John G. Kormann

As an enlisted man he served in the 517th Airborne Signal Company of US 17th Airborne Division. John G. Kormann describes what was on his mind on the day before Operation Varsity and how he had to take a crucial decision shortly after landing in glider near Hamminkeln on March 24th, 1945.

Part 1

John G. Kormann (1924-2015) served as an enlisted man in the 517th Airborne Signal Company of US 17th Airborne Division. In this first part of his recollections he describes the atmosphere of the day before the battle and the start of Operation Varsity on the next day, March 24th, 1945.

At five o'clock that afternoon, we were fed a better than usual meal and were even encouraged to come back for seconds, which we did gladly. There was no question in our minds then that something was going to take place on the morrow. We returned to our tents and began checking our equipment. Rifle bolts clicked. Scraping sounds were heard, as trench knives and bayonets were sharpened. I adjusted the netting over my steel helmet, to which was tied a small first aid packet containing sulfa powder to disinfect wounds. I paid special attention to the M-3 submachine gun I had recently been issued to replace my rifle; somehow, I felt uneasy about it as a weapon. Earlier, I had sewn a 3x5 inch American flag on the right upper arm of my battle jacket. Several of the men were writing last-minute letters home.

It was still daylight when we heard the shout, "mail call!" We all gathered outside to listen to the mail clerk call out the recipients. It had been some time since we had had a mail delivery and sure enough, there were two letters for me, one from my mother, the other from my sister Elsie. Elsie's letter reflected her usual cheerful self, was newsy, and probably admonished me to write home more often. Mother's letter, on the other hand, upset me greatly. She always had a sixth sense about what was happening to me and I could tell she knew I was to go into combat. Her letter spoke about the Germany she had grown up in, that some of those good people must be there still, and that I should have compassion for my enemy and be merciful. I would be facing some boy whose mother worried about him and prayed for him, just as she did about me. I was furious. She had no idea that all of my training had taught me to "kill or be killed," and that a "second's hesitation can mean your life." What was she trying to do, get her son killed? Her intervention was the last thing I wanted to hear at this time. Things were bad enough. If there ever was a time I needed to be tough, it was now. I recall muttering to myself as I was sharpening my trench knife that Mother simply could not fathom my predicament? After a while, I settled down, but I had no success sleeping that night. (…)

About three o'clock the following morning, March 24, 1945, we were awakened and fed an elaborate breakfast of steak and eggs, finished off with apple pie. No one said it might be our last meal, but I am sure that the thought was not far from everyone's mind. We then returned to the tents, completed preparations, put on combat gear, and moved out to the air-field. (…) We waited around for a while and then were ordered to board the gliders, based on the loading detail breakdown we had used the previous day. The Air Corps pilot and co-pilot were already in their seats, checking the controls. There were six of us altogether in the WACO, plus the jeep loaded with equipment and extra five-gallon gas cans. While we waited apprehensively, the C-47 in front of us gunned its engines, taxied slowly, taking up the slack in the towropes, and then started sluggishly down the long runway, with us bouncing along behind. (…)

We were in the air in that glider an interminable amount of time. I do not think any of us focused on just how long, but it must have been close to three hours. All the while we were being thrown about, as we prayed that the lashings on the jeep would remain tight. The pilots were close to exhaustion trying to keep the gliders apart. (…) By the time we came near the drop zone, most of us were sick or queasy from the stench of vomit. The general paratrooper airsickness procedure was to separate one's steel helmet (pot) from the plastic liner (inner helmet) and use the former as a receptacle. That might have been fine in training, but in combat one had better have a full helmet on when the shooting starts. Consequently, the moment we came under fire, those who were ill jammed their liners into the steel pots and put their helmets on, vomit dripping down around the edges. It was a sight to turn a grown man ashen! The pilot shouted as we came over Germany and neared the Rhine River. Looking down, I saw that the entire area seemed to be covered with smoke or haze. Within seconds, we started hearing sounds resembling pebbles tossed on a tin roof, interspersed with loud, thumping sounds. Bursts of light appeared in the fabric frame around us, with ripping sounds and splintering in the plywood floor. We were taking flak and small arms' fire. Everyone except the pilots crouched down in the jeep, hoping the chassis would provide some protection. I prayed that the jeep's full gas tank would not be hit, or the glider would become an inferno. We were totally helpless targets those final minutes.

Part 2

On March 24th, 1945, John G. Kormann landed in a Waco glider on landing zone „N“ near Hamminkeln. These are his recollections of the day of the airborne assault.

We came down parallel to the edge of the woods, a wing hitting a downed glider while still off the ground. Flying forward virtually at air speed, we smashed into the earth in a belly-landing, bounced and careened and scraped along until the nose struck the trunk of a tree with full force. In the landing, we were all thrown about wildly. I was momentarily knocked unconscious. When I came to, I heard moaning and cursing. The realization that we were being shot at prompted us to push out the door and tumble frantically out of the glider. Once on the ground, I could hardly move. My left pants leg was ripped, exposing a very bloody and swelling knee. It seemed I had cuts, scrapes, and bruises everywhere. Actually, I may have been in better shape than some of the others, particularly the pilots, who took the brunt of the nose collision. There were no medics around, and for minutes we all lay hugging the ground.

In the collision, the jeep had flown forward, partially lifting open the nose of the glider and wedging it upward against the tree. Under the circumstances, there was no way to remove the damaged jeep from the WACO. The lifting of the nose, however, raised the pilots' seats and probably spared them from being crushed by the jeep. Looking out across the vast plowed field beyond the aircraft wreckage, one could see a road lined with several farmhouses. Off in the distance, tall high-tension-wire pylons stretched across the countryside. A parachute draped over the wires was mute testimony to what might have occurred. Smoke and the sound of exploding artillery and gunfire enveloped the area.

(…) A short way into the trees, we encountered a railroad track with a long, waist-deep trench running parallel to it as far as we could see. Dirt was piled up alongside the trench, and foxholes were scattered about in the woods. The Germans must have evacuated these emplacements for more secure positions deeper in the forest, for had there been a fight for them, casualties would have been lying about. We took stock of our position and saw to our injuries. After cleaning the deep gash in my knee with water from my canteen, I removed the first aid packet from my helmet and poured sulfa powder on the wound. That done, I was told to move north in the trench to reconnoiter, while someone else moved south. We had no idea where the rest of our company was, but generally our position would not be far from division headquarters. (…) I returned to our position to find that my group had moved out of the woods onto the plowed field and headed west. Why this decision was made I do not know. I could only surmise that it must have been toward an assembly point known to the pilot or a corporal who was with us. Others, who had landed in the interim, were moving that way as well. I followed, running and limping as fast as I could despite my injured knee, out to the wreckage of a WACO and dropped to the ground.

Looking around, I saw that I was lying among casualties of a direct hit. Not more than four feet from me lay a glider pilot with the top of his skull cleanly taken off, his brains spewing down onto his shoulder. Other bodies were scattered in and around the glider. The sight of your unit insignia on a dead man is always a sobering experience. 

Shaken by what I saw, I hastened farther out onto the field in pursuit of the others. I must have gone 30-40 yards over plowed ground when I became aware that I was under fire. Just ahead of me I spotted a deep track in the soft earth and I dove for it. The combination of a furrow and glider track was just low enough to keep me from being hit. I raised my head at one point to see where my companions were and was knocked sideways, my helmet ripped from my head. I could see it ten feet from where I lay, but I dared not try to retrieve it. From where I was lying, it seemed that the shooting was coming from the farmhouses, about 300 yards away. I am sure that with a rifle I could have put a few rounds through some of the windows. Under these circumstances, my 45-caliber, M-3 submachine gun was useless, and I vowed to dispose of it as soon as I could. Shortly thereafter, adding to my anxiety, several phosphorous rounds exploded on the field, but I was not certain what or whose they were. (…) My leg throbbed and my head hurt.

Lying there, I pondered what would happen next. Just then, I saw a wonderful sight. Out of a line of trees on the far northwestern side of the field, a jeep appeared. There were paratroopers all over it, sitting on the hood, hanging on the back. Others ran alongside. 

Farther back, spread abreast, came more of them. It was the 3rd Battalion of the 513th Parachute Infantry, which had been dropped in error far to the north of their jump zone. 

Riding in the jeep next to the driver was Major Morris Anderson, their commander. "Need a little help?" was his comment as he approached me. I was never so glad to see anyone in my life. Their appearance must have been noted, for the firing stopped. I told them where the shooting seemed to have originated. One of the men said there was a machine gun emplacement over there that had been raking the field. In no time, I was limping along in the company of some of the 513th men, angry and determined to clean out those farmhouses. When we got there, it was obvious that the position had been hastily vacated. German equipment and spent rounds lay about in two of the buildings.

Departing then to seek my own group, I passed close to the last house along the road. Pausing, I heard sounds coming from a storm cellar. I took a grenade I wore on my shoulder strap and approached the cellar trap-door. Cautiously lifting the door slightly, while keeping myself out of the line of fire, I was prepared to toss in the grenade, when I remembered my mother's letter and her plea, "be merciful." Instead, I hesitated and then shouted down in German, "Hände hoch! Sofort heraus!" There was no response. I shouted out again. This time there was stirring and then the first person emerged. I was stunned to see an elderly grandmother emerge, then another woman, then four or five little children, until a total of fourteen women and children stood before me. I trembled at what I might have done. To this day, I still shudder at the burden that would have been placed on my life had I not received my blessed mother's letter. 

By this time, I gave up my effort to rejoin the others and simply accompanied the men of the 513th as they fought their way to their assigned deployment.

(These excerpts from John G. Kormann’s autobiography „Echoes of a Distant Clarion“, Washington D.C., 2007, are used here with kind permission of his daughter Andrea Lowe-Kormann)