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.

  By the time I got there, the police were on the scene, and in grim conversation with Daddy regarding the results of their investigation. He didn’t look like the man I’d seen cheerfully leave for work that morning. His face was colorless, his eyes so dark with loss they looked like two dull black marbles. We looked at each other in disbelief. I knew he felt the same as I did, this couldn’t have happened, but it had.

  The deputy acknowledged me with a quick nod and said, “Your mama left a note, but we have to take it with us.” I asked to read her last words; an endeavor to understand why she had chosen to leave us. Mama’s beautiful handwriting, which flowed so elegantly across the stationery, contradicted her lonely, bitter words of despair. The only coherent clue to her action was Mama’s final heart wrenching request, “Just bury me in a pine box, that’s more than Jerry ever had.”

  I slipped past the police and moved quietly down the hall. I found Mama still in her bed. She appeared to be asleep. I stared at her chest; there was no movement. Dark curly hair framed her fair face. Her right arm flung off the bed, willowy fingers only inches from her blue-steel .22 caliber pistol. I pulled the covers back; there was a tiny hole in the blue-flowered pajamas, right over her heart. Hot, salty tears spilled down my face unchecked. I pulled the covers over Mama, tucked her in, and made sure her head rested on the pillow. I slumped down on the floor beside her bed, cradled her hand in mine. I’d known many gentle touches from my mother’s hand. I stroked my cheek with her fingertips and jerked from the coldness. I’d never touched a dead person before, but this was my Mama. I clasped her hand to my chest. I willed my heartbeat to become hers. Nothing. She had quit the world.

  I walked back into the living room to listen to the detective and Daddy talk. Cindy had come home earlier, found Mama and Uncle Bouler with drinks, and fussed at both of them. She made Uncle Bouler mad and he left. Mama quarreled with Cindy until she drove her away. Later in the afternoon, she returned to check on things and found an empty glass beside Mama’s chair that smelled of straight whiskey. Worried, she walked straight into our parent’s bedroom to ask if everything was alright. Unable to talk about these events in detail until many years later, Cindy coped with the still vivid memory long enough to share with me how Mama’s normally pleasant voice had sounded deep and evil, as if she were possessed. In a very strange voice, Mama told her to get out, which sent her running. Before she could get through the door, a gun went off. Thinking she had been shot at by her own mother, Cindy fearfully turned around as Mama fell back on the bed.

  This was more than my little sister’s nineteen-year-old mind could comprehend. She burst into tears and pleaded with Mama to forgive her. She was sorry she had argued with Uncle Bouler, she’d get him to come back. Promising never to leave her alone again, she desperately tried to wake her, but it was too late, our mother was dead. None of us would ever completely recover from the shock, especially Cindy Ann.

  Months after we had buried Mama beside her parents in Yazoo City, Mississippi, things were worse than ever. Daddy frequently drank too much. I found him passed out on his bed one evening. I stood in the doorway and held back tears as he clenched his fists in his sleep and mumbled repeatedly, “I don’t need anybody. I don’t need anybody.”

  Daddy never intended to leave Mama’s side permanently; he never mentioned divorce, never saw an attorney, made sure there was money in Mama’s checking account, and continued to pay all the household bills. Daddy was just tired. I believe he meant to teach Mama a lesson about how life would be without him. Now he had to learn what life without her was like. I was forced to watch him slowly fall apart, immersed in guilt and grief. Mama’s suicide broke a strong man, but not once did Daddy ever criticize her action as selfish. The uncertainty surrounding their son’s fate made it impossible to live a normal life; he knew what had really killed Mama was a broken heart.

  Bhikkhuni, or Buddhist nun, Thich Nu Minh Tanh, presides over a table of offerings prepared by temple nuns to entice the “wandering souls of American soldiers into the temple where they can rest in peaceful surroundings until their mortal remains are returned to family.” February

  Chapter Sixteen

  Daddy

  Four months later, in March 1980, the Special Reaction Team (SRT) assembled to conduct practice rappels from a six-story wooden tower in Houma, Louisiana. I was present to cover the event for The Peligram. The SRT team graciously encouraged me to learn how to rappel. Jokes flew as LT Chris Barnthouse strapped me into a web of rope called a Swiss seat, and personally made all of the safety checks. He instructed me to get into the “L” position. This means you step off the top, plant both feet on the side of the surface to be rappelled, and pull the upper body up to form the shape of the letter “L.” In order to brake, the lieutenant told me to pull the rope behind my back with my right hand.

  I stood with my back to the edge of the tower platform, gradually leaned into the rope until it was taut, then inched my way to the very edge, feet spread wide apart. I could see the cement pad far below between my legs. For a woman afraid of heights, this was a monumental achievement. It was beyond me why Jerry liked to jump out of an airplane into thin air. When the lieutenant gave the command “Go,” I pushed out with both feet as hard as I could. I fed the rope through my right hand, dropped a few feet before I swung back into the building, and pushed off again.

  Unfortunately, unaware a rappel was in progress, the belay man on the ground below watched the girls softball team practice in the next field instead of the ropes. On the second push out, without much slack in the rope, I slammed hard into the structure. I tried to kick out to rappel, but instead went into a backward slide down the rope, instinctively throwing my right arm behind me to break my midair descent. My head struck the building, and I remember my steel helmet popping off before everything went black. Slowly I came around to realize that although I dangled upside down, thankfully one hand still grasped the rope. Barrette broken, I shook the loose hair out of my eyes to get oriented. I looked down at the hard concrete forty feet below—directly into the astonished faces of several SRT members. Frozen like statues, with eyes big as saucers and mouths hanging wide-open, they seemed a hilarious spectacle. Maybe it was delirium, but the sight made me laugh. Relieved I was alive, the men cheered while the lieutenant screamed from the roof, “Pull up! Pull yourself up! You can do it!”

  Later that evening, the emergency room physician made a quick diagnosis of “whiplash” before sending me home in misery with neck, shoulder, and back pain. I missed Mama. Ordinarily, we would have discussed the situation to decide the best course of action. Not wanting to get the lieutenant into trouble, I didn’t file an official report of injury, or seek immediate medical attention. Respected and well-liked, LT Barnthouse trained hard and expected the same from his troops. Scheduled to begin his first tour of duty, a black mark for a safety violation would not look good on the young lieutenant’s record. The Black Sheep had helped me to understand what Jerry loved about the military, “all for one and one for all.”

  Shortly after the accident, Smitty and I, having been separated for a couple of years, agreed to a no-fault divorce. Daddy approached me with a special request. He wanted me to ask the court to award my maiden name back as part of the divorce settlement. It wasn’t necessary to ask him why. I decided to always keep the Elliott surname to honor my father.

  Almost a year after Mama died, Daddy met Ann. We were pleased he was interested in life again, but this woman was nothing like Mama—maybe that was the attraction. Ann laughed a lot, and of course, she was arm candy for Daddy, but she would never look me directly in the eye, and I didn’t trust her. The four of us, Daddy, Cindy, Randy, and I, had lived together in Gibson, a small community down the bayou east of Morgan City, but shortly after Daddy met Ann he bought a new two-bedroom mobile home and moved back to Amelia. We were happy to see Daddy smile again, but wanted him to curb the excessive partying Ann demanded. We thought it more important to spend time with family, a
nd we missed him. Cindy hated Ann, she was convinced this crude woman with the “l-o-v-e/h-a-t-e” jailhouse tattoos wanted to kill Daddy, but he tolerantly marked her protests down as childish jealousy.

  A few months later, I was on my way into town to pick Randy up from school. As I crossed over the Amelia Bridge, out of habit I looked down to my right at Daddy’s new bachelor pad. I was alone in the car, but I heard a male voice just as clear as if someone was in the car next to me say, “It’s time to let go, Donna.”

  “No!” I shouted aloud, then shook my head, and laughed it off as overactive imagination. I took my son home, fed him supper, and drove to my first night class at Nicholls State University in Thibodaux, while Cindy stayed home with Randy. When I returned home that evening, I went to sleep with no real concerns, only quiet sorrow. The date was January 21st, the thirteenth anniversary of the day Jerry went missing.

  Around two or three in the morning, someone pounded on my front door. I got up to find Cindy and Randy also awake, but too scared to act. I peeked out a window and saw flashing blue lights. It was Duval Arthur, the Chief Inspector for the St. Mary Parish Sheriff’s Department, at the door. He came right out and bluntly told me, “Donna, Bill’s dead. He drowned in a car accident.” Ann had driven the car off the boat ramp under the Amelia Bridge into Bayou Boeuf in a drunken fit of rage. Daddy drowned along with another man who was in the backseat. Only Ann made it out alive.

  I drove to Daddy’s place to check on Uncle Bouler. I dreaded breaking the news that his oldest and best friend was gone. When I opened the door and stepped inside, I saw Ann passed out on the sofa. Her broad, naked butt hung out of the white hospital gown. Sent by ambulance to the hospital and released, she had taken a taxi back to Amelia. Filled with disgust and fury, I grabbed the doorframe and rocked back and forth on my heels to stop the charge. It was Ann’s good fortune the police had followed me. I told Duval if they didn’t arrest Ann, I might have to kill her. They carted her off to jail.

  Uncle Bouler told me about a big fight between Ann and Daddy over unauthorized checks she had written on his account. The checks were still scattered across the living room floor. He said she had thrown a heavy glass, hit him on the bridge of his nose, and blackened both eyes. After the argument, they left to go to a bar, but Uncle Bouler had declined to join them. He knew Ann had crossed the line and it was just a matter of time before Daddy told her to get out, and he didn’t want to be around for that clash. On their way home, Ann and Daddy stopped at a convenience store near the bridge. The owner, who knew Daddy well, said he came into the store intoxicated, but friendly as usual. Based on the account of an eyewitness who was standing outside, Ann was driving, Daddy got into the passenger side of the car, and another man was in the backseat. A loud argument ensued and Daddy suddenly slapped Ann. At that point, Ann cranked the car, backed out, and intentionally drove the car off into the bayou, her foot never touching the brake pedal.

  Audacious enough to call me collect from jail the following day, Ann asked me to bail her out. I could have choked her through the phone when she admonished me with, “Now, Donna, you know your Daddy wouldn’t want you to treat me like this.” I wanted this parasite on humanity to rot in jail, but the court slapped her wrist and set her free on bail. The judge issued orders for Ann to appear in court to face charges of two counts of involuntary manslaughter. Cindy and I were in court for her hearings, she was a no-show twice. Last word I had, Priscilla Ann Merritt resided in Florida and was employed offshore as a first mate.

  Daddy was dead. I couldn’t fully comprehend the reality; instead, I concentrated on what immediate actions I had to take. Cindy and I went to the funeral home to make arrangements. I had to notify Daddy’s relatives. I needed to talk to Louis about what it would take to keep the shop open. A million things needed my attention, but what I really wanted to do was to hide in the dark and cry.

  I told the funeral home director we were there to arrange services for Bill Elliott. We explained the Sheriff’s office had told us they had sent our father to this facility. The director seemed surprised. After he fiddled around for a moment with papers on his desk, he excused himself. About twenty minutes later, the funeral director returned to his office. He carried two big plastic bags that dripped water. We both saw Daddy’s thick black leather wallet at the same time. Daddy’s wallet was his address book and file cabinet; he never let his billfold out of his sight. A hundred old memories of Daddy in conversation as he thumbed through two inches of business cards and folded sheets of papers flashed through my mind. It was a shock, a bold confirmation he was truly gone. The other plastic bag contained a large amount of wet coins. Daddy always had a pocket full of change; he liked to jingle the coins with his big hands dug deep into the pockets of his dark blue mechanics uniform.

  “No wonder he drowned,” the funeral director said, “There’s enough change in here to hold anybody underwater.” His callus remark angered us. I threw my arm across Cindy Ann and pushed her back down in the chair. I knew my little sister wasn’t beyond jumping on this insensitive, rude little man and beating the hell out of him.

  The day of the funeral, Cindy and Randy left for the service in her car. Cathi and I followed them a few minutes later. Unfortunately, we found ourselves trapped in bumper-to-bumper oilfield traffic for more than an hour, with no alternative routes to get across the Amelia Bridge into Morgan City. We arrived at the funeral home fifteen minutes after the memorial service was to begin. Frantic, I ran inside. Told the service was over, Daddy was in transport to the cemetery for interment, I wanted to tear the funeral home apart. I simply couldn’t believe Daddy’s memorial was already over. They hadn’t waited on me when everyone knew I was on my way.

  The cemetery was only a few blocks away from the funeral home. Graveside services were already in progress when Cathi and I arrived. I bailed out of the passenger side before the car came to a stop. I ran as fast as I could dodge tombstones, madder and madder as each foot hit the ground. I barely remember the astonished faces seated in the neatly lined metal chairs under a canopy on fake green grass. I focused on the funeral director, but he quickly darted behind the casket as I got close enough to reach him.

  I knew Cindy and Randy were seated somewhere behind me. The thought that they had been through too much already kept me sane enough not to pounce on the inconsiderate funeral director and vent all of my anger on his shiny bald head. I wanted to beat his face to a pulp, to hurt him as he had hurt me. Through gritted teeth, I asked him why he hadn’t waited on me. His excuse that another service was on the schedule only fueled the flames of rage that threatened to consume my self-control.

  “You greedy little bastard,” I told him in a low voice that no one else could hear. “It will be a long time before you see the money for this funeral. Now open the damn coffin.” He dared to hesitate, “Now!” I ordered, “Open it right now!” I didn’t turn to look at the reactions of the people seated behind me. I didn’t need to see their faces; I could feel the shock waves, but I didn’t care what other people thought. I had to tell my Daddy goodbye. I heard gasps as I leaned over him in his silk-lined coffin. It occurred to me that it probably appeared to the crowd at my back that I was kissing his corpse. Whispered reactions apparently deemed my actions inappropriate. I offered no explanation as I leaned over to put Jerry’s POW/MIA bracelet on his wrist. Daddy couldn’t wear it all of the time, the metal bracelet tended to catch on engine parts, but he treasured the simple reminder of his only son. I was determined the bracelet would go to the grave with him. I turned on my heels and left.

  As Cathi drove, I closed my eyes and wished I were anywhere else in the world. I wanted to crawl in a hole and lick my wounds like an old dog, but I knew Randy and Cindy depended on me. We went to Mama’s house; it was closer and seemed the most logical place to gather after the service. Cathi and I sat in the living room in silence as the clock ticked. We waited until we both fell asleep from exhaustion. No one ever came to look for me.

 
When we woke up it was already dark. I panicked because I didn’t know where Randy and Cindy were. The phone at Mama’s was disconnected. We rushed back home to find Randy and Cindy alone, wondering what had happened to me. I asked Cindy why she hadn’t made them hold the service for me. She said she had tried, but the funeral director had insisted the service begin exactly at the time we had scheduled, not a moment later. I couldn’t hold her responsible. Cindy was just a big kid trying to cope with yet another sudden and tragic loss. I didn’t want to lay a guilt trip on her. We never spoke of the incident again.

  Only a few days before, I’d been a happy-go-lucky twenty-nine-year-old woman, content to go to night school, work part-time, do whatever I could to help Daddy out at the shop, and make a home for my son and little sister. I realized those easy days were long gone. My world had changed dramatically. Left to lead and care for our little family, it was now my sole responsibility to make sure we had a roof over our heads, and food on the table. It was a fearsome thought.

  I knew in my heart neither Mama nor Daddy would have left us so untimely and tragically in their early fifty’s, if we had just known with certainty whether Jerry was alive or dead. If he had indeed given his life to serve his country, the truth could have saved his family.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A New Beginning

  It was now up to me to keep our bruised family together and continue the search for Jerry. This wouldn’t be easy; losing both our parents within fourteen months of each other turned our lives completely upside down. The biggest obstacle we faced was learning to let go of the agonizing past. If we were to survive, we had to live in the present, and have hope for a better future.