Jerry’s penchant for being a daredevil wasn’t new. One summer the carnival came to town. We could hardly wait until sunset to hit the midway. Our spending money, earmarked for the neon-lit rides, burned in our pockets.
My favorite ride was the big Ferris wheel that took you so high over the treetops a person could see for miles. Jerry liked the fast, scary rides that turned you upside down, or spun you around. I was surprised when he and a friend agreed to ride with me on the Ferris wheel. The three of us climbed on the ride together, and I sat between the boys. We lumbered slowly around a few times as I contentedly stared into the night sky. As I looked down at the other kids who waited in line, I felt the seat start to rock back and forth. As soon as I felt the motion, I cringed with the realization I’d made a serious error. I knew Jerry liked the rush of blood to his head; he even slept with his head hung upside down off the bed. I grabbed for the safety bar. Jerry glanced at me, laughed in amusement, and rocked harder. His friend caught on, moving with him. As our seat approached the very peak of the circle, it suddenly flipped over. I was scared stiff. When we reached the bottom, the boys sat still and smiled like two cherubs. I tried to signal the ride operator that I wanted to get off, but the wheel didn’t stop.
Back up we went. Jerry started to rock again. I didn’t want to flip again. From the expression on the other boy’s face, once was enough for him too. When we reached the very top, Jerry made the seat swing completely over for a second time. I was certain we would fall to the ground and be smashed to death; however, it was all good fun to my daring brother.
Yes, Jerry was a thrill seeker. He had moved from the relative safety of a Ferris wheel to jumping out of planes. I watched the sky intently and imagined Jerry seated in the aircraft, his head cocked to one side as he listened for the command, “Get ready!” This signal alerted the jumpers to direct their attention to the jumpmaster, signifying their readiness.
“Go!” The green light was the signal for Jerry to spring up, jump out the door, and move into the first point of performance. There was no going back when he was two miles up, and the plane over his head was moving away. Airspace was a risky classroom.
Taught to take control of his body from the instant he left the aircraft door until the shock of the opening parachute, Jerry snapped his legs and feet together. Head down, chin against his chest, he locked his knees with toes pointed toward the ground. He rotated both elbows sharply into his sides. Jerry placed his left palm on the end panel of the reserve chute, right palm over the ripcord grip. Bent at the waist, he could see the toes of his jump boots.
At the same moment he exited the aircraft, Jerry began to count, “One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand.” He felt the parachute open with a jerk, grasped the risers with thumbs up, spread the straps apart, and threw his head back to inspect the parachute canopy.
After he checked for malfunctions, Jerry took a quick look around his airspace before pulling out a unauthorized camera. As he floated peacefully in the gentle Georgia wind, he snapped photos of fellow paratroopers, the countryside, and his family somewhere in the crowd far below. As the ground slowly came towards him, Jerry slipped the compact camera into a pocket, and descended gracefully back to earth.
Jerry watches Saturday cartoons as Donna reads a comic, circa early 1960s.
The next morning visitors gathered in a large auditorium for the graduation ceremony. Approximately three-hundred enthusiastic student soldiers marched in with flags waving, as the band played “The Caissons Go Rolling Along.” Unexpected emotions washed over me as Jerry strode down the aisle. I was so proud of my big brother at that moment I could have burst.
Brothers and sisters are among the most important people in your life, yet often the most troublesome. Jerry and I lived together, played together, laughed together, and fought together. At times though, he downright annoyed me. He constantly monopolized the bathroom, borrowed or broke my favorite things, and teased me to the point where I wished I were an only child.
At the same time, I turned to my big brother for entertainment, support, and advice. Jerry was my playmate, my partner in crime, my midnight companion, my teacher, and my protector. We didn’t resemble each other in personality, but we shared private family jokes and stories, childhood secrets, looks that communicated without words, our sorrows and joys. The Vietnamese have a saying, “Brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet.” Whatever they may do in life, you still love them, and remain connected to them until the day you die.
The applause was thunderous as the 4th Student Battalion marched onto the stage. Introduced as, “The newest graduates of the United States Army Airborne Course as of February 3, 1967,” the class stood proudly at attention as cheers, whistles, and shouts almost raised the roof. The fresh Paratroopers didn’t move a muscle, although I noticed a faint smile on every handsome, eager young face.
Unexpectedly called on stage to participate in the ceremony, Mama appeared unusually small as she stood before her only son. She had to look up to pin the silver jump wings on his chest. My brother was now an airborne paratrooper. This was by far the most exciting thing that had happened in our family since Cindy Ann was born. Jerry truly surprised Mama when he in turn pinned her with pewter jump wings chained to a red-enameled heart, engraved with “Mother.” My throat felt tight, tears stung my eyes; this occasion was truly an unforgettable point in time for the Elliott family.
After the ceremony, we waited with Jerry for a few hours to see if his orders would arrive. If scheduled to ship out to Vietnam, the Army would allow him to come home on leave first. As we lingered by the car in the parking lot, several of Jerry’s classmates came by to share duty destinations. A few had orders for Vietnam. Out of consideration for our parents, these young paratroopers intentionally played down the danger. Nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof, Mama intuitively feared Jerry would go directly to Vietnam like many of his friends. He finally convinced her we should leave Georgia without him. He rationalized it might be days before orders came down. There was no way to second-guess where the Army might send him next.
Daddy was unnaturally quiet on the way home; it wasn’t his way to talk about what burdened his heart. Mama kept her head bent low over the map. In spite of the road noise, Cindy and I could hear her tender sobs. Anxious and unsure, we quietly fell asleep wrapped around each other in the cramped backseat.
A few days after we returned home from Ft. Benning, Jerry called to let us know he had received orders. Vietnam was not yet his destiny. Our folks were visibly relieved. The Army would not immediately send their son halfway around the world to a foreign land where people wore pointy straw hats, black pajamas, and killed Americans. He would report directly to Fort Hood, Texas, for assignment to the 268th Aviation Battalion. His orders also stated “further assignment to a restricted area overseas,” which meant duty in Vietnam. Jerry neglected to mention this to our parents, but they recognized the temporary reprieve. Vietnam was inevitable.
The pall of war hovered like a ghost in our home. Mama and Daddy faithfully watched the six o’clock news every evening after supper. There was always mention of battles, and numbers of deaths instead of names. Partial to Jerry (the only thing she had ever refused her only grandson was a motorcycle), I noticed when Grandma Rosie visited, each time the news came on TV she feigned a headache and left the room. Grandma just couldn’t bear to hear the latest body count from the Vietnam War.
Although generally well informed through newspapers and broadcasts, I don’t recall ever overhearing our folks openly discuss the right or wrong of the politics surrounding the war in Vietnam. They knew Jerry wasn’t at a Boy Scout jamboree; their son was a member of the United States military. No matter how exhilarating the Army might be, there was a war going on, and he would soon be a part of it. Not to support our soldiers was un-American, plain and simple.
Cindy was too young to understand Jerry’s precarious situation. All that mattered to our little sister was her persona
l hero jumped out of airplanes, and “Butter” didn’t live at home to play with her everyday. She missed our big brother very much. To cheer her up, I rode her piggyback, but my scrawny efforts never equaled the special fun Cindy and Jerry shared on their wild rides.
As for me, the war still didn’t seem real. I knew little about the politics that involved the U.S. in Southeast Asia, even less about the individual soldier experience, and nothing at all about the true price of war. I had never heard, or participated in a discussion, in or out of the classroom about the war. If asked, I probably would have said the objective was to keep the evils of Communism out of our own backyard. At fifteen, I didn’t personally know anyone who had served in Vietnam.
All I actually knew about the situation was my personal guard dog was safely off with the military somewhere in Texas, while I focused on my first year of high school. I didn’t miss the anxiety my older brother created when he would unexpectedly show up, no matter where I was, to intimidate any would-be suitors by his mere presence. Although Jerry considered this harmless amusement, I did not.
Pathfinder Class at Fort Benning, Georgia, March-April 1967: Front Row: (left to right by seat position) #3 Loren Alexander, #4 Jim Cox, #6 Jerry Elliott, Wayne Tanzer, Henry Fleckinger Robert Blackshear. Second Row: #4 Jerry Lang, #5 Mike Teutschman, #6 Charles Dowling, #7 Fred Dycha, #8 Steve Gadowski. Third Row: #4 Ralph Blevins, #6 Thomas Clair, and #8 Fred Taylor, Jr.
Chapter Five
Pathfinder: First In, Last Out
With U.S. participation in the Vietnam War growing, a number of American helicopter manufacturers began to ship aircraft overseas for military use. A soldier walking across vast terrains had no particular strategic value and was a waste of critical time and energy; helicopters became the transportation workhorse of American troops in Vietnam.
Jerry and ten other eager paratroopers had orders to report to Fort Hood, Texas, for specialized/advanced training. Their orders further stated, once training was completed, they would ship out to Vietnam together as a unit.
As the men waited for their flight to Fort Hood they discussed their different assignment possibilities. The consensus was they would most likely end up as door gunners on helicopters. What else would their training as airborne infantrymen qualify them to do in a helicopter aviation unit?
A puddle-jumper dropped the Paratroopers off in Killeen, Texas, just outside Ft. Hood. They located transportation to the post and checked in with the 1SG, who told the fresh Airborne graduates to grab their gear and get on the cattle car. The bus driver let them off in front of recently built barracks at Grey Army Airfield. Once inside, they couldn’t believe the accommodations. There was a big day room. Their sleeping quarters had only three bunks to a room. These were the finest accommodations assigned to Jerry since he joined the Army. He wondered what the payback for such luxury might be.
268th Pathfinder Detachment (Airborne) at Ft. Hood, Texas, April 1967, prior to leaving for Vietnam. Front Row (left to right): Jerry Elliott, Steve Gadowski, Mike Teutschman, and Ralph Blevins. Back Row (left to right): Wayne Tanzer, Loren Alexander, Fred Dycha, Henry Fleckinger, Thomas Clair, Jerry Lang, and Fred Taylor.
Their first morning at the airfield was chilly for Texas; a few patches of snow still spotted the ground. The paratroopers fell into formation and started physical training (PT) exercises. In keeping with a longstanding-airborne tradition that PT is the cornerstone of deployment readiness, they took a long run around the area, singing as loud as their lungs would allow: “A-I-R-B-O-R-N-E! Can you be-like me? Airborne-infantry!”
The other men in the Aviation Company didn’t appreciate the paratrooper’s enthusiasm for exercise. They made the rest of the company look bad. Because the Aviation Company now had to perform PT every morning, the “legs” [someone who isn’t jump qualified] figured they owed the newcomers a lesson. They would wait; certain an opportunity would come along for payback.
Company Commander, Second Lieutenant (2LT) Charles R. Dowling announced to the men they had been specifically selected by Uncle Sam for assignment to the 268th Pathfinder Detachment. Their first action as a team was to exchange looks that asked, “What the hell is a Pathfinder?”
Lieutenant Dowling clarified that Pathfinders are those troops that “make the cut” after completing airborne jump school. Specialized training enables them to navigate through foreign terrain, and establish safe landing zones for soldiers on military aircraft. A candidate required high general intelligence and technical scores, be capable of completing sixty push-ups, seventy sit-ups, six chin-ups, and finish a five-mile run in forty-minutes. Only when a soldier met these requirements would there be an interview by the Company Commander (CO) and the 1SG. They alone determine if he is indeed Pathfinder material, “the best of the best.”
The executive officer, 2LT Robert Blackshear stepped forward to explain the command staff of the 268th Detachment consisted of two officers, in this case the Company Commander, LT Charles R. Dowling, and himself. Within the enlisted ranks, there would be one staff sergeant, one sergeant, four corporals and seven privates. The ten original enlisted members of the 268th Pathfinders were: Loren J. Alexander, Ralph J. Blevins, Thomas R. Clair, Jr., James H. Cox, Fredrick H. Dycha, Jerry W. Elliott, Henry S. Fleckinger, Steve S. Gadowski, Jerome R. Lang, and Michael D. Teutschman.
The two non-commissioned officers (NCOs), SSGT Fred H. Taylor, Jr. and SGT Wayne C. Tanzer arrived shortly thereafter. Private First Class Doug Noel soon joined them, completing the unit. Already Pathfinder qualified, Noel had served a previous tour in Vietnam. He explained to the candidates what their job entailed, and what the brass would expect of them in Vietnam. The entire detachment looked up to him because he had knowledge and experience they lacked. Nobody questioned his status, or his rank of PFC.
In combat situations, Pathfinders were often required to land behind enemy lines to establish the drop zones and landing zones used by the aviation crews. They were on call, prepared for action whenever needed to provide guidance and control of Army aircraft. “First in, last out,” Pathfinders placed themselves at the forefront of danger from enemy snipers and artillery fire in order to provide air traffic support to aviation pilots.
The 268th Detachment began to function as a unit by conducting parachute jumps from U-6 Beaver aircraft, studying land navigation, and running patrol exercises. They spent time in the field, trained in the use of radios, and learned about the role of helicopters in war. The Pathfinder candidates experienced their first flights in a chopper. They found the experience quite different from flying in an airplane. A helicopter can maneuver swiftly, and fly very close to the ground. The pilot dodged trees, hovered over dry creek beds, and amused the novice passengers when he buzzed a few of the free-range cows that wandered the backcountry of Ft. Hood.
The unit’s first mission was a three-day field training exercise (FTX) conducted in support of the Aviation Company. The Pathfinder’s spent a long day in the field establishing pickup zones (PZs) and LZs. After evening chow, the team pitched a row of pup tents and hit the sack. They had just settled down and started to doze when they heard a commotion outside. The tents began to collapse on the tired Pathfinders. As they crawled out from under the tarps, they saw a couple “legs” from the Aviation Company running away. Lieutenant Dowling yelled, “I want one!”
Henry Fleckinger was in front when Jerry came around him like a bullet. He caught up with the group of runners, tackled one, and held him down until his team members caught up. He had such a tight hold on the back of the “leg’s” collar the man could barely touch the ground. Fuming mad, Jerry made him hop on one foot all the way back to Dowling. The lieutenant took the captive to the Operations Tent, while the Pathfinders pulled up stakes, and moved camp to a more defendable position.
The next day the unit was up early and trained hard all day. That night, Jim Cox and Fleckinger went to the Op Tent to pick up the next day’s assignment. Walking back to their camp, they noticed suspicious movement
in the thick undergrowth. Pretending nothing was wrong, both men made it back to camp and quickly signaled an alert. As their team members scrambled out of tents to join Cox and Fleckinger, the “legs” began to slowly stand up in the tall grass. Observing there were no NCOs present, only privates, they moved closer. Twenty “legs” stood face-to-face with nine Pathfinders.
The biggest “leg,” who could have been a professional football player, yelled out, “Airborne sucks!” Fighting words to a paratrooper, fists and boots collided, and he went down fast with a sleeping bag over his head. It didn’t take the “legs” long to decide they had bitten off more than they wanted to chew, and their hasty departure in the dark sounded like a cattle stampede. A special bond formed between the Pathfinders that night. They had fought side-by-side as a team, a connection they would take to war.
The Detachment left Ft. Hood in March; they would sharpen their new skills at the Ft. Benning Pathfinder School. Upon completion of this final course, they would be become qualified Pathfinders. While the Detachment trained for five long weeks, the rest of the 268th Combat Aviation Battalion went home for thirty days leave. No one was sure how much leave the Pathfinders would receive after completion of the course, but most likely, it would be less than two weeks.
Graduation from Ft. Benning took place on April 20, 1967. The 268th Detachment candidates were eager to sew on their new badges. They were now fully qualified and officially authorized to wear the coveted Pathfinder Badge on the pocket flap of their uniforms: the wing suggests flight and airborne capabilities; the torch symbolizes leadership and guidance implying Pathfinder combat skills. An elite airborne paratrooper when each man started the class, he was now a Pathfinder, an even more formidable warrior.
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 4
