircraft,” and as I did so the outboard fuel tank in the wing caught fire followed by the centre tank. In less time than it takes to tell, the whole wing was a blazing inferno from wing tip to fuselage, fed by nearly a thousand gallons of petrol. I shouted to the crew to get out, as all efforts to control the aircraft did not prevent it from beginning to turn onto its back. Realising I could do no good by remaining any longer, and expecting the blazing wing to come off at any moment, I left my seat. For a moment I was thrown against the side of the fuselage. I thought I was trapped, but with an effort I was out of the lower hatch and hit the icy slipstream at about 200 m.p.h. I turned over slowly, feeling for my rip cord handle and almost as soon as I pulled it I stopped with a terrific jerk as the parachute opened.
As I hung there swinging in the night sky, I lifted my heart, in a bewildered sort of way, in thankfulness to God for sparing my life. Little did I think then that in the next two minutes it would be spared yet again. I was safe, yes, but what of my crew? Had they managed to escape too? I looked around, but could see no signs of the blazing aircraft or of any other parachutes in the darkness. I could hear the thud of the distant guns and the diminishing roar of the bomber stream. Suddenly I was enveloped in cold, clammy cloud; it was a strange sensation drifting silently and helplessly down to earth after the rush and roar of flying. I could see the ground now below me and as I tried to avoid a wood on my right, I was suddenly plunged into a flooded canal which effectually broke my fall. It was not until I struggled up, wet and shaken, but unhurt, that I saw my life had yet again been spared. A wooden tower about fifteen feet in height stood not far from where I had landed and my parachute was already draped over it. Had I landed a split second later, I should certainly have hit this obstacle with the full force of my fall, with fatal consequences. Twice in less than two minutes my life had been spared. Could it be coincidence? I did not think so then and later experiences of God’s mercy only served to deepen that conviction.
I lay in hiding the remainder of the night and all the next day, spying out the lie of the land, and was captured the next night.
The next day I was taken to Munster where I met some American aircrew, and we were kept in cells in a guard house for four days before being moved to Frankfurt on Maine. In the party of prisoners I met two of my crew who were a little the worse for wear, and I thanked God for sparing them, for their escapes from the burning aircraft had been even more remarkable than mine. Neither of them even remembered having pulled the rip cord of his parachute.
A day or two later, my parents received the dreaded telegram: “The Air Council regret to inform you that your son failed to return from an operational sortie over enemy territory on the 17 February 1945.“
Thank God I was a prisoner for only a few months, but that was ample time in which to experience His power to supply all our need. Time and time again I felt my own weakness, and the truth of the gracious words; “My grace is sufficient for you, for my strength is made perfect in weakness” (2 Cor 12: 9). When we were hungry and depressed, in solitary confinement, on the march, or in danger of attack by our own aircraft, how real and comforting were the words “My flesh and my heart fail; but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever (Ps.73:26).
Post script from daughter Rose Sobey.
After the war Dad moved to South Africa where he met and married Rose. They had four children - Arthur, Dorothy, me (he called me his little Rose) and Trevor.
I remember Dad's deep love for Mom and for us, the burn scars behind his ear, his heart for God and for prayer, his love of all people, and his ability to connect with everyone, his sacrificial giving, and his quiet yet compelling nature which drew many to faith.
He was reticent to tell war stories (except to the boys at Treverton School where he became vice principal.)
I have so many happy memories: our involvement with him in children’s missions in Salisbury, Scripture Union camps in Natal, Durban Seaside services on the beachfront, where he would preach from the enormous pulpit we built out of sand and decorated with flowers.
I remember him sitting with his Bible open on his knee at chapel services (where he would sometimes nod off, and I'd stop it from slipping.) I remember his ability to cat-nap in the arm chair below the old grandmother clock at home during lunch break - a habit he had learned during war days when waiting for the sirens to go.
Perhaps I idolized him, but he seemed able to fix anything from locks to engines, cuts to broken hearts, and to rescue helpless situations with humour and hope.
He died unexpectedly of a massive heart attack in 1974 at the age of just 58.
He was an amazing man of God.
