by Colonel George P. Birdsong (Retired)
Colonel Birdsong was one of the original members of the 91st Bomb Group, a pilot in the 323rd Squadron, whose B-17, “Delta Rebel II,” was one of the first 8th Air Force planes to complete twenty-five missions, and one of the rare members of the Rigid Digit Club at Bassingbourn. Subsequently he was operations officer of an air photo unit at the Bikini atomic bomb test in 1946, flew B-29s in the Strategic Air Command, and in 1953 he set the B-47 transatlantic record from Maine to England. He was the first SAC pilot to check out in a B-52. In 1968-69 he was commander of the 633rd Special Operations Wing at Pleiku Air Base in South Vietnam and flew 189 missions, including 104 in the A1-E. He retired from the Air Force in 1970.
In January 1943 the crew of the “Delta Rebel II” included Lt. George P. Birdsong, pilot; Lt. Joseph Reynolds, co-pilot; Lt. Ernest Miller, navigator; Lt. Bob Abb, bombardier; Sgt. Eugene Remmell, engineer; Sgt. B. Z. Byrd, radio operator; Sgt. Randall Peterson, waist gunner; Sgt. Carter, waist gunner; Sgt. Cowherd, tail gunner; Sgt. Harry Kulchesky, assistant radio operator, and Sgt. Steve Perri, ball turret.
I was saddened to read about Baskin Lawrence’s death following a heart attack on 2 February 1980. Lawrence was the deputy commander of the 91st Bomb Group when I got to know him back in 1942-43. I remember him, in particular, as an outstanding instrument-instructor pilot. He had flown with the airlines between military duties before World War II and passed along to many of us greenhorn pilots the techniques of instrument flying he had learned when he was flying civilian. He showed us how to “box” a radio range station, for example, when we were training in B-17s at McDill Field in Tampa, Fla. This type let-down was useful for mountain country flying because the high and irregular terrain tended to distort the radio signals, and this procedure kept you close to the station, so less chance for error. I was able to put this method to good use when we moved west in the summer of 1942 to Walla Walla, Washington, Pendleton, Oregon, and Boise, Idaho.
The most remembered experience I shared with Baskin was our great adventure of flying the Atlantic Ocean en route to England, October 1942.
Lawrence was accompanying Bill Clancy and crew, and with me as wingman, we were going to make the big leap out of Gander Lake, Newfoundland, to Prestwick, Scotland. We were the last two B-17s of the 91st not yet in place, and were anxious to join the outfit.
We spent a few days in Gander waiting for the weather to be compatible, but the Atlantic skies in October can be formidable and challenging, especially to a minimum time pilot like me. The plan laid on in briefing had Lawrence taking off first with me right behind, and he would pass along weather and flight conditions on interplane frequency. A splendid plan and I liked it!
The next night we attempted to execute, but had to abort back to Gander because of a raging snow storm. J. J. Sanders, who was flying co-pilot for me, had read somewhere when Lindbergh had flown the Atlantic in the “Spirit of St. Louis” he had maintained his energy by periodically munching on candy bars. J. J., figuring if that helped that famous flyer across the pond, that was good enough for him! He then proceeded to eat an entire box of twelve units, all during the two short hours of our aborted flight! On the let-down back into Gander, J. J. became unbelievably ill and let it fly all over the cockpit! Nothing was spared! A chocolate covered cockpit—ugh!
We spent a large part of the next day in cleaning up the mess. As a crew, we were indeed proud of our brand new B-17F, christened the “Delta Rebel II.” “Delta Rebel I” had met with an unfortunate ground accident at Mitchell Field, New York, but that is another story.
By the time we had gotten our nerve up to try it again, the 303rd Group, with the majority of their thirty-six B-17s, had joined us at Gander and would follow us across. I was to relay Lawrence’s flight reports to the 303rd bird behind me.
We tried it again the next night, taking off at one minute intervals. I latched on to what I thought was the tail-light on Lawrence’s plane for about five minutes but it turned out to be a star in a break in the clouds. Ernie Miller, the navigator, seemed awfully upset for this easy mistake; heck, we were only fifty degrees off heading!
Both J. J. and the radio operator tried to establish communications with our leader, but not a peep. We hoped for the best, and that it was just a radio failure, which to me was bad news of a lesser dimension as we were now on our own in this venture.
Now is probably the time to mention that we were honored to have a staff officer assigned to our group flying with us as a passenger. He was World War I pilot vintage, an old fellow around forty, and not qualified in Flying Forts. He stayed in the radio room on our first attempt for a crossing, but on this flight he took a crouched position between the pilots’ seats, and remained there like a statue. He remained silent except for occasional raspy, growling sounds which led me to believe the poor man must have a chest condition. I noticed it was especially bad when the airspeed indicator bled down to sixty miles per hour when we were in a climb.
I snappily switched on the pitot tube heat switch to thaw the pitot tube, and the airspeed indicator returned to normal. Oh well, there’s a first time for everything!
By this time we were on solid instruments. That snowstorm, which had been waiting out there to take us on, had embraced us with typical North Atlantic fervor. All of the de-icing and anti-icing equipment had-been activated, and J. J. read the procedures to me again from the Dash One just to double check our steps.
Gene Remmell, our flight engineer, found it difficult to give me information on the fuel status, because our passenger was physically blocking him out. By peering at me, under the staff officer’s arms, which were riveted to the armor plate behind the pilots’ seats, Gene was able to communicate.
In listening, I had to wiggle down in my seat and turn my head sideways, which gave me a slight case of vertigo when I straightened back up. This caused me to make some silly attitude adjustments in leveling the airplane, which kept J.J. quite talkative and generated more throaty noises from you know who.
The situation was approaching the zippy stage. The “Reb” was loading up with ice, and when I turned on the wing lights to check the de-icer boot operation, I was amazed at the way it was snowing. Like flying into a white wall. The chunks of ice peeling off the props and banging into the fuselage made real bumps in the night. Added to this, the eerie red glow of the cockpit lights, the turbulence and noise of the storm, and the cocoon-like effect of the iced-over windows, made one weird scene, and some positive action was in demand.
At seven thousand feet, our flight plan altitude, the outside air temperature read minus five degrees Centigrade, just perfect for structural icing. We had proof. To get out of the temperatures conducive for icing, you have to either go up or down. I elected to climb. This decision was based on the fact that Boeing had put superchargers on the engines and installed an oxygen system to make this a high flying machine. At ten thousand feet we donned oxygen masks.
We leveled off now and then to check conditions, but finding little difference continued our labored climb. The 303rd Fort trailing us had been in contact with us since shortly after takeoff, and we had been giving him the weather and our flight progress on his query about every fifteen minutes.
At around twenty thousand feet we nudged through the overcast. Dawn was breaking, and the sun literally popped out of the eastern sky like a warm friend. Our plane had changed color from green to white, but the sun soon melted that uncomfortable coat of ice. We had it knocked!
As the top of the overcast gradually descended, we did also, following its contour. In a while we were back down to ten thousand feet and off with the oxygen masks. Coffee and a Luckie tasted delicious, and soon we were homing in on the Prestwick radio signal.
Establishing contact with Prestwick tower was sweet music even though the responses were not in American vernacular. However, the let-down instructions were precise, and as we broke out of the low undercast there rolling down the runway (HURRAH!) was Lawrence and company in Clancy’s “Careful Virgin.” It was a beautiful sight! As I taxied in I could see the first 303rd plane landing, and soon they were coming in like homesick Scots.
I met Baskin and Bill Clancy in the meteorological section of operations. After greeting them enthusiastically (was sure glad to see them!) and as we were getting around to the lack of communications en route, a mean-looking bird colonel stomped into the room. Spotting Lawrence, he said, “That was a helluva bunch of ice out there,” and in the same breath “and what a stair step chase you led us on!”
Lawrence cleared his throat in his characteristic manner and calmly replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. When we started icing, I chose to descend, and we flew the rest of the route at low altitude.” When he also commented that the radio transmitter on his plane had gone on the blink right after take-off, the colonel gave me a cold stare.
He really looked fierce, and saying, to no one in particular, “Do you mean I followed this lieutenant all the way across the ocean, and with my group right behind me?” I didn’t like the way he downgraded “lieutenant”—it was First Lieutenant—nor the tone of his voice. I thought what a rude and ungrateful bastard!
Then Baskin Lawrence made a statement that endeared me to him forever. He quietly said, “They’re all on the ground, aren’t they?” Old sourpuss just muttered, “Well I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch.” I agreed. He wheeled around and galumphed back through the door.
Everything was pretty quiet, and glancing back at Baskin, I could see a twinkle in his eyes, then a grin, a chuckle, and then an out and out laugh! After a second or two I joined in along with Clancy and then with the RAF metro office staff who had been observing this American exchange of amenities.
Yes, I remember Baskin Lawrence well. He was one great guy with a good sense of humor, who stood up for me once, when I was in need.
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