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.

  The only damper on graduation day was the news the 268th Pathfinders had only ten days of leave coming before they had to report to Ft. Hood for deployment to Vietnam. Jerry came home, and only a few things stand out in my mind about that last visit. One vivid memory is the fight he and I had.

  On home turf, both of us easily forgot the newfound closeness we’d shared at the bowling alley. The oldest and only boy, Jerry usually got his way, but I’d grown a little bolder since he had gone into the service.

  When he decided to pick on me one afternoon by blocking my path and holding me back with one hand on top of my head, the contest was on. Mama wasn’t at home to stop us, and I was fighting mad. That I barely reached Jerry’s shoulders didn’t matter. I flew into him with a fury, leaving long red trails on his bare chest with my fingernails. This was a first, a surprise to both of us. I thought for sure he was going to knock me silly, but Jerry laughed and said, “Well, about time you fought back!”

  He would write later to tease me, saying I’d left permanent claw marks on his chest. I guess my big brother wanted to know I could stand up for myself with him gone, and put me to the test. Maybe it was the right thing to do; forcing me to be as tough as I needed to be.

  All too soon, it was Jerry’s last day home; he had to return to Ft. Hood. Cindy cried because her “Butter” was leaving again. No more wild piggyback rides for a long time. Mama’s big brown eyes were shiny. Her lips trembled; she looked pale and weak, like she might faint.

  As we stood in the driveway saying our goodbyes, my mind drifted back to a long ago summer when Jerry and I were small children. Injected with my first smallpox vaccination before starting kindergarten, I reacted adversely with convulsions and high fever. One evening Mama put me on the couch wrapped in a wool blanket to break the fever. I was sweating buckets, so weak I could barely lift my head. When I did manage to prop myself up on pillows, I got a good look at Jerry through the living room window. He was in the front yard with an old string mop he had set on fire, waving it like a torch, having a grand time. Mama refused to let me go outside to play. I was so mad at my brother for having a good time without me. “Why does he always get to have all the fun?” I whined. Jerry leaving for Vietnam felt exactly the same way; I knew he was playing with fire, but in a way, I envied my brother.

  It was unsettling to see my folks so emotional. I bit my lip and clutched Cindy’s hand. Jerry didn’t want a scene at the bus station. Daddy would be the only one to see him off to war. He tossed Jerry the keys and they got into Mama’s white Chevrolet Impala. Tears ran down Mama’s face as she leaned in the window and begged, “Please don’t try to be a hero, Jerry. Just come back.” He ran his hand over his blonde G.I. haircut, smiled his cocky half-grin, kissed Mama’s cheek, and told his little sisters goodbye. Jerry backed the car out onto the street, waved one last time, and drove away.

  Mama, rooted to the gravel driveway, wept openly. She stared wordlessly as the car moved slowly down the quiet street. I couldn’t bear to look at the torment in her face. When I cast my eyes downward, I noticed sandy grit on my bare toes. A flash of dusty black patent leather shoes brushed across my memory and snapped my head up. I was too late. When Jerry came home, I’d ask him if he remembered the Fourth of July parade when we promised each other we’d join the Army.

  The three of us watched as the car made a left at the corner. I had a brief, last glimpse of my brother. Left hand on the steering wheel at eleven o’clock, body leaning to the right towards the radio dial, his head suddenly jerked back a little. I knew from experience he was laughing at the expected reaction from Daddy to turn his “wild music” down. It was easy to imagine Jerry’s response, “Made loud to be played loud. Airborne all the way!”

  Phu Hiep, Vietnam, 1967. Top: A typical home in the village.

  Left: A store front.

  Chapter Six

  Black Hats in Vietnam

  Having spent the winter cooped up in classrooms, libraries, and dorms, warm southern weather signaled vacation time to American students. They stampeded to the beaches and lakes to party. For the young men of the 268th Pathfinder Detachment, their spring break consisted of ten days leave, followed by a plane ride to Vietnam.

  On May 3, 1967, three days after their return to Ft. Hood, Jerry and his teammates loaded their gear onto a bus for a ride to Lackland Air Force Base, located on the southwestern fringe of San Antonio, Texas. From there, they would take a flight on a C-141 Starlifter to the Republic of South Vietnam. Shortly after sundown, the bus arrived at the base. Directed off the tarmac, the Pathfinder’s waited pensively in a small building near the terminal for their flight to Southeast Asia. They were finally on their way to fight for the people of Vietnam, and battle the real enemy—Communism.

  Boarding the C-141 routed to Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage, Alaska, the men quickly realized the Star Lizard’s utilitarian design offered little in the way of creature comforts. Everyone stowed their gear, found a place to sit, and immediately started to complain. The seats were uncomfortable; there were few windows, and only box lunches to eat. The Pathfinder’s would spend the next twenty-six hours in the stretched-out troop and cargo carrier. Since they had to face the rear of the plane with nothing to look at except their equipment piled high in the back, they soon became bored and restless. There were no cold drinks, tasty meals, or considerate attendants on this aircraft. It was one helluva way to start a tour.

  In Alaska, despite the difficult flight, the Pathfinder’s exited the plane in good spirits. The Alaskan spring air was dry, crisp, and cool. Radiant snow capped the majestic purple mountains. Jerry stood on the tarmac, stretched his long legs, and looked around much daylight. Maybe someday he would come back and see the Aurora Borealis at his leisure. Sucking in deep breaths of frosty air, he tried to memorize the refreshing sensation of chilled lungs. A year was a long time to swelter in the hot and humid climate of Southeast Asia.

  Mike Teutschman directs an LZ by radio in for the magical Northern support of South Korean troops on a mission in the Central Highlands of Vietnam.

  The plane refueled, the Pathfinder’s reboarded to begin the second leg of their journey. The clean air and warm food had refreshed everyone. They were ready to get to their destination. On May 4, 1967, they entered the country at Cam Ranh Bay, on the coast of central South Vietnam. The natural harbors at Cam Ranh Bay form one of the most stunning deep-water ports in the world. Seated by one of the tiny windows, Jerry inspected the azure ocean and white beaches below and endorsed them as, “Groovy!” Under different circumstances, the Pathfinder’s would’ve thought they were about to land at a five-star resort.

  The ramp of the aircraft lowered, and the team rushed out of the plane to fill their lungs with fresh, salty air. Instead, the Pathfinders labored to breathe as the pungent, intense humidity licked their faces. A liaison officer quickly arrived to escort them into the terminal for their in-county orientation. Cam Ranh Bay was over 9,000 miles from Mississippi, but only three hundred seventy miles from the demilitarized cease-fire zone (DMZ ), a six-mile wide buffer between North and South Vietnam. Briefed on safety, security, and health issues, they received directions to the row of tents they would call home until ordered to a permanent duty station.

  The Pathfinder’s spent the next couple of days exploring “the Bay.” They ate hamburgers and hotdogs at the snack bar, looked for girls to flirt with, and listened to music. Their time off was a brief period to rest up from the long trip over the North Pole to Vietnam. The respite would allow them to acclimate to temperature, and write the mandatory family letter announcing safe arrival. The team explored their new surroundings. They occupied themselves with intent observation of the Vietnamese employed on the base. Right away, they noticed the only personnel on the base who carried weapons were the Military Police (MPs). This came as a surprise. After months of training with a weapon within arm’s reach, it seemed strange to be unarmed in a combat zone.

  Jerry at Phu Hiep, Vietnam.
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  Most of the locals who worked on base wore straw cone hats and black silk pajamas. They moved around freely as they washed uniforms, cleaned buildings, and dumped trash. All of which made the Pathfinder’s nervous. They’d heard barracks stories about being unable to distinguish the VC from the non-Communist South Vietnamese. The good people during the day could very well be the enemy at night; men, women, and even children weren’t beyond suspicion. Everyone was a possible VC suspect; from the village chief to the post barber who specialized in hot lather shaves using a deadly straight razor. Although South Vietnamese employees carried photo IDs, the MPs inadvertently opened the gates to spies every morning. To detect enemy agents with any certainty, keen observation was required. There were more friendly South Vietnamese allies than there were adversaries, but it was wise to stay sharp, and pay close attention to any unusual behavior in case someone was reporting information back to the VC.

  The “good guys” were composed of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) and the Regional Forces—Popular Forces (RF-PF). The ARVN were the South Vietnamese Regular Army troops. Their uniforms looked a lot like what American soldiers wore during WWII, because their issued fatigues came from outdated U.S. military stock. The RF-PFs were a militia force composed of local villagers generally associated with specific regions comparable to our National Guard or Reserves. Because of the acronym, RF-PF, U.S. troops also referred to them as “Ruff-Puffs.”

  The “bad guys” were the NVA and the Viet Cong. The more formidable NVA preferred to be known as the VPA, or Vietnam People’s Army. The NVA were counterparts to the South Vietnamese ARVN, and referred to by U.S. troops as NVA Regulars, or simply “Regulars.” Easily identifiable, most wore khaki uniforms and very distinctive pith helmets.

  The name “Viet Cong” came from the Vietnamese term for Vietnamese Communist, Viet Nam Cong San. U.S. troops often referred to them as Cong, VC, Victor, or simply “Charlie.” There were two branches of the Viet Cong, the formal arm of the North Vietnamese military known as the Peoples Liberation Front Armed Forces (PLAF), and the National Liberation Front (NLF). The PLAF Viet Cong took their orders from Hanoi, and wore uniforms that resembled black silk pajamas. This common attire allowed them to remain almost invisible within the general populace. The local Viet Cong, farmers by day - soldiers by night, thought and spoke of themselves as the NLF. They fought local and regional battles, and drew most of their support from surrounding villages and farms. Villagers were either controlled by fear, or sympathetic to the Communist cause.

  After a brief taste of the good life in Cam Ranh Bay, the Pathfinder’s boarded a C-130 cargo plane for the short flight north to Tuy Hoa Air Base. Their new post was located in Phu Yen Province on the coast of central South Vietnam. From the airbase, they trucked a few miles south to the Army base at Phu Hiep. After months of training, waiting, and speculation, the Pathfinder’s began to earn combat, jump, and demolition pay. Their main responsibility was to provide navigational assistance to all aircraft and ground forces supported by the 268th Aviation Battalion. In addition to other duties, the Pathfinder’s served as door gunners (earning Crewmember Badges), performed as a reaction force in low-intensity conflicts, and assisted in the defense of the battalion’s area of responsibility.

  The soldiers of the 268th Pathfinder Detachment were the only personnel in the battalion on jump status; their black headgear set them apart as an elite, well-disciplined group, ready and able to accomplish their mission. Pathfinders were recognizable to U.S. military troops in Vietnam as “Black Hats.” Soldiers might not know exactly what a Pathfinder was, but they all knew the men wearing black baseball caps were responsible for getting them in and out of the LZs safely.

  The 268th Pathfinders wore the 1st Aviation Brigade patch on the shoulder of their green jungle fatigues with a blue and white Airborne tab above it. Corporal Michael Teutschman designed the unit patch worn on their black baseball caps. The design featured a distinctive Jump Wing against a background of red on a yellow oval to represent the colors of the South Vietnamese flag, with a black bar on both sides of the Wings to symbolize the black hat of the Pathfinder.

  During the conflict, shabby and unusual hats of all shapes and colors began to show up on members of the 1st Aviation Brigade. This blatant disregard for Army protocol inspired Major General (MG) G. P. Seneff, Jr. to issue a policy that his people adhere to the standard prescribed military soft hat or helmet when at work. His orders read, “One exception to this policy is the Pathfinder’s who have by custom been allowed to wear black hats, and...they deserve this note of distinction.”

  Between camp and the ocean lay the small Vietnamese village of Phu Hiep. The coastline was hot, but tropical sea breezes made it bearable. Cactus flourished in the region, and the men joked about a long flight that ended with them back in Texas. The airfield was small, but beginning to expand as more units moved into the area. Surrounded by barbed wire, there were only two ways in or out of the camp; the main gate, or the ocean beach, both kept under guard at night.

  The first assignment for the 268th Detachment was to pull guard duty. The Pathfinder’s didn’t know what to expect—a single VC sniper crawling silently through the tangled undergrowth, or boatloads of VC trying to land on the dark beach. Shortly after evening mess the Pathfinder’s rode a deuce-and-a-half truck to the perimeter, and made a three-man drop at each guard post. The guard posts were holes dug in the ground with a few sandbags for protection, or two to three-foot walls of sandbags around a small wooden enclosure. A cot in each station allowed one person to sleep while two stood guard. The men rotated between an hour of sleep and two hours of guard duty.

  The Pathfinders blatantly resented pulling guard duty on a regular basis; this wasn’t why they had trained so hard, or traveled so far. They wanted to know when they would “see some action.” Jerry, hated guard duty. He had a need for adventure, for pushing himself, for attempting daring feats.

  One summer our family made a short trip to visit Mama’s Aunt Flora, who had a farm in the country where she kept horses. Jerry knew nothing about horses, but that didn’t stop him from asking our Great Aunt Flora if he could take a ride. She gave him a bridle and declared that if he could catch a horse, he was more than welcome to ride it. The next time I looked out a window, he was bareback on a chestnut mare at full gallop across the field.

  Beach guard post at Phu Hiep.

  Mama started outside, but Daddy said to let him go. Ten minutes later, one of the neighbor boys knocked on the screen door. He told Aunt Flora one of her horses had thrown Jerry over the fence, and his ear was bleeding. Mama’s feet hit the floor; she caught up with Jerry as he tried to recapture the animal that had thrown him. The sight of his own blood never stopped my brother; it only served to make him angry and add to his determination. Jerry’s ear, partially torn from his head, had to be enormously painful, but he wouldn’t be still long enough for Mama to check him over properly.

  Daddy laughed, and headed back to the house for another cup of coffee. Mama and I stood there, not sure what to do next, as Jerry ran off to chase down the horse. She called to him, ordered him back, but he ignored her and sprinted across the field. He went straight to the corner of the pasture where the horse calmly grazed, grabbed the reins, and jumped back on. Mama shook her head and went back to Aunt Flora’s kitchen. She knew from experience she would have to wait until he completed his ride to tend to her stubborn son’s ear.

  Jerry’s adventurous nature caused him more than a few injuries. Over the years, he managed to slice his arm open during a swim in a gully, break his knee when he jumped off a roof, break his nose in a fight, and fracture an arm when he fell off a skateboard on a steep hill. Requiring such a lively young man to sit in a hole to guard cactus and sand whittled his patience very thin.

  With no assault on Phu Hiep since their arrival, the Pathfinder’s didn’t worry much about the enemy. Jerry’s first taste of “real war” was a mortar attack in the dead of night. They woke up
to explosions on the flight line. Listening intently, the team heard the unmistakable thunder of another round of mortars. Someone yelled, “Incoming!” Grabbing rifles, web gear, and boots, they ran for the bunkers.

  Once the shelling stopped, all available personnel formed a line and swept through the compound to ensure “Charlie” hadn’t slipped through the wire during the attack. Small arms fire came from the guard towers. Flares fired into the night sky illuminated the perimeter, so chances were no one got in; but the soldiers needed to be certain.

  Sent to check the motor pool, adrenaline pumped as Jim Cox and Mike Teutschman inspected the cab of a deuce-and-a-half supply truck. Cox backed away to signal Teutschman someone was trying to hide in the front seat. They decided one man would open the door; another would attack the enemy with fixed bayonet. Teutschman opened the door. Quietly, and with practiced stealth, Cox swiftly lunged forward to force his bayonet deep into the softness of what he was sure must be human flesh. He took a step back, pulled his bayonet out, and nervously poked the tip into his kill—a laundry bag stuffed full of clothes.

  Tension gone, their hearts stopped pounding in their ears. When they could breathe again, they had a good laugh. Their choice of action hadn’t been the smartest thing to do. It could’ve been another G.I. in the truck, but at times the team found themselves caught up in the moment and simply reacted, especially now, when they were still new to war.

  After a month or so of guard duty, the Pathfinder’s were pleased when a Battalion security detachment was organized, but instead of pulling guard duty, they would now provide temporary help with the construction of permanent buildings for Battalion Headquarters. They mixed cement, hammered nails, and griped about going to Vietnam to be carpenters.