Daddy also wrote. As I read his labored handwriting, I realized it was the first letter he had ever written to me. What a struggle Daddy’s life must have been with only an seventh grade education. When I considered what he had to overcome, all he had accomplished, I was impressed. Still, he couldn’t manage to make a small boy take a bath until he was ready. I was so homesick; thank goodness, Christmas leave was only a few weeks away.
A long, miserable bus ride from Missouri to Louisiana, I was grateful to be home for the holidays, to hold my little boy, and hug my family. Everyone seemed fine, but Randy told me in private that Mam-Ma and Pap-Pa had been drinking while I was gone, and sometimes they argued “really loud.” This upset me because I knew I would have to leave my son again. Despite my misgivings, my two weeks with family and friends was great.
On Christmas morning, Randy roused us out of bed. He tore into the colorful wrappings with a big smile, and held up each new toy for everyone to admire. For Christmas, Mama gave me a bar of soap she’d picked up at a yard sale. Decorated with sequins to create the illusion of a tropical fish, it had caught her fancy. The odd gift didn’t matter; I loved her even if I didn’t always understand her.
It was hard to leave my family again, especially Randy, but I needed to return to Ft. Leonard Wood and finish my last two weeks of basic. My departure was awkward; the circumstances all too reminiscent of the day Jerry left for Vietnam. I hugged Mama, Daddy, and Cindy, and practically smothered Randy with goodbye kisses. It was time to go back to the Army.
Boot camp was the worst of times, and the best of times. In spite of long days spent in the field training, and dog-tired evenings spent cleaning M-16 weapons for inspection, the entire company burned with energy during the last two weeks of training. We knew if we could manage to hang on and pass Phase III training, the Army would at last consider us real soldiers. In spite of cracked heels, I passed the Army’s physical fitness requirements, including a mile run.
I was more than glad to get out of boot camp, although graduation day brought mixed feelings. How I wished Jerry could be there to see me graduate. I think my big brother would have been proud. The ceremony wasn’t as elaborate, or emotional as Jerry’s graduation from jump school, but we weren’t going off to war. Afraid the ceremony might rekindle painful memories, I didn’t invite my folks.
I would probably never see most of the men and women I lived, trained, and laughed with again, although it was good to know our life expectancy was much greater than Jerry’s graduation class. Most of us would manage to complete our service without incident, and go on to have successful careers and families. Life in the military meant we were all prepared to answer the call, but hoped it would never come.
Like my brother, I too gained confidence and felt good about my accomplishments. There’s something about a flag-waving spit-and-polish military color guard that makes a person feel honored to be an American. This is especially true when you are a soldier in uniform. I was now a Private in the United States Army and damned proud of it!
Graduation over, I was ready to go home to my son, and be with my family. In a sentimental moment, I recalled a promise between a brother and sister to one day join the Army. I imagined what it would be like if Jerry were there to greet me, his little sister, when I returned home a real soldier just like him. No doubt, he would’ve picked on me, probably told Randy, “Yo’ mama wears combat boots!”
I was eager to start my photojournalist training so I could settle down and provide a proper home for Randy. My plans changed indefinitely when the Army released me from basic on a Line-of-Duty (LOD) determination. Until my feet healed, the military deadlined me. After several months of recuperation, I cleared a physical exam at Ft. Polk. Finally, a big manila envelope arrived in the mail with my orders. I was to report to the DINFOS at Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana, for ten weeks of training for the Basic Journalist Course.
Randy would continue to stay with my folks while I trained. He was a good student, always made the honor roll, and had a circle of nice friends his own age, so I was almost comfortable about leaving again. I knew my family loved my son, but I worried about him. At least at DINFOS, we could talk on the phone more often than when I was in boot camp. I wanted to finish this course as soon as possible, learn as much as I could so our time apart was worthwhile.
DINFOS was a school for military print journalists, radio and television journalists, photojournalists, and graphic artists. Before we could begin to write or use a camera, we had to pass courses in public relations, ethics in journalism, security issues regarding internal/external media releases, and a dozen other subjects. Classes were eight hours a day, compressed into an intense ten weeks. The course was tough, the stress level high. Soldiers washed out every week. “DINFOS Killers,” as graduates were satirically called, served in every major broadcast, newspaper, public affairs, or visual information-related operation in the United States, and overseas. In spite of the pressure, I really enjoyed the classes and did very well in the course. My instructor said I had a “knack” for writing. I hoped it would be more; a skill that would enable me to make a decent living doing something I loved.
In April, Mama generously bought a ticket so I could fly home for the weekend to celebrate my twenty-eighth birthday. I was excited to be with my family again, especially Randy. I needed to see my son, to hold him close in order to feel connected again. In my disorderly, ever changing world, he was my rock, my motivation.
When I arrived, Randy tolerated about thirty-seconds of “sissy stuff,” and then he was out the door to go fishing with a friend in the bayou nearby. Just as impatient with my hugs when it came time for me to leave, I worried his cool manner was his way of alerting me that he was annoyed I had to return to duty. I pestered him about what was on his mind until he finally said, “Just hurry and finish so that you can come back and stay home.” I promised I would be back in time for his tenth birthday.
Donna on graduation day from the Defense Information School (DINFOS), May 1979.
On May 10, 1979, I walked across a small stage and proudly shook hands with the master sergeant as I received a hard-earned Defense Information School diploma. Graduation not only meant a promotion when a slot became available in my unit, the certificate of training also meant I could begin my dream job as a newspaper reporter. I wanted to pinch myself. Someday I would write about America’s POW/MIAs.
Donna at Ft. Hood, Texas, during “Operation Starburst ’85.”
Top: On an Armored personnel carrier.
Left: On rappel.
Chapter Fifteen
Mama
I soon learned journalism wasn’t the romantic, adventurous job I’d thought it would be. The St. Mary Journal editor explained the uncomplicated reality of my new job. His weekly paper was a “good news” publication. He wanted straight local news and human interest stories. No investigative articles on the liberal use of herbicides, no breaking political scandals, and especially nothing to remind people of the war. Good news made people happy; happy people spent money. What advertisers wanted, advertisers got.
My beat was any civic event or political meeting my boss didn’t want to cover. Police jury meetings, city council meetings, dozens of weekly community or monthly board meetings consumed my days, and half of my evenings. I came to hate meetings. Events such as the Ladies Auxiliary tea, although enjoyable, weren’t what I had in mind when I went through boot camp and those long, grueling weeks at DINFOS. Randy was, of course, the main incentive to keep my job, and I did love to write. I was determined to stick with journalism, which meant long, tedious hours, at minimum wage for a novice reporter. Disinclined to let go of my idealistic notions of writing about important events and interesting people, I also worked parttime as a news reporter for Warren Soudelier, news director for the radio station KMRC. Without a college degree to open doors, I needed all the on-the-job experience I could accumulate.
Assigned to the Louisiana Army National Guard (LANG) 256th Infantry Br
igade in Lafayette, I was attached to the Houma based Company C (-Det 1) 2-156th Infantry (Mechanized) Black Sheep. I loved those crazy Cajuns. Whenever the unit went to the field, I went with them. My job was to take photographs and write feature stories for The Peligram, the LANG state publication. Although uncertain if I was included in combat field training for my benefit or their amusement, the Black Sheep persistently steered me towards news experiences and always treated me well.
I was thrilled to get behind the wheel of an Armed Personnel Carrier (APC). It was fun being at the controls, especially pulling the lever that made the heavy machine whirl in a circle. I enjoyed this so much I spun around several times in the same spot. When I climbed out of the APC, I quickly discovered my actions had dug a big hole in the fresh blacktop of the armory parking lot. Never sure how the crew explained the damage to the CO, I didn’t volunteer information, or ask questions.
On another memorable occasion, the Black Sheep invited me to fire a jeep-mounted machinegun loaded with blanks. As soon as I pulled the trigger, I lost control. The powerful weapon jerked me everyway but loose. Had there been real bullets in the can, I would’ve shot every individual within a three hundred sixty degree radius. I gained a new respect for Jerry’s skill with the M-60.
Designated to walk point on swamp maneuvers, I apprehensively searched for snakes and gators as I tried to dodge simulator blasts purposefully thrown in my direction. My unintentional antics certainly boosted troop morale. Because I could laugh at my own blunders, and didn’t mind a little teasing, a special bond grew between these infantry soldiers and me. If the Black Sheep were there, I was there. Army life was good; it felt as if we were one big family. Military service provided me with many vet brothers, and even a few vet sisters, along the way.
My life was busy with two journalism jobs, Randy, and the Guard. In what little spare time I did have, I cared for my family. My income from both jobs, along with my monthly Guard check, covered the bills as long as my folks allowed Randy and me to live with them. I tried to show my gratitude by keeping the house up, cooking, and filling the fridge every payday. Daddy appreciated my efforts, but Mama often seemed resentful that I was functional while she strained to cope with the everyday stresses of being a homemaker. I had no desire to assume Mama’s role or authority; I only wanted to help. Her attitude varied from harsh criticism to complete disregard; both hurt. I tried to stay out of her way as much as possible unless she indicated she wanted my company. My reprieve was the military.
It had now been eleven years since Jerry’s disappearance and still no news. As expectations of ever knowing what really happened to her son disintegrated, Mama’s mental status deteriorated. This troubled all of us. Deeply depressed and mad at the world, Mama spent most of her time asleep from heavy doses of prescribed antidepressants. Her rage generally found release on Daddy, or if he wasn’t available, me. Daddy found her accusations and actions more and more difficult to handle. She imagined that he and I plotted against her in some way. I simply couldn’t understand why Mama thought Daddy and I didn’t love her and weren’t to be trusted; we were the ones who took care of her most of the time. Perhaps she was fearful we would have her hospitalized for a second time. Although it was apparent her state-of-mind was deteriorating instead of improving, none of us wanted to put Mama, or the family, through that experience again. Maybe we didn’t show grief for Jerry as she thought we should. All we knew for sure was her strange behavior started after he was reported missing. Neither Daddy nor Mama seemed able to bear that burden alone.
Life with Mama had become more than difficult; it had become dangerous. Although Cindy and Randy were safe, all too frequently Daddy or I took shifts to make sure Mama didn’t creep down the hall at night to attack. Daddy was usually her target. Asleep one night on the couch with one eye open, he barely managed to dodge the soda bottle that crashed down where his head had lain only a moment before. He wasn’t the only one who needed to be on guard. Once, in the early morning darkness, Mama slipped into my room and smashed an 11" × 14" metal-framed picture over my head while I slept. Wide-awake from the blow, I could see her hovering over me and shouted, “Mama! What the hell are you doing?” She acted surprised, then confused, and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”
After Mama tried to drive her car through a cinderblock wall at the shop in an attempt to run him down, Daddy said he didn’t think he could take anymore. He needed a break, and decided to take a short business trip. I would stay home and take care of Mama. A few days after he was gone, I came in from work and asked Mama what she would like for supper. Mama informed me she didn’t need me to cook for her, nor was I any longer welcome in her home. I tried to explain I only wanted to take care of her until Daddy came back home, but Mama said Uncle Bouler, our longtime family friend, would stay with her. She put me out on the street with Randy in tow. While she would have let him stay, I would not. We checked into a motel.
I found Cindy and brought her up-to-date on the situation. She agreed to spend more time at home with Mama, and keep an eye on her as best she could. When Daddy returned from his trip, we discussed the situation. With the oil-boom, housing was in high demand and very expensive. As a quick solution, he gave me money to put down on a large, fully furnished three-bedroom/two-bath mobile home. He rented a nice lot in nearby Amelia, a small community along the bayou, where Randy could have a yard to play in. Once he had everything connected and operating to his satisfaction, Daddy decided to stay with us until things cooled down at home.
Mama finally called me a few weeks later, on a Monday night. She confessed to feeling insecure and alone. I tried to reassure her that she would never be alone, never be without anything she needed. I said we all loved her no matter what, things would get better, that Daddy would probably return home to her soon.
We talked about Jerry. We hadn’t heard anything from the USG on his case since the presumptive finding of death in 1976. The past was a dark silhouette that darted in and out of our lives daily without restriction. Neither Cindy nor I could shake the feeling that our brother was somewhere in Southeast Asia, still waiting to come home. Mama seemed relieved that I continued to be as dedicated to the search for Jerry as I’d ever been. We stayed on the phone for hours. Mama talked to me woman to woman. Almost as good as a hug, I felt like we had broken new ground.
Also heavy on her mind was her back pain; it was worse. For most of my life, she had walked the floor at night with a residual pain from an unsuccessful back surgery to staple several vertebrae into place. I knew she hurt, that her injury kept her from activities she had enjoyed in the past. This in itself was depressing, and affected the quality of her life. Before Jerry was lost, she liked to sew, garden, and fish. Now, Mama lacked the drive and energy to enjoy life. She had many days when it was hard to find a reason to get out of bed. I think she feared being alone and mistakenly thought we didn’t need her anymore. We talked about going to Mexico to a back treatment clinic. Nothing the doctors here in the U.S. had done, including surgery, had ever offered much relief. Mama had heard success stories about a doctor in the area of spinal injuries, and the encouraging reports gave her a spark of hope. We agreed she would call his office the next day to see if they had any treatment to offer her. If so, then I would take time off from work to drive her across the border.
Mama enjoyed travel. I knew a trip was just the ticket to get her spirits up. I also knew she wouldn’t drink if she had to go out in public. I looked forward to some one-on-one time with my Mama; it had been a long time since she treated me like her daughter. It was past eleven, I had to work the next day. We told each other, “I love you,” and hung up the phone.
The next evening, November 27, 1979, as I covered a committee meeting for the radio station, I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to leave. I had to go home, immediately; something was wrong. Hating the unexplainable sensation, I listened to my instincts and excused myself to go straight home and check on Randy. All the way there, I had iron butt
erflies in my stomach. I recognized the sensation; it had gripped me the morning we learned Jerry was missing.
I pulled into the driveway. The front door was wide open and several neighbors moved around inside. I could see Cindy bent forward in Daddy’s recliner, her face hidden by both hands. I breathed a deep sigh of relief when Randy ran outside to my car. The respite was short-lived as my brain began to wrap around his words, “Mam-Ma is dead! Mam-ma is dead!”
“No, no, it can’t be,” I stuttered, more to myself than to Randy. In a futile attempt to shield him from personal tragedy, I wrapped both arms around my baby. We walked inside together, arm-in-arm. I needed to get to my little sister, to hold her, to find out what had happened to my Mama.
“Donna, Mama shot herself, she’s dead! She’s dead!” Cindy sobbed hysterically. She had called Daddy from a payphone, calm at first, then screaming hysterically. Unable to understand her garbled words, he heard enough to know something to do with Mama had transpired. Unaware of the severity of the situation, Daddy told Cindy he couldn’t leave Randy home alone. He convinced her to come to him. I can only guess what must have gone through Daddy’s mind while he waited on Cindy to arrive. I am sure he was frantic to know what had happened to his wife and companion of over thirty years.
Daddy called the police after Cindy told him what she had witnessed. Unable to contact me, he called Louis to meet him at Mama’s house; he didn’t want to go into the house alone in case he arrived before the police. Daddy called the neighbors to stay with Cindy and Randy. I’d missed him by minutes. I calmed my son and sister as much as possible, left them in the care of our neighbors, and then I followed Daddy. I was numb; this wasn’t real. I didn’t want to go—I had to go. She was my Mama, and Daddy needed me.
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 14
