KEEPING the PROMISE
The Story of MIA Jerry Elliott,
a Family Shattered by His Disapearance,
and His Sister’s 40-Year Search for the Truth
Donna E. Elliott
KEEPING THE PROMISE
©2010 William R. Berry
Published by Hellgate Press
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or information and retrieval systems without written permission of the publisher.
Hellgate Press
PO Box 3531
Ashland, OR 97520
email: [email protected]
Editor: Harley B. Patrick
Cover design: L. Redding
Back cover photo: Rita Ward
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Elliott, Donna E., 1969-
Keeping the promise : the story of MIA Jerry Elliott, a family shattered by
his disapearance, and his sister’s 40-year search for the truth / Donna E.
Elliott ; editor Harley Patrick. -- 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-55571-670-7
1. Elliott, Jerry William, 1948- 2. Vietnam War, 1961-1975--Missing in
action--United States. 3. Elliott, Donna E., 1969- I. Patrick, Harley B. II.
Title.
DS559.8.M5E45 2010
959.704’38--dc22
2010002220
Printed and bound in the United States of America
First edition 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book is dedicated to my son...
Happy 40th Birthday, Randy!
Naval Chaplain Ray Stubbe (standing) holds a field service for Marines during the Battle of Khe Sanh, which claimed the lives of over four hundred U.S. Army, Marine, Navy, and Air Force soldiers between January 20 and March 31, 1968. Stubbe recently donated over four hundred items to the Wisconsin Veterans Museum; included among the items was the brass crucifix shown in the photo. Photo credit: Dick Swanson.
“We can never forget our past—we are unable to do so...The well-wishers, those who tell us to, just don’t understand. How could they?”
– Chaplain Ray Stubbe
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Introduction: The Fourth of July
One Black Sunday
Two Jerry
Three Jerry Joins the Army
Four Airborne All the Way
Five Pathfinder: First In, Last Out
Six Black Hats in Vietnam
Seven Ambush at the Old French Fort
Eight A Knock at the Door
Nine Life Goes On
Ten The Shrine
Eleven Vietnam Veterans Against the War
Twelve On Every Level
Thirteen The Promise
Fourteen Yo’ Mama Wears Combat Boots
Fifteen Mama
Sixteen Daddy
Seventeen A New Beginning
Eighteen Invisible Wound
Nineteen Whitewash
Twenty Cindy
Twenty-One In ‘Nam
Twenty-Two Khe Sanh
Twenty-Three ‘Run for the Wall’ & ‘Rolling Thunder’
Twenty-Four Hill 861 & Bru Anha
Twenty-Five Honor Among Warriors
Twenty-Six American G.I. at the Old French Fort
Twenty-Seven Goodbye, Vietnam!
Twenty-Eight Peace of Mind
Twenty-Nine Bring the Bones Home
Thirty Keeping the Promise
Postscript: Transparency?
Appendix: POW/MIA Information Resources
Acknowledgments
I wish to recognize those who sustained me as I rambled through a labyrinth of potent, repressed memories. The journey was painfully unpredictable, but family and friends endured my mood swings and loved me anyway. Thank you all, I couldn’t have completed this book without your much-needed support.
I sincerely acknowledge all the Vietnam veterans who provided me with information and esprit de corps, especially the 268th Pathfinders, the 282nd Black Cats, my Khe Sanh vet brothers, and the Run For The Wall family.
Special thanks to Anne Perry for her professional language skills and endearing encouragement. Heartfelt appreciation to Mick Powner for significant suggestions and proofreading copy as if he were breaking code. Last, but not least, I would like to thank my writing coach Sheila Cosper. Her encouragement convinced this reluctant writer that not only should the accounting process of my MIA brother be told, but there was also a valid need to chronicle the corrosive effects his situation placed on the Elliott family. Perhaps, as a result of sharing our story, history will not be repeated.
The MISSING MAN TABLE: The six empty places set at this table represent the brave men and women from each of the five services—Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Coast guard—and civilians, who are missing from the vietnam War.
Foreword
It is the dead who make the greatest demands on the living, and the return of our war dead is no exception. The bodies of those that perish in battle hold significance far beyond their mere physical properties. These bodies represent sacrifice, honor, and a pledge fulfilled to the people and government of the United States of America.
The dead themselves do not demand a proper burial, but the safe return of their remains is of paramount importance to the living. The survivors of the slain soldier need those remains to bring their grief to closure. We as a nation need to mourn our soldiers collectively and individually. Thus will soldiers risk their own lives to recover the bodies of the slain during and after a battle. The U.S. military follows a strict code of conduct concerning the retrieval of dead warriors and millions of dollars are spent every year to bring the fallen back home, with proper honors being rendered.
But what of those that are lost in battle without a full accounting? What of those Missing-In-Action (MIA) who left behind no body, no information, no hints as to their safety or death? What of those who leave behind only questions? For the families of these MIAs, the mourning never stops, and closure never comes. Jerry Elliott, a member of the 282nd Assault Helicopter Company (AHC) Black Cat rescue mission that attempted to come to the aid of my beleaguered garrison in Khe Sanh village, disappeared during that fight. His whereabouts are to this day still unknown. Jerry’s sister, Donna Elliott, has devoted her life and resources to finding answers to her brother’s disappearance. This is the story that unfolds in Keeping the Promise. America must remain faithful to the promise we make to every soldier in the United States military, an agreement of honor that if something happens to them while serving our great nation in a foreign country, they will never be abandoned.
While writing my own memoirs about Vietnam, Expendable Warriors: The Battle of Khe Sanh and the Vietnam War, my research took me to the 282nd Black Cat website where I met Donna. Her indefatigable search for her brother Jerry, who was MIA in the same place and at the same time as my own story, opened up volumes of information about the Agony of Khe Sanh—the seventy-seven day siege—that was invaluable to me in writing the book. Since meeting Donna and becoming part of her journey to find her brother, I have learned and participated in my own small way in her story which she tells so elegantly in Keeping the Promise. She is an excellent chronicler, researcher, and more importantly, sh
e fights the hard fight for what she knows is right.
Donna believes we Americans must never forget our Prisoners-of-War (POWs) and MIAs. By writing Keeping the Promise, her goal is to achieve national support for the search for not only her brother Jerry, but all of America’s POW/MIAs. The truth at the heart of Case 1000, and many, many other POWMIA cases, is that there is no truth...and if not yet, when?
What emerges from her description of Jerry’s disappearance is the devastation of her family and her continuous fight with the POW/MIA bureaucracy to learn about his status. The reader immediately senses the clear image of Donna Elliott as the strongest of women—she fought through physical and psychological barriers to not only live this story, but to write it.
Keeping the Promise will generate more questions than answers about the POW/MIA bureaucracy—questions that need to be raised again and again until there are clear answers. Every reader of this book will find within its pages a renewed dedication to seeking answers to the whereabouts of our missing soldiers, and a clear understanding of the toll that war extracts from the families of all our combatants. When each American demands a full and accurate accounting of every POW/MIA warrior where evidence indicates suspected enemy knowledge, then Donna’s goal of seeking understanding to all the unanswered questions about her brother, and all of America’s POW/MIAs will have been accomplished.
Bruce B. G. Clarke
Colonel, U.S. Army (Ret)
Prologue
“Soldier Dead” is a collective phrase used to refer to military personnel who perish in battle. Among the highest and proudest of traditions is the ceremonial ritual with which the military repatriates its dead. When carried to their final resting place, the American flag, blue field over the left shoulder, nobly drapes the casket of the U.S. veteran.
U.S. service members simultaneously fire a three-volley gun salute. A bugler plays Taps, and calls the fallen warrior to the sleep of death. A service representative presents the burial flag, ceremoniously folded into a precise triangle, to the family. Inside are three spent shell casings to prove, now and forevermore, the deceased and the flag have received proper military honors.
Our family has never paid tribute to my brother, Army Staff Sergeant (SSGT) Jerry W. Elliott, in this manner. He’s been missing in Vietnam for over forty years now, with no credible proof he’s either dead or alive.
Since the age of sixteen, the POW/MIA issue has manipulated my life. The uncertainty strained relationships and resources to the breaking point, destroyed my immediate family, and tainted my son’s life. Regrettably, the search for answers to Jerry’s fate has at times caused me to doubt the political integrity and general accountability of the government of America, my homeland, the country I love. On the other hand, the POW/MIA issue has served to bond me with some of the most loyal and compassionate people on earth.
When I began to put pen to paper in the fall of 2003, I never imagined this manuscript would become such an immense mental, emotional, and physical challenge, and result in the most soul-searching, healing experience of my life. Through the process of writing down painful memories, old issues reconciled with new understandings, which reduced events to appropriate levels of significance. Ironically, in many ways I gained what I seek for the POW/MIAs: liberty.
Repatriation of U.S. soldier, Hanoi Noi Bai Airport, Vietnam, May 1999.
I started to write Keeping the Promise as a legacy for my son, Randy, and my two grandsons, Sam and Max. I finished writing the book for myself, because completion became a mountain I felt compelled to climb. Hopefully, this chronicle will help my family and others to understand why I dedicate so much time, effort, and expense towards the investigation of the actual fate of my brother, last seen alive on January 21, 1968, in Khe Sanh, South Vietnam.
With the completion of Keeping the Promise, I am confident no one will ever again ask me, “You do know Jerry is dead, don’t you?” Nor will they ask why I continue the search, even though the Vietnam War ended in 1975. I am optimistic readers will be motivated to ask questions and seek answers in support of American soldiers still missing in Southeast Asia.
Over the past forty years, I have met many other POW/MIA family members with stories similar to ours. Psychological problems routinely impeded family relationships, with depression disorders often exacerbated by alcohol and/or drug abuse. Regrettably, there have been many suicides within the POW/MIA families, and the ripple effect has been multigenerational.
I agree with General John Vessey, who said the POW/MIA issue is “...a human issue, a material human issue on this earth. And there are facts that will disclose the answer to the questions we are seeking. Let’s find the facts and let the facts speak for themselves.”
Introduction
The Fourth of July
My white dress, streaked pink from sticky cotton candy, reflected the significance of the day. The ringlets Mama carefully combed into my baby-blonde hair now hung limp, and a veneer of dust dimmed my black patent leather shoes. The July heat plastered Jerry’s platinum curls to his head, and tiny bits of red-candy apple speckled his white shirt. In high spirits, my brother and I disregarded appearance to enjoy the thrill of our hometown Fourth of July parade.
The procession began on the east end of Main Street, passed along the levee, and ended near the railroad tracks on Washington Avenue. Although a sultry Mississippi Delta evening, every able-bodied person in Washington County lined the route. Everyone looked forward to this annual patriotic celebration where folks played yard games, ate a potluck lunch, churned homemade ice cream, and created family memories.
In 1955, still steeped in old Southern traditions, Greenville residents celebrated Independence Day with a grand parade and fireworks on the river. The Fourth of July was a day set aside for picnics, family reunions, and a nod to U.S. veterans. Ten years after World War II, folks remembered why America celebrated Independence Day and they were keen to acknowledge the blood and sacrifice that is the price for freedom; a sacred debt every service member felt privileged to pay in honor and duty. Dignified veterans of the Army, Air Force, Navy, Marine Corps, and Coast Guard peppered the crowd.
Jerry and I were proud our father, a Seaman First Class during WW II, had served his country. Although he rarely talked about his stint in the Navy, an old enlistment photo hung on the wall at Grandma Rosie’s house. He smiled for the camera, optimistically young and darkly handsome in his sailor blues.
The author’s father, Apprentice Seaman William S. Elliott, 1944.
Mama and Daddy sat down and leaned their lawn chairs into the shade of the old brick buildings that lined South Walnut Street. They chatted with friends and neighbors about the cotton crop, what the fish were biting, and shared various theories of weather prediction. Daddy offered his opinion that fish tend to bite better right before a good rain. Mama and I glanced at each other and smiled at his expertise on the and smiled at his expertise on the subject. Daddy had a fancy rod and reel with a fully stocked tackle box. Grandma used a cane pole and spit on her baited hook, but she always out fished Daddy.
Ten days shy of his seventh birthday; Jerry tried hard to act nonchalant about the upcoming parade, but he didn’t fool me. The sun went down and the dying light lent a magical glow to everything. No longer able to hide his excitement, he radiated with expectation. I didn’t know what to expect, but I found my older brothers exuberance contagious. In anticipation, we jumped up and down, stood on tiptoe, and impatiently leaned into the rope barrier to see what spectacle would come down the street.
First came members of the homecoming court atop a showy Kleenex-carnation covered float. Next, baton-twirling majorettes pranced down the avenue in red, white, and blue spangles that shimmered under the streetlights. Laughing at the audacious clowns, we gawked at the stilt walkers, and scrambled for the hard candy thrown by beauty queens perched atop shiny new convertibles. From a block away, Jerry and I could hear the music and feel the percussion under our feet. The high school marching band cam
e into view and the muggy air resonated with the sounds of “Stars and Stripes Forever.” The proud drum major, a tall boy with a plume in his hat, led the snappily dressed musicians. The band, undaunted by the lazy Delta heat, played their shiny instruments with youthful gusto.
Suddenly, the cadence of a hundred and twenty feet striking the pavement drew our full attention. All starch and shine, they marched down the block with shoulders back, chin up, eyes straight ahead. Sharp in their olive-drab uniforms, every rifle balanced perfectly against a hard, lean shoulder - this was the Mississippi Army National Guard. Stopping directly in front of us, the soldiers began to perform precision movements with their weapons. The First Sergeant (1SG) directed his men: Order, ARMS! Right shoulder, ARMS! Port, ARMS! Left shoulder, ARMS! Present, ARMS! Order, ARMS!
Awestruck by this demonstration of military bearing, strength, and dexterity, Jerry and I watched in wide-eyed admiration. All too soon, the soldiers marched away, heads held high in acknowledgement of applause and cheers. They were shadows in the distance when Jerry, mesmerized by the ceremonial array of uniforms and weapons, finally broke the spell. My big brother leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Donna, when we grow up, let’s join the Army!” We smiled at each other and nodded in agreement, a significant decision for a young boy and a little girl. We shook hands on our pact...a heart and soul promise.
Donna (left) and her brother, Jerry, 1954.
Black Cats en route to Khe Sanh. Photo courtesy Black Cat Assn.
Keeping the Promise: The Story of MIA Jerry Elliott, a Family Shattered by His Disappearance, and a Sister's 40-Year Search for the Truth Page 1
