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.
