On February 6, 1958, the Manchester United football team — aka the Busby Babes — were triumphant after qualifying for the semi-finals of the European Cup. But when they boarded a plane back to England from Munich, disaster struck. Their goalkeeper, Harry Gregg, 70, relives the terror of that night

"In February 1958, after our 3-3 draw against Red Star Belgrade in Yugoslavia, our team celebrated with a banquet. I was on top of the world. I'd come from the sticks and was now playing for one of the best teams of all time. I was 24. After the meal, a few of us stayed up playing poker. I was winning all the money and joked that I'd give them a chance to win it back on the plane home. The next day the team boarded BEA flight 609. I had a two-seater to myself. Bobby Charlton and David Pegg were in front of me, and in a six-seater diagonally across from me were the poker lads — Roger Byrne, the captain; John Berry, Liam Whelan, Ray Wood and Jackie Blanchflower. Behind me were two journalists. Directly across, a diplomat's wife and her baby.

We knew there would be a stop-off at Munich for refuelling. It was snowing, but all was fine. We got off and waited in the departure lounge. The snow was getting deeper. Soon we were back on. At 2.55 the plane went down the runway, but suddenly the wheels locked. Then unlocked. Locked, unlocked. The plane began spinning. Eventually we came to a standstill and we were asked to disembark. Back in the terminal, Blanchflower bought a packet of German Players and gave me one. Just as we lit our fags, we were asked to get back on. He nipped his and put it behind his ear.

Charlton and Pegg said they weren't taking any chances and moved to the back of the plane. As we started down the runway, somebody shouted: "Halt! Someone's missing." It was Alf Clarke, a journalist from the Manchester Evening Chronicle. The plane stopped. Clarke got on. I was laughing in an attempt to ease the tension, but Berry said: "I don't know what you're laughing at. We're all going to get f***ing killed." I looked across at Byrne — his face was contorted. Whelan touched my arm and said: "Well, if it happens I'm ready to go."

We started down the runway a third time. Next thing — sparks. Screeching. Tearing. Ripping. Then darkness. No screaming, no crying, just darkness. And it felt like the top of my head had been sliced off. I couldn't feel my seat. I didn't know if I was dead or alive. Slowly I raised my head. I could see light coming from a hole. I crawled towards it. I put my head through, and lying below me in a tweed suit was Bert Whalley, the team's chief coach. He used to play himself, but lost an eye in a game. He was dead. The socket of his glass eye was raw.

I kicked the hole in the fuselage bigger and dropped out onto the runway. The rear end of the plane had crashed into a petrol dump. Fire raged. Captain Thain came running round with an extinguisher, shouting: "Run, you idiot, run. It's going to explode." He went back to rescue his co-pilot, Captain Rayment.

I saw five others running for their lives and shouted: "Come back, you bastards, there's people still alive." Then I heard a baby cry. I scrambled back in and found her. I then went back for her mother. She was so maimed, she didn't have a face. It was flat — pure black. Her legs were broken but I pulled her out alive. Unbeknown to me, she was pregnant.

Then I found Albert Scanlon. He was a real Busby star, born a quarter of a mile from the ground. His head was cracked like a hard-boiled egg. He was bleeding from his ears, eyes and nose. I tried moving him. I couldn't. I crawled over more rubble and found Charlton and Dennis Viollet. They were hanging half in, half out. I thought they were dead and dragged them by the waists of their trousers through the snow. I saw our manager, Matt Busby, holding his stomach in agony. Blanchflower was lying in a pool of water. Tears rolled down his face and the fag was still behind his ear. He didn't know it, but his right arm was hanging off. I took off my tie and tied it around the stump. Lying across him, without a mark, was Byrne. He was dead.

There were still no ambulances or fire engines. People from a nearby village began arriving. One man came with a coal van to take people to the hospital. We lifted several of the lads in. At one point I turned round to find Charlton, who I'd left for dead, standing in shock behind me. Later I was asked to identify Wood, whose eye was hanging out. Whelan, whose words still haunt me, was also dead. So was Pegg. But it was only when I heard that Frank Swift hadn't made it that everything hit me. He was a News of the World journalist and a hero of mine — he used to be one of Man U's greatest players. Among the 23 dead were eight players and eight journalists. All I could think was: "There but for the grace of God go I." Many things tormented me about that day, and still do — 46 years later. Life's a bitch. But I'm one of the lucky ones."