Testimony of D. Zane Schlemmer
D-Day veteran
D. Zane Schlemmer was born on October 13, 1924, in Canton, Ohio (USA). He enlisted a few days after his eighteenth birthday in 1942 in the Airborne Forces: the US Airborne Troops. He joined the paratroopers for various reasons, but most notably to prove his worth, for the $50 a month he would earn, because he was attracted by the pair of jump boots issued exclusively to paratroopers, and by the Airborne Troops’ insignia, the “Jump Wings.”
Of German descent, Zane Schlemmer also wanted to “set the record straight” and demonstrate his loyalty to his country.
After completing his training and participating in numerous exercises and maneuvers in the United States, Zane Schlemmer was sent by ship to Northern Ireland, where he disembarked in January 1944. He arrived in Nottingham, England, on St. Patrick’s Day (March 17), where he rejoined a large portion of the 82nd Airborne Division.
He died on July 21, 2013.
“On D-Day, I was a 19-year-old sergeant in Headquarters Company, Second Battalion, 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division. I was a forward observer for an 81mm mortar section. This is my story, my D-Day.”
“In Nottingham, England, we set up our camp—which would be used as a staging point for Operation Overlord in Normandy and Operation Market Garden in Holland—and although it was cold, we were comfortable. We will always have fond memories of Nottingham and its people.
The paratroopers were all volunteers, both general officers and enlisted men, and we always parachuted together; everyone felt the same way. On the ground, there was a sense of camaraderie and mutual respect among everyone, even toward the officers, most of whom were “West Pointers” [from “West Point,” the name of the famous American school that trains Army officers, webmaster’s note].
We spent the months leading up to the invasion in England, continuing our training. Most of it consisted of jumps, followed by regrouping and defense actions on top of a hill. Throughout the training, we repeatedly wondered which country we would be parachuted into. Rumors suggested likely landing points ranged from Norway to the Pyrenees Mountains. We were all eager to carry out our first mission.
In early June 1944, we boarded old British buses with all our equipment and were transported to our respective airfields. Our battalion assembled at the airfield located in Saltby, surrounded by barbed wire for security. We were then resupplied with ammunition.
At this time, I was, as a forward observer in a mortar section, armed with a 7.62mm M1 Garand rifle. We had been informed that the German troops were prioritizing the elimination of forward observers. So, armed with a rifle and carrying my binoculars in a pouch on the back of my belt, I tried to be as discreet as possible about my true role.
We also received ammunition for our mortars as well as various parts for their use. In addition to two grenades (one fragmentation and the other incendiary), we each received a Gammon grenade. The Gammon was a British invention. It is an explosive composed of nearly 1,000 grams of C-2 (plastic) wrapped in cotton. The detonator is a simple fuse that can be burned. These explosives were useful for destroying vehicles, and we called them “hand artillery.” The Gammon grenade was also very popular because a thin layer of C-2 plastic, when struck with a match, burns extremely quickly, providing an intense, smokeless heat source. We used it to prepare coffee and our K-rations deep in our mouse holes. So in Normandy, the size of our Gammon grenades was getting smaller by the day.
Each soldier was also issued an anti-tank mine that we had to carry into the field.
What I found most surprising was that every paratrooper asked for more ammunition, despite the fact that we were so heavily loaded. Everyone wanted to have potential firepower rather than relying on supplies.
Then we waited, killing time by checking our equipment, cleaning and recleaning our weapons, sharpening our knives again and again, checking our telephone equipment, as well as the bags containing our ammunition, which would be dropped at the same time as us. We then attached small lights to these bags to retrieve them after landing, given that the jump would take place at night. Then we were briefed, sitting on benches. We were told that our objective—a hill we were to capture—had recently been occupied by German troops, and that our orders had consequently changed. We were also informed that we were to jump without regard for anything and that it was forbidden to remain in the plane to return to England.
The first briefing session was accompanied by blank maps, simply showing fields, roads, rivers, bridges, and villages. The second briefing session was accompanied by maps bearing anglicized village names: Evansville (which was to become Etienville in the third briefing session), Port Abbey [Pont-l’Abbé, webmaster’s note], and Pickleville [Picauville, webmaster’s note]. During this third and final briefing session, we were informed that the drop zone was located in Normandy, France, and that our main objective was to prevent German soldiers from using the roads leading to the invasion beach known as Utah; our mission resembled an American football tactic: “field blocking.” We were then told that we were to hold our positions until we were relieved by the troops who had landed, and that we would then be evacuated from the Cotentin Peninsula.
We were then given a series of additional items, such as a mini-escape map and a tiny compass, which we had to insert inside our jump jackets. We were also given “invasion currency”: several franc bills, so that we could obtain supplies from the French population. We were each given two Benzedrine tablets (amphetamines) to help us stay awake, as well as two morphine syringes to self-administer in case we were injured. I had, of course, never heard of Benzedrine tablets or morphine syringes.
We were also given a small toy called a cricket, which served as an identifier and for communication once in enemy territory, in the dark. One “click” was to correspond to two “clicks.”
We then donned our yellow life jackets. Our M-1 rifles were disassembled and the various components were placed in a clothing bag we usually called a “violin box.” The container was then placed under our reserve parachute, so we could only truly defend ourselves once our parachute and harnesses were unfastened and our weapon reassembled. For this reason, I had carried a small Smith & Wesson revolver, which I carried just under the reserve parachute and under the yellow life jacket, in case I needed it upon landing.
D-Day was originally scheduled for June 5, 1944, but adverse weather conditions delayed the invasion for 24 hours. Finally, around 8:30 p.m. on Monday, June 5, 1944, our squadron assembled. My squadron numbered 18 paratroopers, and we crossed the airfield toward the plane that would transport us. In front of the Douglas C-47, we checked our equipment for the last time. We were almost ready, and it was impossible to relax, we were so heavily loaded.
We then blackened our faces, donned our parachutes (main and reserve), then put on our life jackets, placed our helmets on our heads, and fastened our chinstraps. We were then pushed and hoisted inside the aircraft by the crew members, as we were so heavily loaded that it was impossible for us to climb inside the aircraft on our own.
The soldiers’ faces all expressed something different: a nervous need to talk, to laugh, a reverence for prayer. All the small differences between the men were forgotten, and the spirit of camaraderie prevailed above all. I remember chewing an entire pack of gum during boarding, and since then I have no memory of what happened to that lump of gum. Either I swallowed it, or I lost it during the parachute drop.
Our plane was a C-53, with a relatively smaller exit door than the standard C-47, but ultimately there was no problem.
I often thought about the engineers who designed the seats in troop transport planes that were completely unsuitable for paratroopers and their equipment. Most of us preferred to sit on the floor rather than in the impractical seats.
The pilot and crew members asked us to move as far forward as possible to allow for the fastest possible takeoff. We noticed that every Allied plane and glider had three white stripes painted on each wing to facilitate identification. We were told that any aircraft spotted without these distinctive markings were to be shot down. Then, as dusk slowly filled the airfield with darkness, the planes’ engines started. They began coughing and spitting, and despite a few gasps, the noise stabilized and gradually increased in intensity.
As the engines reached full power, it seemed as if every single rivet vibrated in harmony with the noise produced by the aircraft’s mechanics, and then the planes took to the air. As we took off, we could see the airfield personnel waving their berets and caps in our direction, knowing, like us, that the long-awaited D-Day had only just begun.
On June 6, 1944, at 0:01 a.m. (UK time), we were approaching the English Channel. As the aircraft had no doors, the cabin was pleasantly cooled by the breeze. As I mentioned earlier, our squadron consisted of 18 paratroopers. Lieutenant Talbert Smith, one of our officers, was the leader of the stick, and I, as a sergeant, was to jump last.
As we reached the Channel, it was getting darker and darker, but we could see that the sea was covered with boats. It was evident that when we were over the Channel, our mines no longer expressed relative tranquility, and the stick became very calm, even thoughtful. In retrospect, it is clear that this change was due to the apprehension of the jump and the baptism of fire.
The only lights I saw were the glow of cigarettes. From where I was standing, just near the cockpit, I could see, as I stood up, behind the pilot, the blue wings of the formations of aircraft ahead of us.
After flying over the Channel for some time, we made a left turn, and I noticed two small isolated islands in that direction. I was to learn later that these were the Channel Islands, located off the coast of France. Soon, our plane flew over the French coast, and although visibility was poor, we could still make out roads, fields, and a few small houses, all appearing mainly brownish.
We then stood up, hooked our parachutes to the cable stretched above us, and checked our equipment in preparation for the jump and to avoid any problems. The red light came on. Then, suddenly, without warning, our plane flew through a very dense cloud or fog. This really concerned us because we could only see a white mass outside the plane, and we couldn’t even see the lights on the wingtips. This, of course, hampered the pilots, and many aircraft broke formation in an effort to avoid colliding with another plane.
For us standing in the cabin, time seemed endless, and we drifted from one cloud to the next, until we suddenly left the cloud mass. It was at this moment that we experienced the FLAK (German anti-aircraft artillery) and handguns, whose projectiles, when they hit the aircraft, made a noise similar to gravel hitting a metal sheet (it was a rather impressive sound, and once you hear it, you remember it forever).
We continued to check our equipment. The paratrooper then approached the exit door as quickly as possible, waiting for the green light to come on as the FLAK fire continued.
At that moment, I was only thinking about two things: first, I wanted to get out of the plane as quickly as possible, since I was the last of the group to jump, and second, I wondered what the hell I was doing in such a situation (I asked myself the same question many times in the days that followed).
Usually, based on habit and instinct, a skydiver can anticipate the green jump light, when the pilot slows down and loses altitude, but not that night. The green light came on, and the entire paratrooper exited the plane perfectly—it was almost like a choreography.
I truly felt the opening of my parachute as a violent shock, but also as a pleasant sensation. My helmet had been placed in front of my face, and I had to replace it to see again. The sky seemed to be animated by pinks, oranges, and red tracer bullets that curved elegantly, then separated into small streaks after passing through the canopy.
I have since wondered how often tracer bullets compared to the ordinary bullets used by the German army that night, because the sight of these “tracers” made a strong impression on me. In the distance, to the east (the direction taken by the Allied aircraft), I could see a very large fire on the ground—it must have been at Sainte-Mère-Eglise, although I didn’t know it at the time.
The awkward thing about night jumping is that you can’t see the ground approaching, and therefore you have to anticipate your landing. We parachuted from an extremely low altitude to minimize our fall time in the air, where, defenseless, we were easy targets, I landed against a hedge bordering an orchard, emitting a dull thud from my equipment, which I carried at my sides. I quickly divested myself from my harnesses, assembled the various parts of my rifle, and grabbed my revolver.
The moon, at that moment, was hidden behind clouds, and this faint light, which was somewhat pinkish in the sky due to the tracer bullets, allowed me to notice a small path along the orchard and a small house with a tiled roof. FLAK and handguns then opened fire on the next wave of paratroopers, which arrived in the distance.
I observed no signs of life, either in the orchard or inside the cottage. But near the westbound path, near a group of houses, there must have been a German strongpoint, where the fire was very heavy.
I had no way of finding the other paratroopers from my stick. I was to learn later that Lieutenant Talbert Smith, who jumped first, was immediately captured and taken prisoner. He was later killed in a low-flying attack by an American aircraft.
As I left the orchard to reach the small country lane, a huge orange fireball appeared overhead, descending rapidly in an easterly direction. It looked very much like a falling meteor or meteorite. But it was accompanied by the whine of two engines revving at full power, apparently a troop carrier about to crash, and my first thoughts were for the soldiers and crew members who were surely all still on board.
I found it strange that I hadn’t heard that flaming mass crash to the ground, but in any case, later, as the light of D-Day illuminated the surroundings, I saw the shapeless, flaming wreckage of a C-47 in a marsh on the Merderet River. I was never quite sure if it was indeed the stricken plane I had seen diving.
Three things hadn’t been communicated to us, and we quickly realized this. First, the area where I had parachuted was occupied by the Germans of the 91st Division, which was relatively feared. The division’s command post was located at the edge of our drop zone, and it seemed that the Germans occupied all the large French farms on the western side of the Merderet River.
Second, no one had informed us of the size of the immense French hedgerows. We had, of course, been warned that the region was dotted with plots surrounded by hedges, and we had come to terms with the idea that this was vegetation identical to that found in England, knowing that British hunters could easily pass over the hedges.
Thirdly, no one had warned us that the land near the Merderet or Douve Rivers was flooded. Instead, we were told of a simple wetland similar to those found along most rivers and streams. These marshes were like shallow lakes that stretched over long distances.
We were to learn later that the Germans had themselves flooded the valleys bordering the rivers, in an attempt to prevent any airborne attack. The marshes were generally too deep to cross, and drainage ditches prevented the water from flowing away. The marsh water was quite dirty; you couldn’t see the bottom, which was muddy. The presence of large weeds growing in this area made it very difficult, if not impossible, to cross the marshes.
I was alone and had no idea where I was, other than that I was in France. I couldn’t rejoin my group because the Germans were occupying the farm buildings located near the path. I quickly planted the anti-tank mine I was carrying on the small country road, camouflaged it behind branches, and armed it before heading south to flank the German strongpoint.
Near the next orchard, I met a sergeant from the 101st Airborne Division, who seemed as confused as I was to be where he was. We were both far from our respective objectives. We then heard small arms fire heading south, and I thought there must have been other paratroopers like us among those firing, so we took a road running east-west.
At the bottom of the ditch along this road, we found two parallel cables. These were apparently military communications cables, and we cut them before continuing our march and cutting the cables again about a hundred meters further on. We threw the detached section behind a hedge so it wouldn’t be used again.
Ahead of us, we could see a bend in the road, and beyond this bend, the path joined a larger road that crossed the marshes. A large house was nearby, behind a clump of trees where most of the firing was coming from. At first glance, it looked like another German strongpoint, so we continued along the road. We came to a small masonry bridge, a few houses along the road, and finally reached a railway intersection. I then remembered that the only village in our area with a railway network was called Chef-du-Pont.
The bridge, the village, the railway… I could finally visualize what we had been told during the previous day’s briefing. As I oriented myself, I managed to spot that I had landed about 2 or 2.5 kilometers southeast of my originally planned drop-off point (which was rather lucky, compared to other paratroopers) and that I was now on the wrong bank of the Merderet River.
The sergeant of the 101st Airborne decided to continue the advance towards his drop zone, located to the southeast, but I, knowing that I was on the wrong side of the Merderet River, left him and wanted to cross the small bridge again. At that moment, the German gunfire in my direction was increasing from this large house, which was a castle, and I was forced to find another crossing over the flooded area, which I did, north of the main road. There was sporadic automatic weapons fire in all directions, but I couldn’t tell if it was friend or foe.
As I reached the edge of the flooded terrain, I heard a glider crash into some tall trees bordering a field some distance from my position. We had been informed that numerous gliders, each carrying a small bulldozer, were expected to land before dawn to prepare the landing areas for the other gliders. The sound of this craft hitting the trees was like that of thousands of matches being lit by striking them together, and I thought of that poor glider pilot with a small bulldozer behind him.
I suddenly felt cold and was shivering. Whether it was from the dampness of the marshes and the cool night air, or from the fear I felt at the time, I wasn’t sure. Soon after, using the cricket, I joined a group of three other people. One of them was already injured, another had a broken leg from his jump. We provided them with medical assistance and placed them in a roadside ditch, under a large hedge, and I set off again with the third soldier.
At dawn, we left the road and the small paths and continued our advance through the fields, as we had been instructed during training. Indeed, we had to keep our distance from roads and houses due to artillery fire. By ceding these areas to the Germans, we could better control the battlefield, attacking like the American Indians during the conquest of the West. Thus, during all the days I spent in Normandy, I was never once inside a farm or building, except after my injury some time later, when I was transported to a building in the rear that had been converted into a field hospital.
We encountered other paratroopers in various fields preparing ambushes against German troops on the roads and country lanes. These fields became veritable battlefields, each isolated from the other. Before entering an orchard, we had to examine it through the hedges. If there were cows there, we were reassured because they were excellent indicators, as they identified people with milking and would stand in front of the first individual spotted, waiting for the milking to begin. Over all these years, I have kept a special place in my heart for these magnificent Normandy cows, with their large eyes and large udders.
We were very used to the sound of German boots clacking on the cobblestones of the Normandy roads, whereas our paratrooper boots were made of rubber and made a very different sound. Thus, we were able to surprise attack numerous enemy patrols, and what’s more, we had the advantage of the hedges that camouflaged us, being far too wide and dense to see through. We quickly learned to recognize the different weapons used by the German soldiers, simply by hearing the rate of fire and the noise they made.
Around ten o’clock in the morning on D-Day, dozens of paratroopers had joined us, some of them wounded, but we had no mortars, very few heavy machine guns, a few bazookas, a few radios, a little medical equipment (except that carried by each paratrooper), a few doctors to give first aid to the wounded, and yet, we all had our own weapons and those taken from injured comrades.
We were all preparing to attack our main objective, Etienville, a few kilometers away, but nothing impassable. Finally, we received a message from our colonel informing us that we were to break quickly and return to the perimeter of Hill 30, which overlooked the marshes I had crossed that morning in the twilight.
We then headed towards the hill that theoretically controlled two roads crossing the Merderet River. However, these strategic points were camouflaged by numerous hedges and apple orchards. I was assigned to an outpost on Hill 30, where I spent most of the next four days and nights, with the group commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Shanley.
I enjoyed this outpost position, although sometimes the fire came from several different directions, because there were so many wounded and dying in the rear, and there was no way to evacuate them. It was very difficult to hear their screams and moans, especially since we no longer had any medical supplies. We were also not supplied with ammunition, equipment, water, or food, but we could manage without them, although the lack of plasma and other medical supplies was acute.
Several paratroopers volunteered to wade and swim through the marshes to bring back plasma and supplies for the medical service.
We were exhausted until, a few days later, we were able to radio an artillery battery of 75mm guns. The artillery barrage put an end to numerous German attacks, even though our situation at the outposts was sometimes extremely critical.
After opening fire to counter a German offensive coming from a small path near the outposts, we captured and brought back two small German artillery guns and ammunition. We pulled them back from Hill 30 for reuse in a future attack.
On June 6, 1944, at 11:59 a.m., my body was becoming very weary, but I was mentally active (probably thanks to Benzedrine), luxuriously wrapped in a parachute that kept me very, very warm in my mousehole. We couldn’t know whether the beach landings had succeeded or not, but we knew we could hold out against German attacks for at least five days. During those days waiting for reinforcements, I matured a lot, and only a soldier faced with this kind of situation could understand.
I should also mention that on the morning of D-Day, we learned of the death of our Catholic chaplain, who had jumped with us and was killed by German grenades while tending to our wounded. We vowed to avenge his death, regardless of the laws of war.
We continued fighting in Normandy for another month, until I was wounded by American artillery fire targeting the flank of Hill 131, a major fortification above the French town of La-Haye-du-Puits. On July 4, 1944, I was taken aboard an LST (Landing Ship, Tank) hospital ship, which transported me to England, where I ended up in a British field hospital.
They had to rip off my uniform, covered in dirt and blood, which I had worn without bathing for 29 days. I insisted on keeping my jump boots on while my injuries were being treated, as they were the most valuable thing I had in that place.
I marveled at the impressive luxury of the U.S. Navy, with its clean seats, white sheets, canned peaches, white bread, fruit juice, and real coffee—all these things I had forgotten, and they seemed almost strange to me after experiencing those difficult days through the Normandy hedgerows.
Our regiment was withdrawn from the front on July 8, 1944, and of the 2,055 paratroopers of the 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment who jumped over France on June 6, 1944, only 918 were taken aboard LSTs to Nottingham, England, to reform the regiment, fill the gaps, and prepare for the next parachute jump. The rest were killed, wounded, or missing. Yet, many of us were able to rejoin the regiment later. I was lucky to be only superficially injured and to be able to leave the hospital just in time to jump over Holland on September 17, 1944, with my own platoon, although my arm was still bandaged and I could still feel the other wounds I had received in Normandy.
For many years after leaving the army in November 1945, I tried to forget all my memories of those fateful days and months, but they periodically returned. In the 1970s, I suddenly realized that those years were part of me, that they belonged to history, and that nothing could change those memories.
In 1974, I returned to Normandy and Europe to revisit the farms, fields, forests, and towns I had observed in such different conditions in previous years. After some research, I found the apple orchard where I had landed on D-Day. I met the Normandy villagers who lived in the area at the time and who invited me into their home, feeling that they would never forget the magical moments of their liberation.
But above all, I found peace within myself and was surprised to discover that, indeed, all paratroopers can cry.
In 1977, the very pleasant people of Picauville, Normandy, installed a plaque near the orchard where I landed and honored me by renaming the adjacent street “Rue Zane Schlemmer.” Farmer Pierre Cotelle, who had spent years amassing a collection of various World War II materials, named his collection the “Zane Schlemmer Museum.” And all this because one night, many years before, a young American paratrooper came to give them the same thing that a French general, Lafayette, to whom we owe a lot of respect (he had helped our revolutionary army), had given us a long time ago: Liberty.
Zane Schlemmer
