Real Survival Stories - Spider Crack in Plane Window: Rapid Decompression

Episode Date: January 22, 2026

An Air Force captain, George Burk, boards a plane bound for a base in Washington State. It’s a Monday morning like any other. Or at least, it should be. A structural failure will lead to a horror scenario in the sky. As the windows are blown out, this aluminium tube will hurtle towards the earth at over 250 miles an hour. By the time George and his colleagues have gathered their senses, it will already be too late…   A Noiser podcast production. Hosted by John Hopkins.   Written by Joe Viner | Produced by Ed Baranski | Assistant Producer: Luke Lonergan | Exec produced by Joel Duddell | Sound supervisor: Tom Pink | Sound design by Matt Peaty | Assembly edit by Rob Plummer | Compositions by Oliver Baines, Dorry Macaulay, Tom Pink | Mix & mastering: Ralph Tittley.   For ad-free listening, bonus material and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started. Or go to noiser.com/subscriptions   If you have an amazing survival story of your own that you’d like to put forward for the show, let us know. Drop us an email at [e-mail] Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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Visit medcan.com slash moments to get started. It's Monday, May 4th, 1970. About 8.25 in the morning. Heavy fog mantles the sky above Sonoma County, California. Sharp, rainy squalls cut through the cloud like arrow showers, falling on the rolling hills and fields, the oak forests, and cattle pastures. Two and a half thousand feet up, a U.S. military training aircraft struggles to climb above the dense gray cloud. Water droplets bead on the cockpit windows as the plane gains altitude, forcing its way up through layers of soaking mist.

Designed in the 1940s and modeled on early airliners, the Conveyor T-29 is a bulky twin-engined workhorse, built mainly for radar and navigation training. Now, after three decades of service, the fleet is showing its age. The stainless steel fuselage trembles as the aircraft continues its shaky ascent, propellers churning the air, turbines battling the downtrafts. Inside the cabin, Captain George Burke sits slumped over a chart table, his head resting in his folded arms. Conditions might be a little rough, but for an experienced airman like George, it's just another day of the office. The 28-year-old's eyes are closed and he's on the verge of the verge of the moment.

of drifting off, when suddenly. I raised my head quickly, turn to my right, and the window is spider crack from front to back. I don't know if it was the outside window or the inside window. George stares at the fractured glazing. The crack gets bigger, jagged, pencil lines zigzagging rapidly across the window. He turns to one of his colleagues, Kenny. I hollered across the table to Kenny.

You'd better go forward and tell Pappy, who was our crew chief, we may have a problem. Kenny unduckled. He disappeared to my left through the structural bulkhead doorway. He was gone, I don't know, 10 seconds. The next sound I heard was something like, um, only louder. There was a microsecond pause, and then, boom! The airplane decompressed. Rapid, explosive decompression.

A sudden extreme loss in cabin pressure. There is a concussive wave of sound that feels more like a physical force than a noise. It knocks the breath from George's lungs. In an instant, every window bursts, vanishing into a spray of shards. Loose objects were immediately sucked through the empty holes, whisked off into the void.

A deafening roar engulfed the aircraft, followed by a blast of icy air as the wind rushes through the cabin. Fumbling with the seatboat. George unbuckles and gets to his feet. Gripping onto whatever he can, he holds himself towards the cockpit to consult with the crew chief.

But before George can make it out into the center aisle, he spots something through one of the windows. Flames. Fire was rolling over and under the engine calling. Engines run fire. All I heard in the background, Pitching on and rolling, and we're going down. Ever wondered what you would do when disaster strikes?

If your life, depended on your next decision. Could you make the right choice? Welcome to Real Survival Stories. These are the astonishing tales of ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations. People suddenly forced to fight for their lives. In this episode, we meet U.S. Air Force Captain and Vietnam War veteran George Burke. In May 1970, George is on board a plane bound for an air base in Washington State. It's a routine mission, a Monday morning like any other, or at least it should be. As soon as the airplane decompressed and the windows blew out,

we pitched violently nose up and then violently nose down. A structural failure will lead to a horror scenario in the sky. The plane rapidly decompresses mid-flight, blowing out the windows and turning this military aircraft into a hollow aluminum tube, hurtling towards the earth at over 250 miles an hour. By the time George and his colleagues have gathered their senses, it will already be too late. I glanced quickly into the cockpit, the nose was split open, the top of the canopy had been peeled back, the left side was completely gone. Exactly what happens next will remain a mystery, even to George.

But suffice to say, there will be an impact, a fire, a desperate scramble for safety, and at the bleakest possible moment, an unlikely safety. He could have continued down that ravine. I'm learning within 30 seconds or a minute, I would have burned to death. I'm John Hopkins. From the Noiser Podcast Network, this is real survival stories. At 6.45 a.m. on Monday, May the 4th, 1970. Hamilton Air Force Base, Novatoe, Northern California. Captain George Burke stands at his living room window,

watching raindrops chase each other down the glass. Pale sheets of drizzle and drizzle and fog ripple over the lawn. The branches of the tree across the street thrash quietly in the wind, like arms signaling distress. George sighs. Not exactly ideal conditions for flying. The 28-year-old laces up his shoes and heads out of the door, shutting it quietly behind him so as not to wake his sleeping wife and children. He loads his duffel and briefcase into the back of his Austin Healy, then climbs into the car and backs it carefully out of the driveway. George drives down his residential streets,

passing row upon row of purpose-built officers' cottages. The houses look identical to his own, with their neat driveways and picket fences, their white stucco walls and terracotta roof tiles. Sodden palm trees droop in the manicured lawns. George takes a left turn and continues through the quiet base. He passes the barrack-style accommodation blocks where the unmarried recruits are billeted.

He passes administrative buildings, hangars, the commissary until eventually he reaches his destination, base operations. Moments later, George is stepping through the door of the mission briefing room, nodding good morning to his sleepy-eyed colleagues. My job was chief of an air traffic control analysis team. We analyzed the military base is air traffic control, Radar, control tower, VFR.

We had a group of technicians, com technicians, who would check the radios and the comm centers, etc. Today, George and his team are flying 900 miles north to Fairchild Air Force Base in Washington State for systematic analysis checks. It's a journey George has made many times before, a briefing he's received on countless prior occasions. He's been stationed here at Hamilton for the better part of two years.

In that time, the steady rhythm of life on the base has become second nature, an endless cycle of repetition and routine. But that's all about to change. A few weeks ago, George received a promotion, a reassignment to a U.S. Air Base in Okinawa, Japan, where he's to run a radar facility in one of the most strategically important locations in the Pacific. It's a great opportunity, a big step up in his career. With his reassignment pending, he has just two more missions to fly here in California, including this morning's trip to Fairchild. After delays, due to the heavy fog, George and his crew received the go-ahead. They walk out across the airstrip to the waiting plane, a conveyor T-29.

The men, 14 in total, board the plane and get into position. George buckles himself into his usual seat beside two colleagues, Kenny and Fred. The pilot sparks the engines and taxes the plane onto the mist shrouded runway. We took off east-northeast out of Hamilton, climbing right in turn. I made that trip many, many times.

He headed back to, what would have been my next to last TDII to furtial Air Force Base right outside Spokane, Washington. The aircraft surges upward through the dense, swirling fog. Soon they'll be above the clouds and the weather should clear.

Lulled by the monotonous drone of the engine, George yawns. He folds his arms, shuts his eyes, and lets his chin drop onto his chest. A nap will make this short flight go even quicker. At 28, George Burke has already enjoyed a successful military career. There was a time, however, when the idea of joining the Air Force would have seemed like a deviation from his true passion, baseball. At high school, George was the star of his varsity team. Later at college, in Michigan, caught the eye of local talent scouts, and it seemed inevitable that the big leagues would soon come calling.

That is, until a fateful injury scuppered everything. My junior year, playing ball in the summer, I hurt my left arm, really never came back. My dream of signing a professional baseball contract ended. I use a term that the scouts scurried, like when you turn on the lights the night and all the bugs disappear. They went away very quickly. With his dream in Tatters, George found himself adrift. After finishing college, he bounced around a couple of different jobs, but nothing felt quite right.

So I was in limbo. I was set back emotionally. I didn't know what I was going to do. I didn't really have any direction per se. I had a couple of jobs after I graduated. I ended up getting married. My brother-in-law was in Air Force at the time. It was a pilot. This was 1964. And so, George took himself down to the local Air Force recruitment depot. He aced his qualifying tests, then shipped off to Officer's Candidate School in Texas.

Soon, it was time to specialize. George wanted to be a pilot, but after a medical examination revealed a problem with his eyesight, flying was off the carts. They found out I had a stigmatism in one of my eyes, depth perception. Back then, it couldn't be fixed. So I had a choice to either get out of the Air Force or stay in, maybe early 67. A place called Vietnam was starting to heat up. While George contemplated his future, America's involvement in the Vietnam War was intensifying.

The military was an urgent need of skilled personnel, including air traffic control officers. I knew that if I declined and got out of the Air Force, I didn't really know what I was going to do. But if I stayed in, never going to offer me a position. As it turned out, probably it was going to be in Vietnam because air traffic control officers were critical. They would have offered me orders to go to Vietnam. Had I turned them down, I would have been required to leave the air. Air Force. In the end, George wasn't prepared to do that.

He broke the news to his wife that he would soon be shipping out. A few months later, in October 1967, he landed in Denang on the eastern coast of Central Vietnam. As they opened the back door for the steps they deployed the stairs, one three things I remember was the heat, stifling, the noise, an active military base at night, never closes, a smell like I walked into an open sewer. I remember thinking myself, what the hell have I gotten myself into? As a critical hub for air operations in Vietnam, Denang Base was the busiest airport in the world at the time. From their lofty post in the control tower, George and his colleagues were responsible for

coordinating the military and civilian aircraft that came through every day. The work was tough, but rewarding, and George excelled under pressure. He was soon promoted to the rank of captain, and one year after his deployment he was offered a reassignment, an opportunity to lead an air traffic control analysis team at Hamilton Air Force Base in California. George accepted the new posting, packed up his things, and flew home to the U.S. From the chaos and humidity of Denang Province, he was suddenly back with his family, living in the relative luxury of an officer's housing billet in the temperate climbs of northern California.

And now, with another reassignment looming, this time to Okinawa, George is preparing for yet another change of circumstances, another exciting new chapter. But first, there is final work to be done in the States. An assignment in Washington awaits. It's about 8.30 a.m. two minutes off to take off. The aircraft continues its bumpy climb over the vast plains of Northern California, straining against the elements, heading northeast. rain pelts the cabin windows.

The navigation lights glow weakly through the fog. George sits with his head lowered and his eyes closed. The weather's a little rough, but nothing he hasn't experienced before. I don't know how long my head was on my arms. Maybe just a few minutes, if that. I don't hurt a crackling sound. George's eyes snap open. He turns to the cabin window.

A tiny spider crack has appeared in the air. glass, fine lines branching out from a single point. He watches as the fracture spreads, the lines zigzagging outward like the cracking of ice on a frozen lake. George's chest tightens. He bellows above the roar of the engines to his colleague, Kenny, telling him to run and notify the crew chief, Pappy. Kenny nods.

He unbuckles, starts making his way towards the cockpit. He was gone, I don't know, 10 seconds. The next sign I heard was something like, um, only louder. There's a microsecond pause and then, boom! The airplane decompressed. It feels like an explosion ripping through the aircraft. A gut punch of massive sonic energy. The windows shatter in unison, vaporized into a million sharks.

There is an ear splitting. Roar, followed by a surge of freezing wind as the outside rushes in, playing rocks like a ship being tossed on heavy seas. We pitched violently, nose up, and then violently nose down. And all I heard was the pitch of the engine going, ah, ah, ah, uh, uh, uh, pitching yon and rolling. A lot of snorings I've ever heard, the wind shear. I quickly glanced to my left and then to my right. is all around.

Loose objects hurtle through the air. Papers, seat cushions, bags, all being sucked towards the howling black holes where the windows once were. George clings to the base of his seat. To his left, through the smashed window, he can see coils of flame wrapped around the engine cowlings,

trailing through the air like orange streamers. He unbuckles his seat built, gripping what he can, he gets to his feet. Through the mail, A peltstrom of wind, rain and debris, he can see Kenny making his way back down the center aisle, the loose corners of his raincoat flapping furiously. Beyond him, George can see inside the cockpit, or what's left of it. The nose is split open, the top of the canopy had been peeled back, half a steering wheel

was vibrating left to right and back and forth, left the right and back and forth. The left side was completely gone. Horrifyingly, he can make out the pilot's body, torn apart, slumped limply in his seat. George turns back. There's nothing left to do now, but brace for impact. I turned around and sat back down my seat, buckled my seatbelt, put something in my lap, a cushion, blanketed blown free. I assumed a survival position as best I possibly could. The aircraft lurches hard to one side, accelerating earthward at a 30-degree angle.

The shriek of tearing metal joins the howl of the wind as the fuselage begins to break apart. Panels of steel ripped off by the air. The ground appears through breaks in the fog, brief flashes of green. Then the plane drops below the cloud and suddenly the earth is everywhere. The hills, forests, streams, and lakes all surging up to meet them until... Impact, the breaking and bending and shunuchs. shearing of metal. I was thrust violently back and my head hit the back of the chair. My skull was fractured and I was in fondly thrown forward like a rag doll. George lifts his head. Blood pours

from his misshapen nose. Smoke and debris swirl around him. There's a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The plane seems to stopped moving. With trembling hands he unbuckles his seatbelt and rises unsteadily to his feet. He turns to where Fred and Kenny were sitting moments ago. He calls their names. But before they have a chance to reply, there is a rush of wind and a surge of heat. That sensation was like someone dumping large buckets of scalding hot water on me. We had about 1,200 gallons of aviation fuel on board. Everything went black. It's May the 4th, 1970, in the hills of Sonoma County, California. Around 8.30 in the morning. A red pickup truck trundles along a dirt road, wending between fields of

tall prairie grass. Behind the wheel sits rancher John Davio. Every morning, for the past 25 years, John has made this drive around the outer perimeter of his 2,000-acre cattle ranch, checking to make sure that none of his livestock have strayed from the herd. This morning, a gray and bleak Monday, John drives slow, raking his eyes back and forth across the pasture. It's raining, and the middle-aged farmer has to lean forward to see, headlights straining against the elements. When he reaches the outermost boundary marker, John turns around and starts driving back to the house. Due to the foul weather, he's decided to cut his usual journey short. Later, when the rain stops, he'll come back out and pick up where he left off.

John starts down the road back to his house. But after traveling just a few hundred yards, he makes a sudden, impulsive decision. He veers from the road and sets off down the bottom of a shallow ravine, figuring it'll be a shortcut. The sooner he gets out of this rain, the better. All the years he'd been on that ranch, he'd never been through that ravine before. He smelled smoke. What are the neighbors burning in a day like this? He clapped himself. John sniffs the damp air again.

It's definitely smoke. An acrid, sharp scent billowing in the wind. Strange. Does he go to investigate, or does he continue his journey home? He could have continued down that ravine. Literally within 30 seconds or a minute, I would have burned to death, literally. But he pivoted the truck 90 to the right, lurched it up over this other side of the ravine, saw a tail on an airplane,

raced in, saw me rolling on the ground on fire. The sight before John is jaw-dropping, the burning, smoking wreckage of an aircraft. But amid the pulverized mess of fire and metal, someone is still alive. John spots George and races over to where the young man is writhing on the ground,

flames dancing over his body. John scoops up two handfuls of soil and starts frantically heaping the damp earth onto the burning man trying to extinguish the flames. It works. The fire goes out and George falls still. His eyes are closed. It's hard to tell if he's alive or dead.

John calls out telling him to hang on that he's going to get help. Then he races back to his truck, jumps in, and thunders off to find a telephone. Moments later, George regains his senses. He opens his eyes and inhales weakly. The air is filled with a horrible stench, a cocktail of smoldering vegetation, aviation fuel, and burnt flesh. The thoughts going through my head,

not in any particular order. This is a dream. I'm going to wake up. This isn't happening to me. I roll over in my back. Look at my hands. my hands are charred black. There was a glob with skin hanging off my left hand.

Roll back over on my stomach, and to this day I still believe I heard somebody crying for help inside your plane. It's faint, but George hears it. A lone, desperate voice. He pushes himself onto his elbows and drags himself back towards the plane. I crawled only...

I was six foot five and a half at the time, probably my height plus a few extra inches, right up to the airplane's skin, if you will, and I heard a hissing noise, muffled explosion, a great deal of heat in my face. A column of fire leaps into the sky as the flammable vapors rising from the wreckage suddenly ignite. George flinches, recoiling, as he is hit by a wave of superheated air, if there was anyone left alive on board. There won't be now. He swivels around and frantically scrambles away from the blaze.

The ground around him is littered with burning debris, charred eucalyptus stumps. And something far worse. I looked on my right and I saw our crew chief. Pappy had a dime-sized punch balloon in the back of cerebellum. He was burned. And off to my right threw some broken fence wire. About 15 yards from me. There's one of my good friends, Major Bob Ward was on the airplane.

He was dead, kind of semi-curled up, smoke coming off his body. It's a scene of unspeakable tragedy. George is the only survivor. He drags himself through the devastation. After crawling, a short distance, he attempts to stand. As he straightens his leg, a jet of pain shoots up his spine. He crumples, and he doesn't fall down. He grits his teeth and staggers forward, determined,

to put more distance between himself and the inferno behind him. I started to realize to myself, I've got to get out of here. I didn't know where I was. At the time, I didn't know what no one had found me. I didn't know that. Something to help me get down in the waist higher prairie grass. George takes stock of his surroundings. The plane has come to rest in a shallow basin,

just beyond a grove of eucalyptus trees. The valley is bordered by low, Ridgelands to the north and east. To the western south, the land slopes away gently into rolling grass pastures, draped in a gauzy veil of mist. George stumbles downhill, passing through the tall prairie grass, until he reaches a small, crooked tree.

He collapses underneath its spindly branches, pulling his knees into his chest. I began to go into shock. My mind was kicking in. The adrenaline was pumping. I was trying to stay alert, using all my energy, my mental energy to stay alert. This isn't happening to me.

Why me? Please, God, don't let me die. I felt unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I had gone beyond being scared. I was in fear, which is far, right down to your core, your brain, your deepest emotions, your subconscious. But that kicks in. Because you know you're going to die.

The intense pain recedes to a dull throb, muted by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. George's consciousness flickers in and out, but he strains to stay awake. If he nods off, there is a high chance he'll never wake up. Scenarios like this are what the military has prepared him for. The high stakes moments when the wrong move could spell the difference between life and death. But George reaches even further back into his past, years before his Air Force training, back to his time as the star of his high school baseball team. Athletics teaches you physical toughness, it teaches you moral toughness, it teaches you mental toughness.

When you get tired, when your life's get tired, when you get a cramping your side, whatever, you keep going. You train. You eat right. You get your sleep. You get your rest. Your focus. Your mental discipline. My parents, especially my mother, would always tell me, one of the many things she would tell me is when you start something, finish it.

And don't ever quit, don't ever give up. But as he lies there, clinging on to life, George feels his grip slipping. He doesn't know it, but a rescue attempt is coming together. The rancher John Davio is at this very moment racing home to call the fire department. But when will they reach him? There is so little time. George's inhalations grow weaker. The lucid moments between blackouts become less and less frequent.

The light starts to fade from his eyes. My life started to appear to me like a holograph. Little leg, pawley leg, mom, dad, my kids, my wife at the time, baseball, people I knew. And the constant theme was two things. Please God, if you're there, don't let me die like this, all alone in this field. With no time to say goodbye to the people that I love. And this isn't supposed to be happening. to me. I'm a pretty good officer. I'm a pretty good guy. I have a lot of friends. It became very

personal, very real, that this was me in this field when I was going to die. I was dying. It's about 30 minutes later. George lies on his side, curled up in the long grass. Rain falls softly through the branches, cooling his burned, blistered skin. His breath is weak, barely audible, a thin trickle from his lips. And then he hears it. Voices. George opens his eyes, and with the last drop of energy he can muster. I forced myself on my feet, I turned toward the voices, and I waved my arms over my head.

I went, hey, hey, over here, over here, and fell back down in the heap. Did he really hear that? Or is his mind just playing tricks on him? He listens carefully. And there it is again, voices drifting up from the bottom of the hill and getting closer. Moments later, a shadow falls across his face. Two firefighters stand there, looking down at him with expressions of profound shock. I remember looking up through this.

I was shaking so violently the moist, wet prayer gas is shaking. I was shaking. And I asked him, what about my face? What about my face? And the one firefighter, he responded, look at me. Oh, my God. The firefighters carefully lift George onto a gurney and carry him across the field to a waiting Coast Guard helicopter.

There is a gaggle of air force personnel outside the chopper, members of the base search and rescue team. They must have been alerted as soon as the rancher John Davio placed his emergency phone call, giving them time to coordinate an airlift. With the extent of his burns, George is in a race against the clock to treat his wounds and stave off deadly infection. From this moment on, every second counts.

It's mid-morning Monday, May 4th, 1970. Flat on his back at the base medical center, George blinks up at the blurry outlines of the nurses and doctors as they examine him. Next day I remember, I'm in the emergency room, at Hamilton, on a gurney, being placed in a cold-heart x-ray table, and it hurt like hell, but they were doing what they thought they could do to try to figure out what was going on with me.

George has done all he can for himself. Now it's up to the medical staff to treat his injuries before they slip past the point of recovery. Once they've stabilized him at the base medical center, it's straight to the back of a waiting air ambulance, then off to a specialist Burns unit at Brooks Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. During the transfer, dose up on strong painkillers, George drifts in and out of awareness,

brief snatches of sound, flashes of light, a smell of jet fuel. There's a squeal, squeal, turn, turn, back door open, heat, nothing. Then I'm in a room with people around me. I'm in a gurney. Ask me all sorts of questions. They're dressed in white, white bonnets, masks, male, female. Who are you?

What's your name? Where are me born? You have children? Where are your children's names? Amid the flurry of questions, a nurse lifts his shirt and begins sniffing him out of his clothes. Soon he is spayed out on the operating table, screaming in pain as his naked body is scrubbed down with a chemical smelling soap. Then a sharp prick in his arm. The warm, fuzzy feeling of morphine entering his bloodstream.

His eyelids droop and he sinks back into darkness. Over the course of the next few days, George's life will be saved by a series of critical and lucky intervention. His physician at San Antonio, Dr. Inge, will later tell him that the air ambulance that transported him from California to Texas was only available thanks to a stroke of good fortune. The aircraft just happened to be refueling at nearby Travis Air Force Base. That was the only reason it was able to receive the call and pick him up so promptly. Our plane crashed at about 0.8.30 Monday morning, that airplane just happened to be in the ground at Travis.

Doctor Inch told me months later, had I not got to the burn unit when I did, I'd have died of the burns and the infections probably within 24 hours. Then there's the extraordinary stroke of luck that saw Cattle Rancher John Davio take a different route home that morning. Had he not chosen to cut through the ravine, he might never have smelled the smoke, never seen the wreckage, never spotted George on the ground ablaze. Without his timely arrival, George would have burned to death in minutes. In the months that follow, George undergoes a long, difficult recovery in the burns unit at San Antonio.

As well as breaking his neck in the crash, he suffered burns to over 65% of his body, not to mention the numerous internal injuries. But during his time in hospital, he will see wounded soldiers come through his ward, many of them bearing injuries far worse than his own. 89 days I was in the hospital. I saw some of the guys I knew that were alive one night and gone the next, burn of Vietnam, Marines, helicopter pilots, door gunners. George's luck may run even deeper and first thought.

The sight of the soldier's injured bodies leaves an impression on him. Watching them come and go stirs uneasy questions about their fate after they leave hospital and return to the world. One day he poses this question to Dr. inch. I said, what happens when the guys when they leave here? He said, George, we don't know. We heal the body. We don't have time to heal the mind. Once the scars form and new tissue grows over the damaged skin, healing the mind will be the next and harder phase of George's recovery. As the sole survivor of a plane crash that killed 13 of his colleagues, he must grapple

with an uncomfortable question. Why him? Over the years, I've learned through reading and my own exposure and my lessons and trying to find my purpose about survivor guilt. You have to identify it, you have to acknowledge it, and you have to deal with it. I know about post-traumatic stress. I've never been clinically diagnosed by a shrink, nor would I allow anyone to crawl inside my head

because they don't understand them. The only person who understand me is another burn survivor. Many veterans living with undiagnosed PTSD turn to self-medication to cope. sometimes looking for escape wherever they can get it. Following the accident, George will face demons of his own, and he will be forced to find his own methods of overcoming them. You have to find ways to deal with the emotional pain.

Prayer, food, intimacy, friends, keep yourself busy, teach, speak, write, exercise, purpose. I've had a lot of people give me a lot of help. And I hope that I've tried to use my life for good, To live my life the way I was supposed to live a purpose and to honor my friends, guys on the airplane, guys I knew in Vietnam, guys I knew in the burning that didn't make it. In the decades after the plane crash, George goes on to have a career as an author and motivational speaker. He says he hopes to make the world a better place by sharing his hard-earned insights. But even now, more than 50 years later, he is under no illusions that his recovery is complete.

It is a journey he continues to navigate today. I've spoken over the years to a lot of groups of veterans. Afghanistan, Iraq, some Vietnam. Those guys understand. I understand them. They understand me. Stay around in a circle and cry. Commiserate.

We're all in this boat together. For 55 years, I've not been paying free, especially the last 40. My neck is broken. I've had 45 surgeries, not as many as some of the other guys I know. Even today, in all honesty and candor, I'm that far from being a fallen down drunk or an addict. I know that. I tried that. It doesn't work. So you have to believe in something that's bigger than me, and I do. A man of faith, and God has worked, believe me, I know where I'm going.

I'm not afraid. Next time on real survival stories. We meet Andy and Tim Benford. In 1972, the British brothers arranged a day trip together to the Isle of White. Keen to experience a novel form of transport, they travel by hovercraft. But on the return journey across the waves, appalling weather conditions jeopardize the craft and threaten the lives of its 26 passengers. With the vessel suddenly overwhelmed, the Benford's will be wrenched apart and forced to enter

simultaneous survival scenarios, each fighting for his life, whilst unsure if the The other is alive or dead. That's next time on real survival stories. Listen today without waiting and without ads by joining Noisa Plus.