Mama in pigtails, circa mid-1940s.
I promised my mother I would always continue the search for Jerry to the best of my ability. I idealistically believed someday my brother would either come home, or we would know the reason why. Mama and Daddy signed papers to waive rights in connection with the review status of Jerry’s case; I reluctantly mailed the document.
On August 17, 1976, almost nine years after the Army listed him as MIA; official paperwork declared SSGT Jerry W. Elliott legally deceased. His military status changed from Missing in Action to a Presumptive Finding of Death. Nothing officially marked Jerry’s status change. There was no memorial service with military honors, no designated plot of earth where one could kneel and say goodbye. His tombstone, a single sheet of copier paper, seemed inadequate for someone who had theoretically given all to his country.
Even with the legal finality of the PFOD, I couldn’t lose the feeling Jerry was alive and waiting somewhere. I had no idea of how, or even where to begin the search for him. Information about Case 1000 was incomplete. Something was missing besides Jerry, and I believed it was all the facts.
U.S. and Vietnamese representatives again held talks in Paris, France, in November 1976. Tran Hoan publicly stated, “We are ready to carry out fully, and I repeat fully, our obligations regarding the provisions of Article 8b of the Paris Accord (on MIAs)...but, the American side must also assume its obligations regarding its contribution to healing the wounds of war and to post-war reconstruction in Vietnam and to carry out what was agreed at Paris in 1973 in the Join Economic Commission. It is not only a question of law or of legality, but also a question of honor, responsibility, and of conscience.” Kissinger cabled a response that the U.S. wanted to look to the future, not to the past. North Vietnam did not deny they held live American POWs, nor did U.S. officials ask. The talks broke down.
On March 7, 1977, the State Department briefed the Woodcock Commission, headed by United Auto Workers Union President Leonard Woodcock. Dr. Roger Shields, DoD’s Deputy Secretary for International Economic and POW/MIA Affairs from 1971 to 1977, walked members through the five categories DIA had established to determine on which men the Vietnamese and Lao governments presumably held information. He listed one hundred seventy-nine individuals in Category 1; 1,160 in Category 2; three hundred forty-four in Category 3; four hundred twenty-eight in Category 4; and four hundred thirty-six in Category 5. Shields also told the Commission it would be reasonable to expect an accounting for the 1,359 men in the first two categories. DoD listed Jerry as a Category 2—Suspected Knowledge.
Shown a copy of the still classified letter from Nixon to Pham Van Dong which promised billions in U.S. aid, the Woodcock Commission decided it would be, “. . . better to approach the Vietnamese in a humanitarian spirit of mutual cooperation, looking to the future, rather than to engage in sterile, legalistic debate of the past which focused on the war.”
In May 1977, U.S. and Vietnamese representatives held two days of talks in Paris. CIA sources reported on comments Vietnam’s Vice-Foreign Minister Phan Hien had made to a third country diplomat in which he stated his country was still holding American POWs to use as leverage for U.S. economic aid. Although the CIA considered the political informant to be “a usually reliable source with excellent access,” DoD disparaged and ignored the information. U.S. representatives once again offered to normalize relations without any conditions.
Hien again brought up the Nixon letter during talks with Richard Holbrooke, Assistant Secretary of State for East Asia and Pacific Affairs, and Ken Quinn, from the U.S. State Department. Holbrooke offered full normalization of relations and lifting of the trade embargo, with no emphasis on the POW/MIA issue. The Vietnamese refused, they argued normalization should be contingent only on the payment of U.S. reconstruction aid; all they wanted from the U.S. was the money Nixon had promised. The following July, Vietnam joined the United Nations with U.S. support.
At least three additional overtures from Hanoi would materialize between 1981 and 1990. Third parties and third countries indicated “...there were live American servicemen in Vietnam and Laos who could be returned through negotiations with the United States.” The POW/MIA issue became a public standoff. The families couldn’t prove any of the POWs were still alive, the USG couldn’t prove they were all dead, and the Vietnamese were unwilling to discuss the issue without promised reparations.
The heaviest burden of proof fell upon the families. Without concrete evidence, families of the POW/MIAs are not going to abandon their loved ones. If even one American POW in Southeast Asia is still alive, the USG should spare nothing to locate and bring him home. Uncle Sam demands sacrifice and loyal service from his soldiers, with no guarantee of a safe return. When soldiers go off to war, they expect the unexpected. They are prepared to sacrifice all for their country. They assume the USG will make sure their families at least know where and how they died so there is an end to their life story.
There is a promise made to every person who serves this country in time of war. America is honor bound to keep this promise: “Just as you have a responsibility to your country under the Code of Conduct, the US Government has a dual responsibility—always to keep faith with you and stand by you as you fight for your country. If you are unfortunate enough to become a prisoner of war, you may rest assured that your Government will care for your dependents and will never forget you. Furthermore, the Government will use every practical means to contact, support and gain release for you and for all other prisoners of war.” Uncertainty of a soldier’s fate due to a lack of sincere investigation and honest public disclosure is unforgivable, a broken promise.
Ben Ngu Food Market, Hue, 2004.
Chapter Fourteen
Yo’ Mama Wears Combat Boots
Although I loved them with all my heart, over the years my worn, tattered family had become an emotional drain. Every few months we found ourselves dealing with yet another crisis. No matter what direction the situation took, the trail always lead back to the day the Army declared Jerry missing. Our family had a vital need to know if he was alive or dead, but there wasn’t one damn thing we could personally do to determine the truth. Our family had no political influence, and limited financial resources. Even if we’d raised the money, travel to Vietnam by Americans was prohibited.
Not long after Jerry’s PFOD status change, my parents moved with Cindy about two hundred fifty miles from Jackson to Morgan City, Louisiana, in search of a fresh start. Daddy threw himself into building a new business, which helped to lift his depression, but the move had an adverse affect on Mama and Cindy. Neither did well without family or close friends to lean on.
Cindy, convinced she could no longer cope, wore our parents down with arguments to let her quit high school. Mama began a slow retreat into her own world. She tried to be strong, but her depression increased, actually became debilitating at times. I worried about her. At least Daddy was around people all day at work, and the interaction kept his mind occupied. Mama shut herself away from the world in her bedroom.
When a crisis with Mama occurred, Daddy and Cindy would wait until they ran out of options, and then place an urgent call for me to make the four-hour drive from Jackson, Mississippi to Louisiana to help handle things. After Randy’s birth, my maternal instincts had kicked in at full-speed. I stepped forward to shoulder more of the responsibility of making sure things ran smoothly within the family. The situation demanded a lot of time and energy, but if for no other reason, I owed it to my son to do all I could to make sure there was some semblance of a normal family unit. Mama didn’t seem to care, and Daddy appeared to be relieved. My family was extremely high maintenance. Over the years, they came to depend on me and I took great care not to let them down, even though I sometimes felt they took me for granted.
Perhaps the overall situation, along with my own immature character judgment, contributed to my lack of success with matrimony. My first marriage had ended in divorce. Remarried now, my current relationshi
p was on the rocks. Smitty, a Navy code breaker with Top Secret Clearance, went from a year of service at a remote station in serene Alaska to a bloody war in Vietnam. All too often, he had broken code that could have saved lives, only to see the information go nowhere. Basically a good person, Smitty needed help I wasn’t qualified to offer. With multiple issues associated with his yet undiagnosed PTSD, circumstances required some major changes for Randy and me.
Determined we move closer to them, my folks called every few days to pressure me, and bribe Randy. They worried about the two of us being alone, so far from family. I finally caved in to their pleadings. As soon as the school year ended in 1976, we moved in with my family until I could get my finances in order, and make some decisions.
Morgan City, Louisiana wasn’t the home Mississippi had been; however, our life there was good. We came to love the Cajun people, zydeco music, street festivals, boiled crawfish, good fishing, and the abundant wildlife in the swamplands. Tired of dead-end jobs, I decided to revisit a longtime dream of becoming a reporter. Options were limited with no money to return to college. The military guaranteed a crash course in journalism equal to ten college credits, and the possibility of acquiring skills which could be put to immediate use in a civilian career. However, the key decision factor was the state benefit of free college tuition for Guard members who served/resided in Louisiana.
Even though Randy was only nine-years-old, he was a good listener and very levelheaded. Mama said he had more common sense than most adults did. After a heart-to-heart talk, we decided the best opportunity available to improve our lives was for me to join the Army National Guard, pursue photojournalism, and return to school. Upon my completion of basic, I would receive Advanced Individual Training (AIT) at the Defense Information School (DINFOS) at Ft. Benjamin Harrison, Indiana. After graduation, I would come back home, seek work as a reporter, and attend night classes to earn a college degree.
Randy and I were always very close. We talked frankly and often, especially if something affected both of us. It was very important to keep the lines of communication open because our family was so plagued with problems. I contemplated enlisting for months. The major obstacle was being away from Randy. We had never spent much time apart. This would be a strong test for mother and son.
I could attend boot camp and AIT on a split-training program. This type of enlistment meant I would be away from my son for twelve weeks of basic training. After graduation from boot, I would return home to wait for a slot to open at DINFOS. After ten weeks of photojournalism school, my military obligation would consist of one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer. In return, I would receive a small check each month, and my college tuition in Louisiana would be free. It seemed like a win-win situation.
Joining the Army would be an important ethical decision for me. I’d grown to distrust the U.S. government and the military. Beyond the educational benefits on enlisting, I was motivated to expect improved comprehension of the military acronym gibberish in Jerry’s file during the next review of Case 1000. I also expected to grasp a better understanding of how the military operated; naively thinking this would help me discover more about Jerry’s fate.
Finally, after months of pro and con debates, we made the decision. I would join the Army National Guard. Randy would stay with my parents while I trained. Well-aware family and friends would spoil him rotten without me to run interference; my little entrepreneur was excited at his prospects. Thrilled about the opportunity to receive the training I needed to work as a reporter, I thought I could leave Randy for a couple of months and not worry too much. Not only my parents and little sister, but also two good friends, Cathi and Louis, would keep an eye on him.
Cathi was a distinctive young individual. I met Cathi through her mom, Betty, when we both worked as instrument fitter helpers in the McDermott Bayou Black fabrication yard my first summer in Louisiana. We became close friends quickly. A teenager who needed a big sister, Cathi spent so much time at our house she was no longer considered company. She was always spending the night, going places, or sharing activities with Randy and me. “You might as well keep Cathi,” Betty joked one day, “I can’t do a thing with her anyway.”
Louis was the head mechanic at Daddy’s shop. He spent almost as much time at our house as Cathi did. Only a year younger than Jerry, our folks treated him like a second son. He and Randy had met at Daddy’s shop during short summer visits to Morgan City. Surprisingly, they had taken to each other in spite of their first disagreement, when Randy wanted his Pap-pa to fire Louis because he accidentally hit him in the head with a pop-top flipped off a can while they were playing a game. Now that we lived with my folks, he spent a lot of time with Randy. He taught my son how to do guy things like throw a football, steer a boat, trap crabs and crawfish, and hunt swamp rabbits. Louis and I became good friends too. Sometimes we went out together with a group, more often we fished with my family, or piled in his boat for a joy ride on the lake. Louis laughed when I told him I joined the Army; one of many who said I would never make it through boot camp.
Louis and Cathi had never met Jerry, but they came to know him through the eyes of those who did. Daddy and Mama sometimes shared memories of their son with Louis, who had tried to join the military, but had been turned away due to residual damages from two shattered wrists. I talked to Cathi about Jerry until she felt like he was her missing brother too. Both were a part of our family to the extent they felt our pain and frustration.
In October 1978, I signed up at the U.S. Army National Guard armory in Jackson, Mississippi. I wanted to join in Louisiana, but there were no available photojournalist slots. So there I was, in the same city, repeating the same oath Jerry had sworn to uphold twelve long years ago, keeping the promise between a brother and a sister. With this rite of passage, I felt like I had followed in his footsteps. Those were big combat boots to fill. I knew I would never be the gung-ho soldier my brother was, but I planned to do my best to make him proud.
One month later, I was at the Reception Station at Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri. My assignment upon arrival was with Company B, 4th Platoon, 3rd Brigade. When our bus pulled up in front of the barracks, the door opened and a staff sergeant jumped inside shouting at the top of his lungs, “Move it, move it, move it! Yo’ mama ain’t here to hold your hand and carry your bags, so get the lead out!” I wondered exactly what in the hell I’d gotten myself into by enlisting in the Army. Usually an easygoing person, I was like most young people and didn’t like being yelled at, told what to do, or when, and how to do things without any explanation. It didn’t take long for me to realize the DIs cared little about what I liked.
Bravo Company was a co-ed experiment. With three platoons of men and one platoon of women, it was very competitive. Whatever the men had to do, the women had to accomplish as well. I didn’t mind training with the men; it kept things interesting. At twenty-seven I was a little long in the tooth for boot camp, although some of my DIs didn’t appear to be much older. My guess was there were more than a few Vietnam vets among the DIs; they carried a certain personal sadness about them I recognized from associations with other war survivors.
The military issued females the standard men’s combat boot, which didn’t fit any of the women very well. Only a few weeks into basic training, pain forced me to limp to sick call. X-rays at the post hospital revealed stress fractures on both heels. My feet throbbed at night, making sleep impossible. Both ankles would ache and swell until each morning I had to grit my teeth to lace my boots. This was not fun. I wondered daily why Jerry liked the Army so much. I grumbled when I hurt, no big deal; everyone griped about everything in the Army. Most of the time, complaining was good-natured conversation among soldiers. The common denominator that helped us to connect as a unit was being miserable together.
Mama and Daddy didn’t visit me in boot camp as they had Jerry. Their encouragement came in the form of support. I knew they took pride in what I was doing. It was enough to know Randy was cared
for and loved. The separation was hard on all of us. Those were some of the longest nights of my life. I missed Randy so much my heart sometimes felt physically bruised. Alone on fireguard duty late at night, I often stood at the barracks windows facing the cold, lifeless drill field to watch snowflakes swirl beneath the glow of street lamps. The stillness caught up with me more than once, and missing my son, I wept silently in the dark.
Up at dawn, we routinely had ten minutes to dress and make formation every morning. I understood what the Army expected: follow instructions, keep a low profile, and the training would end in twelve weeks. I could stand almost anything if I knew there was an end in sight. The DIs frowned on smiling too much. It became a test of wills when they started to assign me shit details in an attempt to break my spirit. I did all that was asked of me, to the best of my ability, and seldom lost my sense of humor. Laughter was my survival tool. I wasn’t going to break down, cry, or lose my temper, and I didn’t have a bad attitude, but I didn’t mind at all when the DIs turned their attention to other hapless trainees.
At mail call, there was often a letter from Randy in his pinched, scrawled handwriting. He made Fourth Grade Honor Roll for the second time. I was so proud of him; my little boy was a shining superstar in my tumultuous life. Inevitably, when I opened his letters catalog clippings of toys from the Sears Wish Book would fall out. Inside would be one sheet of paper, which read something like, “Dear Mom, we are all fine. We miss you. Here is my Christmas list. Love, Randy.” I treasured every word of every letter. I wrote long letters to him, and called home every weekend Bravo Company earned phone privileges.
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 13