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

by Elliott Donna E.

  To their relief, they were soon assigned tasks more in line with their training, such as providing security for the medical team that went into the village to help the locals. This goodwill mission had the potential to go wrong at any time; however, the armed escorts always provided medics the best security available. The medics took care of the troops, and the troops took care of them.

  The first time Jerry went into the village, he was uneasy. The people seemed friendly and curious, especially the children, but the Pathfinder’s remained wary. After a few trips to the village, the Medical Civic Action Program (MEDCAPs) became routine. Jerry made friends with the locals, and began to worry less about ambushes. He joked with the Vietnamese who waited to see the medics. Typically, one of the villagers could understand enough broken English to translate. He always made new friends whenever he took his camera along. Although the villagers would probably never see the photos, the Vietnamese were always delighted to pose for pictures. The young women smiled for the camera, shyly covered their faces with their hands as they exchanged glances with their girlfriends, and giggled at so much attention from a Westerner.

  Any time the battalion required equipment or supplies from Cam Ranh Bay, the Pathfinder’s volunteered to ride shotgun on the convoys to provide defensive firepower and ensure delivery. They liked to go to the Bay, and stayed for a couple of days whenever possible. They hit the clubs and listened to live bands, which occasionally included American women. These short R & R trips helped to relieve the monotony.

  Supply acquisition in the military wasn’t like shopping in the real world. If you needed supplies in civilian life, you simply went to a store and bought them. In the military, all supplies, from toilet paper to weapons, required an extensive paper trail, and delivery was never guaranteed. After a wait of weeks or months for the unit’s next shipment, what was requisitioned might, or might not, arrive. Supply clerks learned to “borrow” needed items from other units. Scrounging was an art, a much-appreciated skill that had no rules or boundaries. A good scrounger was a prized member of any military team; they brought into the unit what requests and formal applications failed to deliver.

  The Pathfinder’s had just such an individual in PFC Doug Noel. Due to Noel’s expertise, the Pathfinder’s had acquired a Thompson submachine gun, a “grease” gun, a Russian submachine gun, an M-1 carbine, .38 and .45 caliber pistols, and even a .22 caliber derringer for training. Noel knew from his first tour in Vietnam that the lives of the Pathfinder’s could depend on their ability to load and pull the trigger on any weapon they might come across. With his exceptional talent to barter, he arranged for his teammates to become proficient with every weapon he could obtain. Especially appreciated were the weapons and ammo Noel supplied them. No doubt, the .38 pistol Jerry routinely carried for backup came to him compliments of Noel.

  Noel was a soldier who knew how to get away with a lot. He never had to pull guard duty with the rest of the unit, and was frequently away on mysterious errands. Sometimes he was gone for days at a time, never revealing where he’d been, or what he had done. He was always out negotiating for supplies his men needed or wanted. Between these mysterious disappearances, he frequently returned with comfort items. Along with firearms, his teammates prized the extra c-rations, small refrigerators, and air-conditioners he so generously provided.

  Jerry taking in the sights of South Vietnam on a cyclo ride, 1967.

  Doug had a pair of captain’s bars he wore whenever he went in search of supplies. With an O-3’s rank on his collar, he could get just about anything. One day he showed up in a jeep with a .50 caliber machinegun mounted on it. It was clear to his unit he had big gonads, and explained why after years of service he still held the rank of PFC. Everyone in the unit liked and respected Doug Noel. All the enlisted men accepted his lead because he sure as hell knew his way around a war zone.

  July 31, 1967, was a blistering summer day in Tuy Hoa. Still hot at midnight, a sergeant woke the Pathfinders, told them to grab their gear, and get their asses out to the flight line immediately. They boarded a chopper and headed west a short distance, to land in the rice paddies very near two downed and burning helicopters. The Pathfinder’s, ordered to set up a defensive perimeter, immediately spread out in a circle around the crash site and sought cover where they could. After all the ammo onboard the crashed choppers “cooked off,” the Asian jungle was quiet and dark.

  Both helicopters were from the 188th AHC. The Black Widows had departed from Dau Tieng on a mission to fly over the villages west of Phu Hiep. One chopper was “running pink,” flying with only running lights on in an attempt to draw fire. The second chopper followed above and behind with lights off, prepared to attack as soon as the first chopper received enemy fire. Changes in flight techniques and tactics were required to master the mountainous region of Phu Ven Province. Regrettably, the two choppers lost track of each other in the darkness, and collided in mid-air. Two flight crews, eight courageous men, died that night.

  PFC Douglas R. Noel, KIA July 31, 1967. Photo courtesy 268th Pathfinder Assn.

  After sunrise, the Pathfinder’s searched the area for possible survivors, bodies, and pieces of wreckage. They found the corpse of a pilot, thrown from his chopper when the rotor blade from the other helicopter passed through the cockpit with enough force to propel the seat through the windshield. The Pathfinder’s continued to search for crewmembers as they approached the smoldering remains of one of the choppers. They could see the upper half of a man burnt beyond recognition, the lower portion of his body melded to the charred helicopter. His arms reached upward, as if he fought to the last breath to get out of the blazing aircraft.

  One of the Pathfinders noticed the fatigue shirt under the flak jacket hadn’t completely burned. He reached out and moved the jacket aside. All the Pathfinders froze as one when they recognized the heavy black thread on the nametag spelled out “NOEL.” Of the fifteen men in the 268th Pathfinder Detachment, everyone had assumed Noel was the least likely to die in Vietnam. No one even knew he had flown this mission as a door gunner, and now, there he was, dead at twenty-one. If Noel didn’t make it, how were they going to survive?

  Normally the grief process involves weeping or mourning; this is a luxury not afforded to soldiers in combat situations. On the battlefield, death is all too familiar, and a sense of duty drives the soldier to continue the fight. A common reaction to fatalities in Vietnam was, “it don’t mean nuthin’.” It was one way to deal with the nagging thought the end could come at any moment. If you did die, it would be no big deal, the war would continue. Survival required soldiers pretend not to be afraid of death. After witnessing friends die horribly, combat vets didn’t often reach out to grasp the hand of friendship; it would only make the next death much harder to deal with.

  Most of the crewmembers died trapped inside their scorched helicopters. Once body removal was complete, the Pathfinder’s, trained in demolition, and now experts in the art of explosives thanks to Noel’s acquisition skills, set charges to blow up what was left of the choppers. Destruction prevented the enemy from using parts to make weapons.

  In the eerie silence following the explosion, the Pathfinder’s sat on the dike of a nearby rice paddy and tried to choke down their cold C-rats. The same thought passed through everyone’s mind, “It could have been me.” No one puked his guts out, no one cried. There was merely the numbed, lifeless response of young men who have seen too much. Only in their minds did they scream at the insanity of war. They watched the inferno without comment, and slowly shut down psychologically; the innocence of their youth shattered forever.

  The next day, the military’s Criminal Investigative Division (CID) showed up at the 268th Battalion Headquarters. As they approached HQ, one of the officers stopped to ask a Pathfinder if he knew where they might find a PFC Noel. “You’re a day late,” Teutschman told them, “he was killed yesterday.” Had they had arrived twenty-four hours earlier they might well have saved Noel’s life, a sad irony
of war. The CID confiscated all the equipment Noel had brought to the Detachment. Everything he had given to his fellow Pathfinder’s to make life a little more bearable was packed and hauled away.

  A few days later, the base personnel held a memorial service in the mess hall for all the men killed in the crash: Joseph W. Allwood, Henry C. Cauthern, Sr., Rodney O. Davie, Douglas R. Noel, James R. Poggemeyer, Wayne G. Van Lant, Robert M. Wallace, and Paul E. Williams. The Pathfinders could see blue sky through the rafters. They turned their heads upward to say goodbye. Doug Noel would now always be Airborne, and the Pathfinders would forever remember him.

  Jerry and his teammates had trained hard to prepare themselves to be in the middle of heavy action. They sought opportunities to be in the field and earn the Combat Infantry Badge (CIB). As it turned out, most of the time they would pump up for a combat assault into an LZ, and then nothing would happen. A cold LZ was a nerve-wracking roller coaster ride, an adrenalin crash and tension relief at the same time. However, the Pathfinders preferred danger to pulling guard duty and filling sandbags. Time passed very slowly on guard duty. The team was tired, disillusioned, and frustrated. Throughout Vietnam, many areas of operation were a powder keg. However, in this insulated, quiet spot, the Pathfinder’s found it difficult to keep their eyes open, and all were guilty of catnaps on guard duty.

  One night in October, Jerry stared intently at dim shadows. His eyes burned from the dry dust mixed with grains of sand. The warm water in his canteen tasted flat, and did little to quench his thirst. Boredom and fatigue made it difficult to stay awake. He began to daydream about the “real world.” Before he realized it, a lieutenant was screaming at him to wake-up. His official punishment was restriction to the Company area, extra duty for fourteen days, a reduction to the grade of PV2, and a thirty-dollar fine. Difficult and hardest to bear was the blow to his self-esteem. Being a Pathfinder was important to Jerry. His pride tarnished, something had to change. After all the training, the weariness, the non-action, the guard duty, the misuse of potential and ability, his patience was gone. It was time to move on. He began to scout other units for possible redeployment.

  Tasked with the mission of supporting I Corps Headquarters (HQ) and Advisory efforts, the 282nd AHC also assisted operations of the 1st and 2nd ARVN Divisions. In radio communication, helicopter flight crews used permanent call signs for identification. HQ delegated the call sign “Black Cat” to the 1st and 2nd Platoons of the 282nd AHC. The Black Cats flew slicks, or lift helicopters, armed with only the protection of crew chiefs and door gunners to operate the M-60 machine guns mounted on each side. The Third Flight Platoon flew heavily armed UH-1B gunships, and used the call sign “Alley Cat.”

  268th Pathfinders at the Vietnam Veterans Wall, 2005. Left to right: Mike Teutchman, Fred Taylor, Fred Dycha, Jim Cox, Ralph Blevins, and Jerry Lang. Photo courtesy 268th Pathfinder Assn.

  The 282nd AHC garrisoned three flight platoons within I Corps. Aircraft and crewmembers were scattered between Da Nang, the Hue Citadel, and Quang Ngai. The 282nd generally ran “ass and trash” missions, or flights that were usually non-combative. They transported men from the field to rear base camp, evacuated wounded soldiers, and delivered water, hot food, ammo, mail, and batteries to troops in the field. However, they were capable of combat assaults, inserting LRRP (Long Rang Reconnaissance Patrol) teams, supplying visual reconnaissance, command and control, armed escorts, suppressive fire, and close support. The men and the machines of the 282nd AHC saw many challenges.

  On Thanksgiving Day 1967, the Black Cats managed to carry hot turkey dinners to over one hundred fifty homesick American soldiers in remote outposts throughout the I Corps area of operations (AO). The 282nd AHC boosted morale and warmed the hearts of many homesick soldiers. To the envy of all visiting personnel at Marble Mountain airfield in Da Nang, resourceful members of the company had erected three new clubs. A soldier would have to be dinky dau, or plain crazy, not to want an assignment with the 282nd, especially a bored, disgusted, tired of the bullshit Pathfinder who craved action. Jerry requested a transfer to serve as a UH-1 Huey helicopter door gunner with the Black Cats.

  Chopper gunners were a breed unto themselves. With ice water in their veins, a door gunners job was to hang outside the chopper from a thin, leather strap and fly 100 mph at treetop level to search out the enemy. Always short on door gunners, Assault Helicopter Companies (AHCs) routinely recruited volunteers. This might have had something to do with the very short life expectancy of a door gunner during combat.

  Jerry shoved his possessions into his duffel bag, swung it over his left shoulder, and stepped outside the “hooch” into the blistering sun. He took a few minutes to squat down in the dust to play with “Tiger,” a mottled brown puppy the team had adopted as their mascot. After brief goodbyes to the 268th Pathfinder’s he had trained with, lived amongst, and fought beside for almost a year, he hitched a ride out of Tuy Hoa. On January 11, 1968, Jerry reported for duty with the 282nd AHC Black Cats stationed at Marble Mountain Airfield in Da Nang. By his own choice, this would be his new assignment.

  Chapter Seven

  Ambush at the Old French Fort

  Ten days after leaving the sandy beaches of Tuy Hoa, Jerry looked out at the surrounding jungle as it raced past the gunner’s slot on the right side of Chalk #2. Dry mouthed, guts in a knot, he scanned the rutted footpaths that snaked through the tall elephant grass only to disappear under the thick green jungle canopy. Leaning forward into the slipstream, he strained against his monkey strap to catch a glimpse of the valley basin ahead.

  There in the distance lay the smoky, battle-scarred village of Khe Sanh. Desperate Army and Marine soldiers waited along with ARVN and Bru fighters for the ammo and troops the Black Cats were to deliver. The American’s did not go into this battle to defend politics or country; they fought only for one another and their counterparts.

  Under siege for twelve hours, CPT Clarke radioed a warning to the Black Cats. He advised LTC Seymoe that hundreds of NVA had surrounded the compound and taken over the LZ. McKinsey had made several passes over the Old French Fort at different altitudes earlier that morning. He had seen no movement or received fire. Informed by radio of the aerial surveillance, Clarke agreed there should be no enemy activity at the Fort.

  Warrant Officer McKinsey, pilot of Chalk #1, keyed his mike. “Two-Two, this is Lead. Come up uniform.” This was the signal for the six other slicks in the convoy and the gunship trio to key their mikes to the 282nd AHC VHF radio frequency.

  The Old French Fort, Khe Sanh, January 1968. Photo courtesy Lennis Lee.

  Close behind and slightly to the right of the lead chopper, Chalk #2 pilot WO Lennis Lee listened for the click that signaled the end of the radio transmission, “Lead, this is Two-Two, go ahead.”

  Over the whop, whop, whop of the chopper’s rotor blades, Jerry listened intently to the radio chatter piped into his headset. His hands were slippery with sweat in the thick leather gloves as LTC Seymoe relayed the alternate course, “Delta Four-Six advises diversion from original target. Set course to one klick see-AIR-rah ECK-oh”.

  “This is Two-Two, roger,” Lee acknowledged the order. Copilot WO Robert Dean flipped the toggle switch on the chopper’s “hot mike.” This activated the intercom system, which enabled a pilot to talk and use both hands to maneuver the helicopter. “We’ve been diverted to the Old French Fort,” Dean advised the crew of Chalk #2, “Stay alert!”

  At Quang Tri, the ASA radio monitor team listened to reports from the Special Forces camp at Lang Vei along with communications between CPT Clarke and the 282nd AHC resupply mission. When Seymoe broadcast the unencrypted revised plans in the clear, the ASA team immediately tried to contact the Tactical Operations Center (TOC). The team wanted to alert the Black Cats that transmitting military strategy without encryption could lead to an ambush. Before the TOC could send a red-alert message to Seymoe, he had taken the rescue force into the Old French Fort in a last-ditch effort to reinforce the M
ACV compound.

  Jerry grasped the butt-plate of his M-60 machine gun, and flipped the safety off. He held the muzzle pointed forward in anticipation of providing suppressive fire during approach. His eyes focused on the surroundings, and quickly darted from one terrain feature to another as they zipped past. He searched for any sign of movement, or tracers arcing upward from the tangled foliage below. The twin triggers of the M-60 machine gun gave him a sense of confidence. The twenty-three pound belt-fed weapon would brutally limit the actions of anyone who attempted to deal with him by force. He scanned the terrain under his feet. All was well for the moment.

  The speakers in Jerry’s flight helmet crackled as Lee issued orders to the crew, “Guns, we’re going to be close to the ground and beaucoup visible; be on top of the game!” Without a word, Jerry keyed the mike on his comline twice...click-hiss, click-hiss...to indicate he understood the directive. He was ready. Under less demanding circumstances, he might have had second thoughts about entering a hot LZ. There was no time for nerves, only for concentration, for doing his job, for paying attention to those things that would bring him and the other men back from the mission.

  Mentally, Jerry tried to relax as he went over every aspect of his job. He checked his ammo cans, the feed belt, and the M-60’s barrel locking lug. He tried to think about everything but the danger—how a bullet can rip through the human body, flames melt tender flesh, or how hard a fall from a thousand feet might feel. He thought about family back home and instinctively tried to make his six-foot-two physique invisible. For the fourth time in as many minutes, Jerry glanced at the ammo can, the feed belt, and at the jungle below him. He searched for any signs of the enemy around the barren hilltop where they were about to land. From a thousand feet in the air, everything looked normal.