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.

  On the way back to the hotel, I couldn’t keep my eyes on the road ahead. My glance drifted to my immediate right, where riders maintained the designated empty space in the two-column pack at all speeds. Flying down the interstate on the back of Harry’s bike, I pictured Jerry beside me on a big bike, bent forward over the gas tank, blonde hair blowing in the wind, and a crooked grin from ear to ear. In the hotel parking lot, “Omaha Mike” presented Harry and me with small round, black and gold pins with a white POW/MIA logo in the center that had a single red tear. Around the edges of the pin the lettering read, “Rolling Thunder XIII, Washington, D.C., May 28, 2000.”

  Mike Teutschman introduced me to fellow Run member, Ron Paye. A former Cobra helicopter pilot with the 129th AHC, Ron invited me to ride with him from the Pentagon parking lot to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall. I was excited about riding a bike in the Rolling Thunder Ride for Freedom. Riding on the back of Ron’s bike was going to be another unique and profoundly moving experience for me.

  Artist Drew Zellner created a custom paint job that draws you into Ron’s bike. On the gas tank, the head of an American eagle, a guard tower, and a hand reach out from the shadowy confines of the bamboo cage that represents the POW/MIAs. Chinook, Cobra, Huey, and Scout helicopters dodge streaks of rocket fire as paratroopers jump into the jungle. On the front fender, a map of Vietnam helps vets find where they served. Not noticeable at first glance, the viewer gradually realizes the presence of three soldiers who covertly patrol the perimeter of the map. Below the map, a soldier waits on an airport bench for his ride home. Above his head is a tattered yellow, red, and green ribbon. “Frayed at the edges,” Ron explained, “because Vietnam was not a nice clean-cut war.” At the bottom of the front fender is a patch with Ron’s call sign, “Cobra 34.”

  The back fender, Ron’s favorite scene, is actually a composite of four pictures. In the background, three soldiers watch a “FoxFour” (F-4 aircraft) assault a VC village by air. Below, a medic stands face to the sky as a “dustoff” chopper drops into the LZ. Beside the doc, a kneeling soldier, head bowed, has one hand propped on a helmet. His other bloody hand holds his buddy’s dogtags. Most Vietnam vets react strongly to this gutwrenching scene; they stare silently for a few moments, and then walk off to stand by themselves for a few minutes before returning to talk.

  Ron chuckled at my attempts to snap a clean shot of his 2000 Harley-Davidson Dyna Wide Glide; no one, not even professional photographers, has been able to capture clear photographs of the scenes on his bike because the paint has a peculiar glow. I’m convinced Ron Paye rides a spirit bike. Maybe it has something to do with the nine names of veterans honored in gold paint: Lee W. Billingsly, John T. Conry, Lawrence D. Jackson, Harold McCaslin Jr., Glenn E. Nowakowski, Rodney Retzloff, Thomas F. Shaw, Claud P. Strother, and Jerry W. Elliott.

  The RFTW pack rode into the Pentagon parking lot early the next morning. There were already almost a dozen rows stretched out end-to-end for almost a mile, even though no bikes would move forward on the demonstration route until at least noon. I was surprised at the number of people who were not only aware of the POW/MIA matter, but also willing and able to express their belief we had left behind many American prisoners of war. It was also their intention to protect future veterans from abandonment should they become POW/MIAs.

  The chopper blade was still in the back of the truck. With four-wheel vehicles not permitted to ride in the demonstration, getting the blade to the wall presented a problem. Once again, Mike Teutschman asked me to open the pine box so other vets could see the chopper blade. Cathi and I moved away because the blade drew a crowd as soon as I flipped the lid open on the tailgate. One of the vets that drifted up to check out the chopper blade was Richard Skeate. Lo and behold, he was to drive his jeep as a pace vehicle in the demonstration, and offered to haul the blade to the Wall. Relieved, I latched on and gave “Skeater” a crushing hug.

  Mark “Pop-A-Top II” Jackson gave me a most thoughtful gift, a POW/MIA t-shirt that had a random selection of names from the Wall on the back. One of the names was Jerry W. Elliot[t]. I put the tee-shirt on right there in the parking lot. An Aussie Vietnam vet, upon hearing that I was the sister of an MIA, came up and pinned me. He explained the small rectangular Australian pin colors represented red for the bloodshed, black for those who died in service, and gold to honor the POW/MIAs. The attention was a little overwhelming. Used to awkward silences whenever someone, especially a Vietnam vet, found out my brother was MIA, such an outpouring of goodwill and acknowledgement was unusual, and made my head spin.

  Many notable people mingled with the bikers. They included Governor Bill Richardson [D-NM], Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell [D-CO], Miss America Heather French, and Adrian Cronauer of Good Morning Vietnam fame, but I never knew the name of the man I remember the most. He stood by himself looking at the chopper blade for a long time. I guess someone told him of my connection to the blade; he walked right up to me and began to talk. Visibly upset, I let him take his time telling his story. He had been one of two survivors from a chopper crash. The other survivor had managed to return to the crash site to scavenge a small piece of stainless steel from the helicopter. He made two crosses out of the metal, and gave this man one of them. He reached into his pants pocket. When he opened his hand, a small silver cross flashed in his palm. He explained this cross was never out of his sight; he carried it with him at all times as a reminder of the friends he had lost. Tears welled up in his eyes when he choked out, “I don’t know why I didn’t die that day; they were all such good men.”

  Rotor blade on display in Pentagon parking lot, Rolling Thunder XIII, May 2000.

  “Because it wasn’t meant to be,” I told him, “You must have had a greater purpose to fulfill.” At that, he gave me a quick, hard hug and walked away. I never saw him again.

  C-Span interviews Mike Teutschman (seated) on camera during Rolling Thunder, 2000.

  Mike told me a C-Span reporter wanted to do a live interview with me about the chopper blade. I’m not comfortable with public speaking, or in front of a camera, however, I agreed to try to tell the story. It was my lucky day, the director decided to interview Mike instead. He thought an interview with a vet who had recently returned to Vietnam to aid in the search for a buddy from his former unit would give the story a more interesting twist. Mike held an eight by ten picture of Jerry as he explained clearly and concisely to the camera how the 55th JTF had found the blade in a Vietnamese cow pen.

  Around noon, the lead bikes began to roll out. A thundering procession of 250,000 motorcycles rode up and over the Memorial Bridge and rumbled down the street past the Capital. Wave after wave of bikes rolled down Constitution Avenue toward the Wall. Rolling Thunder may have started out to call attention to those unaccounted for after Vietnam, but it had become so much more. The Rolling Thunder Ride For Freedom event was the welcome home parade the Vietnam vets never had. People lined up for miles along the route from the Pentagon to the Wall; young and old alike whistled, cheered, saluted, and waved flags.

  When we arrived at the Wall, things inexplicably fell into place. Caring hands reached out to carry the heavy wooden box to its final destination. Four Vietnam vets walked in front of the procession as honor guards, with the two men in front holding Old Glory and the POW/MIA flag. Behind them, two family friends, Cathi and Paula, carried red roses to leave at the Wall. Following them, six RFTW riders carried the pine box draped with the American flag. Trailing behind the blade were Kate Halpin, sister of Richard Halpin, MIA in Laos for fourteen years before he was recovered; Mark Jackson, whose brother Larry had been KIA in Vietnam; and me, Jerry Elliott’s little sister.

  Although the crowd around the memorial was tight, the throng respectfully parted as we made our way to the Wall. Some of the vets we passed snapped to attention and saluted. I can only hope I looked tranquil on the outside, because on the inside a tsunami of emotion washed over me as all those wonderful people paid tribute to my brother.

&nb
sp; When we arrived at Panel 35E, the bearers sat the pine box down gently, saluted in unison, performed a sharp about face, and stepped away to fold the American flag with ceremonial precision. Tucked into a perfect triangle, white stars on blue were showing when presented to me. Someone asked where Jerry’s name was. I answered, “Line five.” When I looked up at the Wall, it seemed at least ten feet high. Unable to focus, the names blurred as I tried to count down from the top to Line 5 as a Native American vet said a prayer and blessed the chopper blade, the Wall, and all the names on it with his sacred eagle feather.

  I’d never seen a ceremony such as this, much less participated in one, and I was unsure of how things should proceed. I sensed the group expected me to be the first to move forward and touch Jerry’s name. I didn’t want to touch the cold, dark stone, but I stepped towards the Wall. The top half of the panel was a swirling haze. To touch a name that had been with me for my entire life as a brother, a shadow, a memory...was a landmark occasion. I immediately decided not make contact with the Wall at all if I wasn’t sure my hand would touch his name first. I stepped back.

  One by one, every person who walked to the Wall with me laid a hand on Jerry’s name, and bowed their head as a silent statement of respect. Even though it was very cloudy, Tony’s steel POW/MIA bracelet flashed like a mirror when he placed his big fist on the Wall next to Jerry’s name. A roller coaster moved at full-speed through my head. Mike and I happened to turn and look at each other at the same moment. Our promise to the JTF team kept, we embraced. I squeezed my eyes shut to stop the world from turning so fast, told myself it was okay to cry, and took a deep breath ready to let it all out. Buried too deep, for too long, my emotions bottlenecked in my chest, and choked my voice.

  RFTW riders ceremoniously fold the American flag after honoring SSGT Jerry Elliott at the Wall in 2000.

  To cover my discomfort, I stooped down to throw back the lid on the pine box one last time and arrange the red t-shirt where all the names of the 55th JTF team were easy to see. Cathi and I pulled our RFTW black and white armbands off and put them in the box with red roses. “PapaBear” traced Jerry’s name with a lead pencil as I opened up the thick, black binder I intended to leave at the Wall. The first page held the old, yellowed telegram that had officially notified us Jerry was MIA. I had included a journal, which explained how the chopper blade was recovered and brought back to the U.S. I propped the binder against the pine box, and left the Wall, salty eyes focused in the distance on the towering Washington Monument.

  Army vet Tony Compton, wearing the same POW/MIA bracelet his wife Donna gave him in 1983, places his arm next to Jerry’s name on the Wall during Rolling Thunder XIII, May 2000.

  Needing a moment to clear my head, Cathi and I drifted towards the Vietnam Women’s Memorial. The brass sculpture depicted three uniformed women with a wounded soldier. One nurse comforted the fallen soldier, while another knelt beside her. A third female soldier looked towards the sky for a “dustoff” medical chopper that would carry the wounded to safety. Flags and flowers almost covered the three women, left by those the Vietnam nurses cared for with such tender compassion. At their feet lay three barbed-wire halos tied with red, white, and blue ribbons.

  Compelled to visit the Wall one more time, we walked alongside the granite panels. I was amazed and touched; visitors had left behind an assortment of special items in remembrance. Purple Heart medals, personal letters, stuffed animals, poems, pictures, military uniform items, unopened cans of beer, packs of cigarettes, and even a prosthetic leg. Like a moth to a flame, I returned to Panel 35E. Earlier, the pine box had contained only the chopper blade, the red JTF t-shirt, a few roses, and two RFTW armbands. Now, only an hour or so into a three day memorial holiday, the box almost overflowed with American flags, flowers, RFTW armbands, assorted patches and stickers, and two tiny bottles of Tabasco Sauce.

  Cathi gazes at rememberances left in a pine box at the Wall during the Rolling Thunder Memorial Day event, May 2000.

  Bending over the pine box, I lost my balance. My right arm instinctively reached out to break the fall, and I leaned into the Wall. It was so hot to the touch I jerked my hand back. Thinking maybe the sun heated up the black granite, I looked up, but heavy gray clouds still dominated the sky. I stood for a moment to ponder the intense warmth of the Wall, and then I saw it. Tucked deep into a corner of the pine box was the small silver cross the stranger in the Pentagon parking lot had shown me earlier. I was deeply moved when I pulled the cross out and held it in my hand. For over thirty years, the man had carried this precious memento with him everywhere; when he needed reassurance, he could reach in his pocket and touch it. For reasons unknown, this Vietnam vet chose to leave his talisman at the Wall in remembrance of Jerry. His gift an anonymous, selfless act, reminiscent of actions I’d heard combat vets share about their brother soldiers on the battlefield.

  A silver cross lies atop the section of the recovered rotor blade from Black Cat #027.

  I admit it; I wanted to keep the cross, to slip it into my pocket and carry it around for comfort just as he had. I liked the feel of the smooth handrubbed edges in my palm. I liked the man who left it, and respected the memories he had shared with me. Nevertheless, this vet hadn’t given his chopper cross to me; he had made a silent sacrifice at the Wall. The blade and the cross belonged together. I knelt, and placed the cross on one end of the blade, where it gleamed boldly. I hoped my friend from the parking lot walked away from the Wall that day with as much peace in his heart as I felt at that moment.

  Khe sanh elementary school, May 1999.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hill 861 and Bru Anha

  In the spring of 2000, I came across the Khe Sanh Veterans Association website. A link led me to an article about a Marine Corps baseball team comprised of U.S. and South Vietnamese military commanders called the “Cosmic Baseball Association.” There was a list of team members; including the military positions they held in Khe Sanh during the war. One entry in particular caught my attention.

  Bru Anha, listed as a “Team Owner,” was a member of the indigenous Bru, whom the French called Montagnards. During the war, Anha, Deputy Chief of the Huong Hoa district, acted as the Bru spokesperson and lived in the Ta Cong [Khe Sanh] district. I was happy to learn from former Special Forces vets who had returned to Khe Sanh that Bru Anha was alive as of 1999, and still lived somewhere in the area.

  Khe Sanh Chaplain and author Ray Stubbe mentioned an interesting encounter between Anha and a Marine officer in his book, The Hill Fights of ‘67. Anha had watched a Marine major command U.S. forces during an attack up Hill 861, into the face of enemy fire. He asked the American officer why assault forces continued to attempt to fight in this manner. The annoyed major mockingly responded with, “That’s where the enemy is.” The wise Bru then asked, “Why do the Marines not use the tunnel running through the mountain to attack the enemy from the rear?” This immediately got the major’s interest; he angrily asked why Anha hadn’t told them about the tunnel earlier. Anha shrugged, said he had not been asked, turned, and walked away. Stubbe explained, “The real reason was the local leader, Mr. Anha, had attempted to speak with the Marines for five days, but the Marines, preoccupied with the tactical situation, did not wish to speak with him. Hill 861 contained, in fact, five natural caves.” I thought if I could find the Bru chief, he might remember rumors of an American POW captured the day the Black Cats made their fatal attempt at rescue in the village. I knew I couldn’t wander around in the jungle to search for Anha alone. I needed a trusted guide who was familiar with the area and the people. Opportunity knocked.

  Former Marine Glenn Prentice posted a message on the Khe Sanh vets message board. He had already been back four times and wanted to know if other Marines were interested in joining him for a return trip. I contacted Glenn; he told me three other Khe Sanh vets planned to revisit their old battlefields. I told him I wanted to go to Khe Sanh to find Anha, and explained why. Glen discussed my idea with the o
thers. Although they didn’t really want to take a woman into the bush, they did want to help find Jerry if they could. I was going back to Vietnam.

  I would travel with Bob Arrotta, Paul Knight, Dennis Mannion, and Glenn Prentice. Glenn and Bob had served together with India Company on Hill 881 South, and Dennis and Paul on Hill 861 with Kilo Company. All four former 3/26th Marines had battled the enemy again during the legendary 1968 Siege of Khe Sanh. These Vietnam vets intended to return to the battlefields of Khe Sanh in July 2000 to retrace their wartime steps in an effort to close the gap between innocent youth and combat veteran. Although all four Marines came from different lifestyles and backgrounds, a common bond connected them. They all expressed a heartfelt desire for release from the life-altering nightmares of the Vietnam War.

  Deng Ming-Dao, a Taoist monk, wrote in 365 Tao: Daily Meditations, “If you go personally to war, you cross the line yourself. You sacrifice ideals for survival and the fury of killing. That alters you forever. That is why no one rushes to be a soldier. Think before you want to change so unalterably. The stakes are not merely one’s life, but one’s very humanity.” Combat soldier’s experience, but do not necessarily express, intense grief when their friends die. When the heat of battle had passed, one particular question haunted most Vietnam veterans, “Why me? Why did I live and others die?” Traumatized soldiers experience a warp in their perception of time; events seem to unfold in their mind in slow motion. This internalized view tends to make the person think they had more time and control of decision-making than they actually had in reality. In order to close the wounds of war and heal, these men needed to say final farewells to their fallen friends, an impossible rite during battle.