Jerry’s fate swung with Mama’s moods. To have Jerry’s personal belongings from Vietnam in the living room with us brought on heart-rending highs when she assumed her son was alive. During these episodes, her thoughts centered on a belief the Army would find him.
It was easy to recognize when Mama believed Jerry was going to come home soon. Her entire demeanor changed, as if a fresh wind had blown away the dark clouds. Instead of being worn down, she would hold her head up proudly again. I enjoyed being around Mama when she was herself, all perky and interested in the world.
Mary Elliott (Mama), circa early 1950s.
Then there was that dark pit of misery she fell into where she drove herself crazy thinking, wondering. She had the realization, the fear, that if Jerry was alive, then he was probably a prisoner. If a POW, then what were the North Vietnamese doing to her son? She had read and heard all kinds of stories about how brutal his captors could be, and Jerry was headstrong with a hot temperament.
She got hysterical imagining him being tortured, hungry, sick, or hurt. She couldn’t help but picture him crouched in a cramped bamboo cage in the jungle somewhere, wondering if, or when help would come. I knew this because as Mama cried, she shared her misery of what she thought might be happening to my brother. There could be torture, such as being starved and beaten, or having his fingernails ripped off. Even worse, she imagined Jerry felt abandoned. She worried he might think no one would look for him, or even care if he ever made it home again.
Mama had very serious bouts of depression; sometimes she would hide in her bedroom for days on end, coming out only after nightfall when all the rest of the world was asleep.
She suffered from an old back injury sustained in a car wreck, and often walked the floor in pain, but this was different. These incidents usually happened right after some well-meaning, but insensitive individual asked her, “You do know Jerry’s dead don’t you?” I was present when one of her sisters said those very words to her shortly after his disappearance. I was as shocked as Mama, who opened her mouth to protest, except no sounds came out. I watched her face crumble as if she was about to implode.
There were days when she was so still she could have posed as a statue. The TV would be off, no crochet project in her lap, no book, or even a newspaper in her hands. Poor Mama, sometimes she just sat and drank, not knowing whether to believe, or to grieve.
Jerry was missing for ten months when I came home from school one day to find we had company. Mama and Daddy were having coffee with WO Lennis Lee, the Army pilot who flew Jerry into battle. Lee was en route to Alaska with his family. He took a side trip to stop and meet the parents of his MIA door gunner. I’m sure Lee told my folks about what happened in Vietnam, although Cindy and I weren’t there for the entire conversation. I did hear him make mention of some color slides he had taken in Khe Sanh. He had a roll of undeveloped film of the Old French Fort where the Black Cats were attacked on January 21st. Lee said he had returned to the spot only days after the encounter with the NVA, and took several pictures from the air. He promised to mail the slides to Mama and Daddy.
In November, after his family settled and unpacked, Lee kept his word. My parents immediately called Army Casualty. They turned the slides over for evaluation. Unfortunately, the Department of Defense (DoD) determined the images were too grainy and blurred to be of much use. Only one photo made it into Jerry’s casualty file. A shot of a large, flat, irregular ovalshaped piece of barren red ground with lots of big trees on three sides, and huge bomb craters scattered around the other side. Even if the Army had provided a map of the area, there were no significant landmarks in the photograph to determine direction.
Mama’s hopelessness deepened; she changed from a bright, attractive woman to a sad, unreachable shadow of aching humanity. She went to see a doctor who prescribed a new psycho-pharmacological medication to treat “womanly problems”—Valium, or “Mother’s Little Helpers,” little blue pills that were supposed to be a new miracle cure for anxiety. Maybe the pills did help; at least she didn’t fall apart when the Army sent us a shiny new brass and wood plaque that declared Jerry a war hero.
Mama and Daddy were so proud of that plaque. They hung it on the wall in the living room, right over the front windows by “the shrine.” They showed it to everyone who came to the house. Company would ooh and aah over the inscription. A lot of good this did Jerry. My bet was he didn’t give a damn if anyone thought he was a hero or not. He just wanted someone to find him, and get him out, so he could come home. A plaque couldn’t change the facts, but I guess it did make Mama and Daddy feel better. This symbol of honor gave them a reason to talk about Jerry in a positive way so they wouldn’t break down whenever his name came up in conversation.
There were three letters typed on onionskin paper from Jerry’s commanding officers, all dated February 20, 1968. Lieutenant Colonel Thorveld R. Torgersen, HQ 16th Aviation Group, wrote, “As a member of the 16th Combat Aviation Group, your son served courageously with his fellow soldiers in the finest tradition of the United States Army. I know that his status as missing in action is a great worry to you, however, I hope that you may find a measure of comfort in the fact that your son is missing because of the action he took to defend and allow other persons to be evacuated.”
Lieutenant Colonel Wilbur A. Middleton, HQ 212th Combat Support Aviation Battalion, stated he was, “...extremely proud to have man of Jerry’s selflessness, devotion to duty, and character as a member of my command. I, together with my officers and men, share your grief and concern. You may be assured that we are doing everything possible to determine your son’s whereabouts and, God-willing, his safe return.”
Major Ronald C. Rex, Commander of the 282nd Assault Helicopter Company was with the Black Cats at the Old French Fort. He was one of the pilots in Chalk #4 who last spoke to Jerry. Major Rex informed us, “Jerry was last seen performing the most heroic action that any soldier can make: going to the aid of others. He voluntarily left his position as door gunner on a UH-1D helicopter and ran to the aid of the crew of another helicopter that had crashed delivering troops into a landing zone. The action occurred at the besieged district headquarters near Khe Sanh in the Republic of Vietnam. The landing zone was heavily defended by the enemy. Because of the intensity of fire, we couldn’t return to the area to search for Jerry and others we lost under similar heroic circumstances. Jerry had only been with this unit for a short time, but his worthiness was quickly recognized by a promotion in rank, and certified by his action on the twenty-first in attempting to save the lives of his fellow men.”
These letters and the plaque would be the only formal recognition for bravery Jerry would ever receive from the military. I didn’t like the plaque; it irritated me. Every time I looked at it, I wondered what the Army didn’t tell us. For me, the hero plaque was just a token gesture; Jerry was still missing from our lives. Mama was outraged when I told her I hated the plaque. She accused me of being jealous of Jerry. I tried to explain; the Army had sent a piece of wood and polished brass to be a brother to me. From that day forward, I was forever suspect in Mama’s mind where Jerry was concerned. I didn’t like the military to send memorials home as if they were already honoring the dead. I didn’t want condolence letters and plaques; I wanted answers or my brother home. Was the military conducting searches for Jerry or not? I was furious we didn’t know what happened to my brother, hurt because it felt like Cindy and I didn’t seem to exist anymore, angry that my family was falling apart, and incensed there wasn’t one damn thing I could do about any of it. I was an irate teenager who wanted her brother back instead of a living room memorial.
I hated my home life with intensity. I stopped thinking about going to college and concentrated on how to get the hell out of the house. Although I had a weekend job at the hospital lab, I was too young to get work that paid well enough to afford my own place. I daydreamed about moving far away. I lost respect for my parents and slowly became quietly rebellious. I drank beer with
the local kids behind the cotton gin, and went to big parties under the Mississippi River Bridge over on the Arkansas side. That’s where I met Jim. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, and handsome, he drove a fast car and had a reputation as a fighter. The more my parents objected, the more I loved him. My curfew was eleven o’clock on weekends; however, I consistently ignored the rules. As a result, they grounded me repeatedly, and my legs were frequently marked with welts from Daddy’s leather belt. It became a power standoff. He would whip me; I would stare daggers, but never shed a tear.
One night when I tried to sneak in late, Daddy caught me. He sat down beside me on the bed and sighed deeply. In a quiet, tired voice, he said, “Donna, don’t you know your Mama and I worry about you when you stay out late like this?” We had our first long talk since Jerry had been declared missing. I felt like a selfish heel. One heartfelt sentence did what tight restrictions, nailed down windows, and harsh punishments could not; bend my will. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was cause my parents more worry.
My folks started to take an interest in me again for the first time in what seemed like forever. Suddenly, it was September; time to begin my senior year of high school. Mama talked about college options; Daddy said he would buy me a brand new red convertible for my high school graduation present. Options began to click in my head. I could not only get out of the house, I could drive off in a new car. Jim didn’t want me to go away to college. Our relationship hadn’t been good all summer. We had drifted apart due to different interests. With this new turn of events, we argued, made up, fought again, and finally broke up completely. I threw myself into my schoolwork and looked only to the future.
A month later, I sat in algebra class and counted days on a hand drawn calendar. No, no, no, this couldn’t happen. I was going to college and become an investigative reporter on a big city newspaper. A doctor’s visit confirmed I was pregnant. Mama said to hold my head high, it happens to the best. Disappointed tears in Daddy’s eyes tore at my heart. There was no high school graduation, no mention of a red convertible, no hope for a college education. There would be only a quick church wedding in a pink dress for me. What I carried down the aisle was infinite remorse for being the source of more anxiety in my family, already at the breaking point.
The one good thing to come out of the short, physically abusive marriage was my son. Although I ended up back on my parent’s doorstep out of necessity, Randy changed my life for the best. My love for him knew no bounds; I would die that he might live. Only when I came of age as a mother, did I even begin to understand my parent’s anguish, why they could not have peace of mind. Without knowing the fate of their child, life simply could not go on as before.
Chapter Eleven
Vietnam Veterans Against The War
In the late 1960s, family members of American soldiers listed as POW/MIAs formed the National League of Families of American Prisoners and Missing in Southeast Asia. Their goal was to focus national attention on the circumstances surrounding their imprisoned and missing family members.
The League struggled to increase public awareness about the brutal treatment of POWs by the North Vietnamese. U.S. policy was not to make public statements about POWs in the belief that publicity would only lead to worse conditions for those in captivity. Initial efforts of the unified family members led the United States Government (USG) to speak out against POW mistreatment. In a May 1969, major policy reversal, Secretary of State Melvin Laird publicly confirmed the North Vietnamese treated U.S. POWs inhumanely.
On August 5, 1969, nineteen months after Jerry’s disappearance, the Hanoi politburo made a key propaganda move. To sidetrack mounting world criticism, the North Vietnamese released three American POWs: Robert Frishmann, Wesley Rumble, and Douglas Hegdahl. Frishmann and Rumble were downed F-4 pilots. Hegdahl was a Navy Seaman from the U.S.S. Canberra in the Gulf of Tonkin.
While in confinement, Hegdahl committed to memory a list of two hundred fifty-six POW names he overheard in various conversations in camp. In order to keep it simple, and help his recall, Hegdahl memorized the names to the tune of “Old McDonald Had a Farm.” Besides the glimmer of hope the returned POWs brought to some families, they also “blew the whistle.” With the permission of the captives left behind, they exposed the torture endured by American POWs held in Southeast Asia. Campmate Lieutenant Commander (LCDR) Richard Stratton told Hegdahl prior to his release, “If it means more torture for me, at least I’ll know why and will feel it’s worth the sacrifice.” Their stories caused an international outcry, which eventually helped stop some of the torment, and led to better overall treatment for U.S. prisoners.
Eager for information, Mama and Daddy attended a September 1969, Memphis meeting held by the Department of Defense (DoD) for the families of POW/MIAs. Frishmann and Hegdahl were present to speak about their captivity. Bound by honor to the remaining American POWs, the returnees considered it their mission to inform the world about the persecution endured by the prisoners.
Their stories were graphic and disheartening. The returned POWs spoke of life in a cage with no sleep or food, fingernails yanked off, being hung from the ceiling, and meager medical attention. The POWs described years of solitary confinement as the most terrible of all the tortures suffered.
The military advised our family not to inquire of North Vietnam if Jerry was a prisoner. Because his status continued as MIA, we were not to attempt to communicate with him by any means. It would have made Mama feel better to be doing something that might benefit Jerry in some small way. She especially wanted permission from the Army to send letters and care packages to Jerry as she had done before he was missing. If nothing else, he would realize his family watched and waited for his return.
Perplexed, our parents questioned MAJ Thomas Faulkner, Survivor Assistance Officer (SAO): “Why do the Navy and Air Force families have an address in North Vietnam to write and send letters and packages to the POWs, but the Army discourages our family from making any contact with the North Vietnamese or the Viet Cong?”
This seemed unfair to our parents. The situation angered them enough to threaten contacting their Senator, and other elected officials, to get satisfactory information. Major Faulkner noted in Jerry’s records, “This meeting seems to have had an adverse effect on Mr. and Mrs. Elliott and raised more problems and questions than it solved or answered.”
Within a month of this meeting, an unlikely source rekindled Mama’s wish to get a package to Jerry. Dallas computer billionaire and philanthropist H. Ross Perot announced in late 1969, in spite of confining international politics and insurmountable red tape, he was determined to deliver Christmas packages to the American POWs. A rebel with a cause, Perot was a hero to the POW/MIA families. His efforts on behalf of America’s POW/MIAs, carried out at the secret request of the Nixon administration, did have a strong impact on the North Vietnamese. Although Perot’s mission failed, he brought worldwide attention to the plight of those in captivity.
Several months after Perot’s attempted Christmas delivery, we received a letter from the Department of the Army (DOA). The USG had obtained a black and white, silent film that showed a large number of American POWs at a religious service held during the 1969 Christmas season in Hanoi. The Army’s notice advised that television networks had scheduled the propaganda film to debut on August 31, 1970. All U.S. military branches urged families to view the film in order to help identify the American POWs shown. Crowded around the television, we watched with eager anticipation. Regretfully, we didn’t see Jerry in the midst of the gaunt prisoners. Elsewhere across the nation, seventy-five families recognized familiar faces among the POWs featured in the film. They now knew, with certainty, their soldier was alive and in captivity.
As hope waned, Mama’s health continued to decline. I worked two jobs to make ends meet. Daddy and I shared the cost of a housekeeper to care for Randy, and keep an eye on Mama during the daytime when no one else was home. Fanny was a kind and loving woman, but friendly companionship
wasn’t enough to stave off Mama’s despair. In order to obtain help with her care, Daddy decided to move from Greenville to Clinton, Mississippi, where Mama had a brother and a sister for support.
Not long after their move, I received a job offer to organize a community center in south Jackson. I had no desire to leave Greenville, or my friends, but I knew I couldn’t make it alone as a single parent. I needed the entire family to help raise my son with the love and attention he deserved. Unsure what a community organizer did, I accepted the position at the Rankin Street Community Center. By trial and error, I learned to assist low-income families by developing and implementing strategies to address immediate family needs, and encourage grassroots participation in local and state government. I was proud of to be a part of mandating the much needed school breakfast program in all Mississippi schools with low-income students.
Vietnam Veterans Against the War (VVAW) is a national veterans’ organization founded in 1967. VVAW formed after six Vietnam vets marched together in a peace demonstration in New York City. The idea behind VVAW was to create an organization that would provide support for soldiers returning from the war in Vietnam, and fight for the rights and needs of veterans. The non-profit organization expanded to a membership of over 30,000 by 1970. Their ranks grew throughout the U.S. to include active duty G.I.s still serving in Vietnam.
After many smaller demonstrations in cities and universities across America, VVAW organized a nonviolent march on Washington, D.C., scheduled to begin on Monday, April 19, 1971. The stated purpose of the five-day demonstration was to give a voice to American veterans. VVAW participants planned to conduct a memorial service at Arlington Cemetery, attempt to lobby Congress, and later in the week advance en masse to the Capitol. The objective was to demand an immediate end to the war, insist Congressional attention focus on issues Vietnam veterans had with the Veterans Administration (VA) regarding medical attention and compensation claims, and stipulate an accounting for all POW/MIAs.
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 9