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This story was submitted onto the People's War Website by CSV Volunteer Ian Chapman on behalf of the author Henry Lloyd Lyne. The author understands the sites terms and conditions

I was 20 years old when I obeyed an instruction to leave my post in the nose of a Liberator aircraft to man its port beam guns, I had no idea that action would save my life, but also this is what began a train of events that some may call miraculous.

The date was 13th August 1944, I was a Cornish lad from Bugle, and I was a bomb aimer with 178 Squadron RAF based in Southern Italy. Up until that point the squadron operation had been mainly to the east carrying out bombing sorties against the Ploesti oil refineries in Romania and mine laying on the Danube River. On that day six crew and I were given a different mission. We were to fly 1,400 km by night to Warsaw, locate a small square in the city's centre and from low level, drop supplies to Polish freedom fighters waiting below.

Warsaw had fallen to the Germans in 1939 and the Polish people suffered horrifically as a result. In 1943 hundreds and thousands of Polish Jews were killed - through starvation, disease and execution. The city itself was all but destroyed. By the summer of 1944 the tide had begun to turn. Soviet troops had pushed the Germans out of their own country and had reached the outskirts of Warsaw.

Encouraged by Stalin's success and his promise of assistance the Poles seized their opportunity and on 1st August 1944, the remaining citizens of Warsaw rose up against their oppressors. Its people reclaimed large parts of the city but German counterattacks were massive and the hope-for Russian support ultimately proved, in an historic act of treachery, not to be forthcoming.

It was into this bloody maelstrom of violence and war that my crew and I, and 23 other liberator aircraft crew flew. As a bomb aimer my usual position was in the aircraft nose.

Whilst flying over the Vistula River with my colleagues we had to pass over three bridges and turn to port. That would bring us to Pryzinski Square where women fighting in the home army would be holding hurricane lamps in the form of a cross as a signal for us to drop supplies. The canisters were in the bomb bay and to drop them we had to get to 400 feet and fly with three quarter flaps and at a very low speed. This meant we were sitting ducks before we started.

By the time we passed over the second bridge the German anti-aircraft fire was intense. It was then that the Canadian pilot; Flying Officer Dougie Mac Rae made the decision that saved my life.

Doug came over the intercom and said

'Lloyd (as I was commonly known) go back onto the beam guns. I'll let Gordon (Coutts, the navigator) nip down and drop the supplies when we're over the target'

I left the parachute behind as I went back into the middle of the aircraft as instructed. I opened the starboard and port apertures, stuck the guns out and began firing at the ground where the flak came from.

I could see that the outer port engine was on fire and it wasn't too long before the port inner engine was on fire as well. I can remember anti-aircraft shells that looked red hot like cricket balls coming through the bottom of the aircraft and going straight out through the top and, strangely, I remember thinking that the shells wouldn't do us any harm like that because the range was wrong and they were exploding above us.

What happens next, I can't remember, however witnesses say the plane was on fire, it turned and flew into the drop zone and released its precious cargo of supplies, then they saw it turn to port and they heard an explosion. Shortly after that, what was left of the plane was flying towards the wooded area in which it crashed, they saw me fall.

I didn’t have a clue what happened until the mid 1980s when I was invited back to Poland for an official ceremony. According to the people I’ve spoken to, the explosion must have been the aviation fuel going up and the blast probably threw me out of the hatch I was firing the guns from. All I know is that I woke up to the sound of water all around me . Some time after that, I was aware of being lifted into a boat and of voices speaking a language I didn’t understand. I had fallen out of the sky and onto a small muddy island in the middle of a lake, which is now called Skarayszewski Park. Somehow the soft silty ground had cushioned the impact sufficiently. I was the sole survivor.

My adventure did not end here, nor did my luck even though I was badly injured I was picked up in a rowing boat by German soldiers and taken to hospital.

The treatment I got was excellent. The medical officers were pleasant enough and even brought me wine. My uniform and identity disks had either been cut or blown off, so when I left the hospital I was wearing a green shirt that must have been intended for a man of six foot ten because it came down to my knees, trousers that had huge turn-ups, no socks and a pair of rubber galoshes. To complete the picture, my head and hands were bandaged.

Being a prisoner of war cost me weeks of fear and solitary confinement at an air force interrogation centre in Frankfurt on Maine in Germany. I was taken there by train. Although I had nothing bad to say about the German Soldiers returning from the Eastern Front who were my companions during the long rail journey, my main memories of the centre were terror and hunger.

The first officer to interrogate me threatened that if I didn’t answer his questions, I would be sent to the Gestapo. I was wearing civilian clothes so there was no proof that I wasn’t some sort of spy or underground agent. They left me in solitary confinement for days on ends and I was given so little to eat, that when I was taken to the medical centre to have my hands treated, I actually stole some bread that had been left in a patient’s bed pan. When the guards bought me my usual quota of soup that evening I added the bread to make stew.

An officer who appeared less threatening than his predecessor carried out subsequent interrogations and my stay in the centre was finally bought to a close when it was revealed that all my personal and military details had been discovered. To this day I still don’t know how.

I only ever answered the questions with my name, rank and serial number but during our last meeting the interrogator said that he had found out all about me and the mission that I had been on, he probably knew more than me. He then proceeded to give me the details. I didn’t say his was right — I just think I grinned. There was little else I could do.

I then moved from Frankfurt on Maine to a prisoner of war camp on the Baltic Coast with a fellow internee called Bill Carman. Together we shared the incomparable luxury of the first Red Cross parcel after many weeks of near starvation and in May 1945 we had our first taste of freedom after months of captivity when our German guards fled and the Russians liberated us. We are still friends today.

Following the war, three years ago the Queen invited me to Buckingham Palace and I was presented with a metre long piece of the aircraft from which I fell, She had been presented with it during a state visit of Poland in 1996. I have also seen both Margaret Thatcher and John Major during official visits to Poland and several memorials.

I also still stay in touch with Doug MacRae’s two sisters who live in Canada, Arthur Sharpe’s Nephew who travels the world as a nuclear physicist and Eileen Kenning who was John Porter’s fiancée.

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