I began to fight harder for excavation. I contacted Task Force Omega, told Earl and Patty Hopper our story, and asked for their help. At the November 2003 DPMO Regional Meeting in Phoenix, Arizona, the Hopper’s confronted accounting command officials. Why, after reviewing the various witness reports, was no effort being expended in the recovery of the alleged American remains? They learned the U.S. accounting command was unhappy with me because I failed to notify their offices in advance concerning my trip to Vietnam. Not because I was doing something “behind their collective backs,” but they would have preferred to know, so they could “keep their eyes open for anything that might help me.” None of the four DPMO staffers, Dickie Hites, Special Assistant to the Commanding General of JPAC, Johnnie Webb and Tom Holland with the CIL, or Carolyn Floyd, Army Casualty Officer, were aware I’d turned any information over to JPAC analyst Gary Flanagan. They’d only learned about the grave at the Old French Fort when I questioned DPMO about a recovery date.
Gary Flanagan and I had been emailing and planning Danny’s long overdue debrief in Vietnam for six months before we made the trip. He did not report my call about possible American MIA remains up the chain-of-command, nor has Danny’s debrief ever been entered into the official records of Case 1000. Damn! Did the staff of the U.S. accounting command not tell each other what was happening within their respective operations, or had their commitment to the POW/MIAs been engulfed by politics, bureaucratic turf wars, power trips, and self-indulgent manipulations?
At this point, JPAC thought resolution of the case was promising. Hites said JPAC would soon schedule the February to July ‘04 Vietnam operations window, and Case 1000 would be slated for investigation within that timeframe. Once the work of the investigative team was complete, an evaluation of all information would determine the probability of American remains. If so determined, JPAC would work to schedule a site excavation as soon as feasible. The excavation wouldn’t take place during the February to July window. A different team would do the actual excavation because investigative specialists have no training in archeological excavation, and vice versa. The actual recovery would take place in the future—timeframe unknown.
Once a joint U.S./Vietnamese forensic review determined the soldier to be American, the remains would be sent to the Central Identification Laboratory in Hawaii. It is often several years before analysis and mtDNA testing is completed, and families officially notified. Notification of any new information regarding Jerry would come through Army Casualty. This meant if the recovered soldier was positively identified as Billy Hill, or any other American G.I., we would not be formally notified. I decided to cross that bridge when I came to it; my immediate priority was excavation and recovery. I told Danny, Dale, Geof, and Steve, “Keep the faith guys; we’ll get him home somehow.”
On January 21, 2004, Storm and I visited to the Vietnam Veterans Wall in Washington, D.C. It was the third time for me, and each visit a unique experience. At the entrance to the Wall stood a tall young man in full uniform, Special Forces type. The expression on his face and a certain look in his eyes made me want to give him a big hug, but I didn’t want to intrude on a private moment. I walked slowly to the eastern section of the Wall, where Jerry’s name is carved in the black granite. My head was down as I checked the panel numbers. When I got to 35E and looked up, I took a couple of steps back. The Wall seemed smaller, always before it seemed to loom over me. This day I could actually reach Line 5. I lightly brushed my fingers quickly across his name. Despite freezing temperatures, with blocks of ice floating on the Potomac, the Wall felt warm to the touch, as if the granite possessed an energy all its own.
As Storm snapped a picture of me pointing to Jerry’s name, a man stopped and said politely, “You can get a reflection of the American flag in the Wall a little further up.” He was in D.C. to attend the Arlington group funeral of Air Force comrades killed during Operation Freedom in Iraq. He told me the hardest part was packing personal items of his friends for shipment home. I told him I was a MIA family member, and shook his hand in gratitude for his service to our country. Before we left the Wall, I looked around for the soldier I’d seen near the entrance with tears in his eyes. He’d come halfway down the Wall and turned around. Sometimes you just need someone to walk with you. That was my intention, but he wasn’t within sight anymore. I immediately had regrets about not giving him that hug.
We shopped with a sidewalk vendor. I bought a couple of t-shirts for the boys, which took just long enough for a certain Special Forces sergeant to walk past us. This time, I stopped him. “I’ve been looking for you! I saw you at the Wall and I wanted to tell you thank you for your service to America.” Sergeant Womack was a bit surprised, his blue eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up. Tension drained from his face as he told us about Arlington and the group funeral of friends. In a few days, SGT Womack would return to Iraq. In his weary face, I saw the image of all my vet friends, the pain, the heart, the hero, and I thought, “You’re too young, too young!” With a big smile, I shook his hand and said, “Welcome home, soldier!”
He talked about how rough it was in Iraq, but how he felt the need to be there. I tried to assure him that I understood his sacrifice was keeping war out of my backyard. I really didn’t know if we should be in Iraq, but I knew this man needed to hear risking his life and having friends die had meaning. When we parted ways, I told him in a joking yet serious manner, “Step lightly.” I noticed a renewed spark in his step, but I couldn’t bear to watch him walk away. In this moment, I realized how brave a soldier must be to return to battle. In my fight for a full accounting of Jerry, I sometimes found myself exasperated and disillusioned, but I always found it a true honor to meet these soldiers. Both men I met at the Wall that day gave me something very special; they made me proud to be an American.
Six months had passed since the discovery of the grave at the Fort, but we still didn’t have a date for recovery. After countless dreams of bones lying half-buried in red clay, I began contacting everyone I knew who might be able to help me cut through red tape to have the grave at the Old French Fort excavated. Desperate, I called on COL Bruce Clarke, commander of the MACV Headquarters the Black Cats attempted to support that fateful morning in 1968, and asked for his assistance. After an unproductive telephone call to JPAC Headquarters in Hawaii, COL Clarke took matters into his own hands and sent an email to JPACs Commanding General W. “Que” Montague Winfield. Colonel Clarke explained the unusual situation and asked, “Can’t the system be a little more responsive to this woman’s needs?”
Apparently, the General thought the accounting command should be “more responsive” because Clarke and I both received emails the next day from Johnnie Webb. My email message said, “The dates for the 77th JFA are 18 April to 22 May. Please understand that we cannot give you specific dates as to when we will actually have teams on your site because at this point we don’t know. Nothing is locked in at this point.” I thanked Webb for his response and asked could JPAC/CIL please give me a two-week window so I wouldn’t have to stay in Khe Sanh the full five weeks. I told Webb I knew it was difficult to understand, but since discovery of the shallow grave, I suffered from hellish nightmares and desperately sought peace of mind.
“I do understand why it is important to you to be present when we excavate the site possibly associated with Jerry,” Webb wrote back a few days later. “I will give you the best information I can at this time. We plan to excavate the site as soon as we get into country for the next JFA. We should start the work on 21 April and complete the excavation within two or three days. Of course, this is all dependent on the weather; however, I believe we will be able to stick to this schedule. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you would like to discuss this in greater detail. We have informed the folks in our detachment that you will be present for the excavation.”
Although hard to believe after months of frustration, I considered the information wonderful news. I didn’t care there was less than ten days to arr
ange travel, I had a credit card, and it would be well worth the sacrifice to be at the Old French Fort during the recovery. Peace of mind is priceless.
DMZ Memorial next to Hien Luong Bridge, May 1999.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bring the Bones Home
“What do you boys want me to bring you back from Vietnam?” I asked my grandsons.
“You’re going to Vietnam again, Granny?” Sam, the oldest at eleven inquired.
“Yeah, Vietnam again?” Max, at seven, tended to echo the words of his big brother.
“Yes, I’m going to Vietnam again,” I told them, and asked if they understood why I had to return.
“I know,” said Sam, “to look for Great Uncle Jerry.”
“Do you remember the grave the Vietnamese soldiers told me about, the one they said an American soldier was buried in?” With sincere faces and the innocent eyes of little children, they slowly nodded their heads yes, they remembered. “Well, Granny needs to be there when the grave is opened in case it’s Great Uncle Jerry buried there.” They were thinking too hard about this, so to lighten the mood, I asked again, “What would you like for souvenirs this time?”
“I want a tiger claw like you brought Max last time,” Sam told me.
“Max, what do you want?”
“Just bring the bones home, Granny, just bring the bones home.”
A week later, I headed back to Vietnam, for my fourth and hopefully final visit. The curbside porter at the Little Rock airport was curious, “I notice your going international, mind if I ask where you’re going?”
The 77th JPAC RE-4 begins excavation at the Old French Fort, April 2004.
“Vietnam,” I responded softly.
He repeated my answer with loud surprise, “Vietnam? Vietnam?” and swung a suitcase on the luggage cart as he turned to face me, “Can I ask why?” I explained that I was going to Khe Sanh to search for information on my brother, still missing from the war.
“How long has it been since anyone saw him alive?” he asked. Generally, only combat veterans ask such direct questions of family members.
”Well, this is April 2004, that would make it thirty-six years ago this coming January,” I told him.
For a brief moment, his kind face reflected private thoughts so intense that his bushy gray eyebrows almost met in the middle. Leaning forward on his dolly he paused and looked very hard at me, an average looking middle-aged woman dressed casually in a t-shirt and jeans. With a deep sigh, he mustered a gentle smile, and then he sent an American MIAs sister on her way with the only words he could find to encourage, “Good luck, lady, good luck.”
Changing planes in the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, I watched a group of youthful males across the waiting area. For almost an hour, they joked and laughed with one another, obviously excited about their travel. From the buzzcuts, and the “Be All You Can Be” t-shirts I knew they were Army recruits. As I shifted in my chair, I wrestled with unsettling thoughts. Part of me wanted to run over and hug the neck of each young man. Part of me knew what might happen to them. I was a bit relieved when my flight to Los Angeles was announced, and no one in their group stood up. As I walked to the departure gate I whispered, “Goodbye soldier boys, bless all of you; come home alive and whole.”
As the plane lifted, I settled into my seat and allowed my mind to sift through all the information I’d acquired on Case 1000. I tried to image what life would be like after finally learning Jerry’s fate. I would fly into Da Nang to meet up with JPAC, but this time there would be no one to greet me. I’d never traveled around in Vietnam by myself. I felt somewhat intimidated being alone with no knowledge of the Vietnamese language. Sometimes, it isn’t the mountain in your path that stops you, but the rock in your shoe.
Forty-eight hours after leaving Little Rock, the airplane slowly taxied down the Da Nang runway. As we rolled past an old hanger that still bore the 58th Battalions “Viking” signage, I spotted a U.S. C-130 cargo plane on the tarmac. On the shuttle from the airplane to the entrance gate, I recognized the multi-service uniforms of JPAC. At least we had arrived on the same day.
My instructions were to contact LTC Ty Smith, Commander, Hanoi Detachment 2, at the Furama Hotel in Da Nang. I called his room, and when he answered, identified myself. The colonel told me that he would ring Gary Flanagan’s room; they would meet me in the lobby. I thought this strange, I’d heard Gary was not to have contact with family members anymore. Smith left after a quick grip-and-grin introduction. Gary and I sat down to talk about the recovery at the Old French Fort. He would be going with me to Khe Sanh; the colonel would provide the use of his SUV and driver. We would leave the next day for Hue.
I was awake and dressed when Gary called at nine the next morning and told me he would pick me up at noon. I packed, checked out, and sat outside on the curb to wait. Twelve o’clock passed, then one o’clock, no Gary. At 1:30, I called his cell number and asked when he expected to arrive. “You misunderstood,” he snapped, “we’re not leaving until tomorrow.”
“Look, Gary,” I told him, “I’ve already checked out of my crummy room here, and I have hotel reservations and plans for tonight in Hue. I’ll take a taxi and meet you there.” He tried to talk me out of leaving Da Nang, but I had the front desk call me a taxi and I left. It was worth the forty USD to keep moving. Besides, I preferred to enjoy a homecooked meal with my friends Kieu and Hung to eating alone. Kind Kieu, although the family struggled, gave me a loaf of freshly baked bread to carry with me on my journey to Khe Sanh.
77th JPAC RE-4 takes a break to pose for a picture with Donna (center).
Gary and Louie, the Vietnamese driver for JPAC, arrived in Hue the next morning, and we left immediately for the Old French Fort. The drive took about two hours due to spring rains washing out half of Hwy 9. The conversation veered to the MIAs and Vietnamese politics, which seemed to be like an onion--you peel one layer off, only to find several layers underneath. Gary explained that before a U.S. team can make a move anywhere in Vietnam, everyone from Hanoi down to the province level must receive notification, and respond. To me, this explanation showed there to be little distinction between American and Vietnamese politics regarding bureaucratic responsiveness when it came to the POW/MIA issue.
Recovery Element (RE) 4 was already hard at work when we arrived at the Old French Fort. I was afraid to ask, afraid to look, in case the grave was already open. Gary introduced me to the team anthropologist, Dr. Elizabeth Martinson Goodman, who told me to call her “Zib.” She told us in an upbeat mood, “We found bone this morning.”
I couldn’t hold back, “Did you already open the grave?”
“No,” she said, “We’ll work our way from the discovery site to the grave, bucket by bucket.” My stomach muscles unclenched. Zib explained the JPAC team had found two pieces of bone near the spot where the dozer blade had dug up the remains. According to preliminary examination, the fragments might be pieces of a skull. The plan was to explore the bulldozer scrape first, and gradually work over to the grave. As I looked around, I realized there was a slight change in the terrain where the dozer had bladed.
“This area is different than last September,” I told her.
“Oh,” Zib responded, “how so?” I quickly pointed out where the dirt had shifted down the slope somewhat, and ground cover was beginning to now take hold.
“How much change do you think?” she asked me. I ran to the jeep and brought back the photos of the Old French Fort Geof had express mailed to me; delivered only minutes before I’d left to catch my plane. Zib carefully examined each photo, noted the landmarks, and asked Gary if the spring rains had been heavy in Khe Sanh.
“They had some really hard rain up here,” he confirmed. Later, Gary told me the weather was one of the points he had used to move Case 1000 forward on the recovery list. From his recent lack of action concerning Case 1000, I found Gary more dedicated to his position than to the results of his work.
Zib decided to extend the dig a few
more feet to make sure the team missed nothing. I showed her a photo of myself standing on the dozer scrape, pointing down to a stick near my foot. We had used the stick as a marker to indicate the exact location the Vietnamese soldiers originally discovered the grave. This seemed to be contrary to what witnesses told Gary during subsequent interviews. Zib decided it was important to get all the witnesses back to the site to validate the true, original site of discovery. She estimated the team would be at the site three or four days. I turned to Gary and said, “Half-a-day, huh?” He had told me en route that was how long he estimated we would be in Khe Sanh; after all, it was only a shallow grave. Zib and I laughed and even Gary managed to respond to my teasing with a grin.
Gary claimed the guard in the tower said he happened to look down as the scoop came up with a dirt load, saw what he thought was a hammock or part of an old parachute on top, and scrambled down to stop the driver. Once the men pulled out the material, and found the bundle contained bones, they decided it would be best to rebury the soldier. They folded the material around the bones, wrapped the bundle in an old blue raincoat, and reburied the remains a few yards away. Unfortunately, this was the second scoop. The first load of dirt, spread and packed down with heavy equipment, would be impossible to locate on the roadbed.
As I looked over the dig, Zib introduced me to the rest of the multi-service team: SFC David Groce was the team sergeant; SSGT Wayne C. Drowns, the linguist; TSGT Patrick Skiver was the team medic; SSGT Carl F. Traub IV, was in charge of Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD); and TSGT Leslie Schneider served as the Life Support Analyst (LSA).
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 33
