Jerry found it difficult to sit still in class. Although he had plenty of intellectual ability, he was restless. Besides sports and scouting, nothing seemed to interest him. Few academic subjects held his attention. At school conferences, his teachers always told our parents he was a bright boy. Their only complaint was Jerry exhibited more interest in what happened outside the schoolroom window than the lesson on the blackboard.
In 1964, the conflict in Vietnam intensified after the North Vietnamese attacked the USS Maddox in the Gulf of Tonkin. Although President Lyndon Baines Johnson privately cursed the Vietnam War, he believed in Eisenhower’s “Domino Theory.” In order to prevent America from appearing weak to the rest of the world, he escalated the war and called for more troops to serve in Vietnam to “fight Communism.” In Johnson’s 1966 Annual Message to Congress on the State of the Union, he declared, “An America that is mighty beyond description—yet living in a hostile or despairing world—would be neither safe nor free to build a civilization to liberate the spirit of man.”
Daddy and the kids, 1961. Left to right: Jerry, Daddy, Cindy (center), and Donna.
Torn by the war in Vietnam, our country was animate with “love and peace” hippies. From upscale Greenwich Village, New York, to bohemian Haight-Ashbury, California, light shows danced around the heads of flower children in psychedelic t-shirts and bellbottom blue jeans who listened to rock music as the underground press preached “make love, not war.” A counter culture was born as the nation’s youth experimented with sex and drugs, while only an ocean away, our young soldiers killed to stay alive.
Greenville wasn’t a “happening” place; we didn’t tune in, turn on, or drop out. We pledged allegiance to the flag every morning in school, and sang the national anthem at community events. Being typical small-town teenagers, my older brother and I didn’t have much interest in politics or the news. Focused on souped-up cars, clothes, school, and boys, I knew very little about Vietnam, or really understood why America sent soldiers there to fight. The war became real for Jerry during the “Hanoi March.”
On July 6, 1966, the North Vietnamese paraded fifty-two American prisoners through the streets of downtown Hanoi at the point of bayonets “to meet the people.” Blindfolded and bound together in pairs, the “Rabbit” ordered the Prisoners-Of-War (POW) to bow their heads. The men chose to follow Commander Jeremiah Denton’s order to “stand tall.” Big trucks with cameras and floodlights kept pace with the prisoners as they were force-marched through a two-mile gauntlet of screaming, spitting North Vietnamese who tried to force their heads down. An angry mob of thousands viciously punched, kicked, and stuck the POWs with bricks and bottles. More than once the bloodthirsty crowd knocked our stunned and handcuffed men to the ground with a blow to the stomach or groin. This display of U.S. soldiers, tortured and suffering, struck a national nerve and served to ignite the American spirit.
Jerry didn’t want to go back to finish his last year of high school; he wanted to enlist in the military. He argued with Mama and Daddy and threatened to run away and join without their permission. The shocking plight of the Hanoi POWs had flamed the fires of injustice; he was ready to join the fight. The United States Army was what Jerry wanted, and nothing else.
This was Jerry’s nature; he tended to move in directions that continually surprised us all.
Jerry at boot camp, Fort Polk, La, 1966.
Chapter Three
Jerry Joins the Army
“I do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the United States of America; that I will serve them honestly and faithfully against all their enemies whomsoever; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me; according to the regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”
On July 28, 1966, Jerry joined the United States Army for a three-year hitch. Trainee Elliott reported for basic combat training at Fort Polk during the hot, humid summer. Located in the central region of Louisiana, Fort Polk was infamous for the endless dust in summer, the cold gumbo mud in winter, and hungry mosquitoes year round.
Dirt and bugs were far from Jerry’s mind as he entered North Fort Polk, also known as “Tigerland.” Overnight he had stepped into a world unlike anything he had ever experienced. At the entrance to Fort Polk There were two large signs on both sides of the road, one read, “To fight like a tiger, you must learn to kill like a tiger.” The other displayed a VC guerilla in black pajamas with the words, “This is your enemy...learn to kill him...like a tiger!” Posted at every turn, mottos and slogans reminded the new recruits they were there to learn how to engage and destroy, “Every man a tiger!”
Going to war was never in question. When Jerry enlisted, he was fully aware his final destination would be Vietnam. He had no reservations about fighting in a foreign land; he believed he acted in the best interest of his country.
Where his assignment would be and what his duties would demand were his priority questions. To hear my brother tell it, the Army was “all good.” He didn’t complain about the food, or the forty roommates. I suspect Jerry thought if he could evade conversation about Vietnam, he could in someway shelter us from the reality of what he was about to do.
Private Jerry W. Elliott, 1966.
It was a time of anxiety and moral dilemmas; “Tigerland” was a place that would make you, or break you. They called this brutal introduction to the realities of war survival training. No doubt, the course brought to mind the inescapable fact that Fort Polk was the major birthplace of Army combat infantrymen destined for Vietnam. Everything the recruits did was a reminder that when graduation day arrived their peers would at last consider them “real soldiers.” This acceptance into the ranks of the military became more important than the fact they were destined for Southeast Asia to fight in a war. They encouraged one another, and together refused to dwell on the knowledge that even though the rounds fired at “Tigerland” were blanks, the bullets in Vietnam would be real.
Jerry moved at double time everywhere he went, and growled like a wild jungle cat while he waited in line for meals or supplies. The most important objective of the training was to change his reaction in combat to a fight response, instead of the natural instinct to take flight. He spent days on bivouac, crossed bayous on three-rope bridges, trained to march for miles with a full pack, and learned how to fire every weapon in an infantry soldier’s arsenal. He waded in marshes for jungle training, and crawled through dirt tunnels like a rat.
Jerry learned how to kill the enemy in order to avoid his own death. The Drill Instructors (DIs) tried to dull the fear of death by repeatedly telling the fresh recruits most of them would not come back from Vietnam alive. The vivid scenario of his own death made Jerry train harder and study more to prove the DIs wrong.
Considering all the discipline required, Jerry’s love for the military was a mystery. Perhaps it was adrenalin, but he relished the challenges the Army presented. Lifelong competitions in baseball, football, and track helped him earn special distinction for outstanding accomplishments in physical fitness. He became a member of the “425 Club” of the First Training Brigade with a score of four hundred sixty on the physical combat proficiency test, based on five events, each worth one hundred points.
The nobility of duty alters rapidly with the reality of an education in killing. As part of his training for the jungles of Vietnam, one of his instructors brought in a rabbit. The DI allowed each of the students a moment to hold the small bunny and stroke its smooth fur. Far removed from family, friend, and pets, it felt good to hold something warm and soft. The DI then held the rabbit up before the class, snapped the neck, and skillfully gutted the carcass.
Later, while home on leave, Jerry uncharacteristically related these details to me. Although he was a hunter, this unpleasant incident affected him deeply. Jerry needed confirmation others would ask the same question, “Why did he do that?” He needed collaboration that compassion did not make him we
ak. Sometimes you discover things about yourself at the right time.
Jerry had been gone a little over a month when Mama convinced Daddy we should take a trip to Fort Polk. She wanted to see firsthand how the Army treated her son. I can only imagine one “Tiger’s” surprise and embarrassment early one Sunday morning when his family showed up uninvited at boot camp to check up on him. He sure looked happy to see us though.
When Jerry entered the Army, he was 5' 9" and weighed one hundred fifty-four pounds. Always lean, after only a month of training he was muscled and tan. A new air of confidence made him seem older. He was still my big brother, but he was different somehow, calmer than the high-strung kid I remembered. Jerry didn’t pick on me throughout the entire visit; it was as though he had outgrown a favorite childhood pastime.
Jerry with his weapon of choice, an M60 machine gun. It weighs twenty-three pounds, is air-cooled, gas operated, belt-fed, and fires five hundred fifty rounds per minute with a maximum effective range of 1,100 meters.
Jerry was always easy to find in a crowd, even in the darkest movie theatre. Folks called him a “cotton top” since his wavy hair was almost the same color as the cotton bolls that bloomed in the fields every summer. Jerry never paid much attention to his hair until he became a teenager. He let the top grow out long enough to twist into a coil. This required at least an hour in front of the mirror each morning before school, as he tried to tame cowlicks and curls. His antics would’ve entertained me, except he kept the bathroom tied up way too long. I finally convinced him to let me dampen the front of his hair and use a roller to train one big curl to fall over his forehead like Elvis.
This became a morning ritual for us for quite a few months. Styling my brother’s hair guaranteed I started each day with a good laugh. He looked hilarious as the pink foam roller flopped around on top of his head. I had to “cross my heart and hope to die” should it ever get back to his friends that my big macho brother rolled his hair. This was a difficult secret to keep.
Jerry’s fancy hairdo days were over now. An Army barber had shaved his hair to the scalp. Cindy and I laughed at Jerry’s “new do.” Daddy called him “Slick.” He took our jokes in good spirit, and was considerate of Mama’s need for an occasional touch to his arm or hand for reassurance. She was happy-sad at the same time. Although relieved to see him, Mama quickly realized he would never be her little boy again. Jerry sensed Mama’s concern. He slowly coaxed her to join the fun with calm assertions and boyish charm. I can still see that quick, half-crooked grin he always considered so attractive, although I thought it made him look comical.
Not one to use words to express his feelings, Daddy put his arm around Jerry’s shoulder and smiled his approval. He asked the usual parental questions, “They treatin’ you all right? You gettin’ enough to eat?” As casual as they tried to act, Daddy and Mama beamed with pride.
Boot camp was soon over for Jerry. He emerged from “Tigerland” straighter, taller, and tougher. He could run faster, push harder, and scream louder. He was a “lean, mean, fighting machine.” He learned “hurry up and wait” meant discipline. Teamwork meant life or death. In order for a soldier to survive, he must be prepared to “kill the enemy before he kills you. Kill who you can kill, and save those you can save.”
After Ft. Polk, Jerry went to Ft. Gordon, Georgia, for Advanced Individual Training (AIT) for the Infantry. There he earned the Marksman Badge with the M-16 rifle, and an Expert Badge on the M-60 machinegun. Jerry particularly liked the M-60. He sent home several photos of him handling the heavy weapon like a toy.
Between training assignments, Jerry came home for Christmas. He brought a few military souvenirs with him, one of which looked like a giant firecracker. I was home alone one afternoon, and too curious for my own good. Foolishly, I picked the object up and determined it to be a training dud. I started to swing the flare around by the wire. There was a slight hiss. Suddenly the tube shot out of my hand. What appeared to be a giant bottle rocket zoomed around the living room as I ducked and dodged.
The projectile fell from the air, fizzled to a stop, and melted a gigantic hole in the carpet. Frantic, I scrubbed as hard as I could to remove the sooty burn mark. What remained was a black spot so big even the coffee table couldn’t hide the damage. I just knew Mama would ground me for life as soon as she came home and saw what had happened to her living room. Jerry and Mama came in together, and after he guffawed long and hard, he took responsibility. He told Mama the accident was his fault, he shouldn’t have left the live flare lying around. Mama couldn’t bring herself to fuss at Jerry about anything while he was home on leave, so that was the end of the subject. Although, I did learn more than a lesson about flares, I discovered how big brothers act when they begin to grow up. After New Year’s 1967, Jerry reported to the 4th Student Battalion at Ft. Benning, Georgia, for the month-long Basic Airborne Course. He wanted to be part of a distinguished tradition, to be one of an elite body of fighting men, an American sky soldier—a paratrooper.
Chapter Four
Airborne All the Way
Everywhere we go,
People want to know.
Who we are,
Where we come from.
We are the AIRBORNE,
Mighty, mighty AIRBORNE!
Airborne soldiers have a tradition of becoming leaders who exhibit superior military performance, and consistently set the highest example of determination and courage. When a soldier volunteers for airborne training, he accepts the challenge of continuing a time-honored military tradition. To become a paratrooper and earn your silver jump wings is an experience that requires serious dedication to overcome both mental and physical challenges. Discipline is strict; proficiency throughout each phase of training is exceptionally high. Physical conditioning is vigorous and progressive. A strong sense of esprit de corps amongst all parachutists is ingrained.
Jerry successfully completed the Basic Airborne Course and prepared for Jump Week. Once again, Mama loaded us in the car. This time we would make a ten-hour drive to Georgia for the graduation ceremony. On post, we checked into the government guest quarters. When he was off-duty, Jerry joined us for the evening. Never one to sit still for long, he wanted the family to go bowling. The post bowling alley was only a few blocks away, but Mama and Daddy were worn-out. They waved the three of us out the door to “go and have a good time.” I had my doubts about an enjoyable evening, Jerry and I had a history; he was bossy and I was rebellious.
When Cindy Ann began to talk, she had trouble pronouncing the word “brother,” so she always called Jerry her “Butter.” On the sidewalk, she immediately held her arms up and begged, “Piggyback ride, Butter, piggyback ride!” Jerry laughed as he swung Cindy up on his shoulders with one arm. Always close, they never argued like he and I did. Maybe it was the twelve-year age gap, but our big brother was her champion.
Jerry Elliott in jump school, 1967.
When we turned the corner, Jerry asked me what his friends at home were doing since he had been gone. As I caught him up on all the local gossip, it hit me what had changed. He treated me like a person instead of a pest. We actually walked a few blocks side-by-side, with no harsh words or licks. His manner was new and different. Although wary, I was impressed.
Cindy, too young to comprehend the rules of the game, flung the bowling ball down the lane with both hands, and then ran after it. Jerry laughed, raced after her, and teasingly tossed our little sister in the air a few times while she giggled with delight. This was the first time the three of us had done anything playful together in years. I’d always loved Jerry, he was my brother, but in that instant I discovered I also liked him. We might end up being friends after all.
I asked Jerry if it scared him to jump out of an airplane. He laughed and mumbled, “Just don’t look down.” A trainee who froze with fear during a jump would suddenly feel a strong “helping hand” shove him out the door of the plane. If Jerry was ever afraid, he had conquered his fear to develop a zeal for being
a paratrooper. He described a jump as, “an adrenalin rush. You force yourself not to think about jumping into thin air. The trick is to concentrate on deploying the parachute properly. After the chute opens, the slow trip down is amazing.”
The next day Daddy drove us out to Fryar Drop Zone (DZ) to watch Jerry make his last jump before graduation. There were no bleachers, only miles of military and civilian vehicles strung out along the dusty gravel road. Daddy parked the car and we climbed out to watch the air show. Heads bent back, hands shading eyes from the blinding sun, everyone focused on an unforgettable, almost intimidating sight. The sky overhead filled with dozens of airplanes, and hundreds of soldiers.
Cindy and her “Butter,” circa mid-1960s.
The graduation jump resembled an old World War II movie where paratroopers dropped behind enemy lines to save the day. Plane after plane dumped belly loads of tiny green Army men. Seedpods in the wind, they dotted the blue Georgia sky with white silk parachutes. The men dropped slowly until the toes of their boots touched the ground. Trained to tuck and roll in the dust, the paratroopers shot to their feet, collected gear, and moved out immediately. I was star struck; jumping from an airplane looked daring and adventuresome.
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 3