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 entire time I was on medical hold, my sister-in-law, Dee, graciously drove me to weekly staff meetings at the Rockefeller Foundation, along with my once a month weekend drill with the Army Reserve, and most long distance doctor visits. My physical profile required numerous trips to the orthopedic clinic at Reynolds Army Hospital at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. None of the medications or treatments the military doctors tried offered much relief. I hated the muscle relaxers; with them in my system, it was all I could do to drag myself around to perform the bare minimum at work and at home. It wasn’t as if I had a choice. I did the only thing I knew how to do: put one foot in front of the other and keep moving.

  Children next to sign marking entrance to the Khe sanh Combat Base, 1999.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Invisible Wound

  The years passed. Unless the rare letter came from DoD, or someone else brought up the subject, Cindy and I rarely talked about Jerry being missing anymore. We hadn’t forgotten about our brother. Not only was his name linked in our minds with the premature deaths of our parents, we simply didn’t know any more than we did in 1968: Jerry, surrounded by the enemy, disappeared without a trace. Every year the POW/MIA families received elegant Christmas cards from the White House, but never any answers.

  In December 1986, I received a letter forwarded through the Department of the Army. Coleen “Momma Black Cat” Pullen was the wife of Black Cat helicopter pilot Tom Pullen, a Case 1000 survivor. She enclosed a phone number and asked me to call. Amazed and eager to speak to with someone who had served with Jerry, I made contact. Tom and Coleen invited me to the first reunion of the 282nd AHC Black Cats at the Lake of the Ozarks in Sunrise Beach, Missouri. This would be the first time many of the Black Cats had seen each other since Vietnam. I was actually going to meet soldiers who knew Jerry, men who fought beside him.

  The Black Cats were wonderful to me. They would have answered any questions I had, but I didn’t know what to ask. Bob Ford took me under his wing and introduced me around. I met Heidi Atanian, crew chief on Jerry’s chopper, who had gone out the left door as Jerry went out the right. Heidi still wore Jerry’s POW/MIA bracelet.

  First Black Cat Reunion, Lake of the Ozarks, MO, 1987. Photo courtesy Black Cat Assn.

  The parents of Gerald “Mac” McKinsey, the Black Cat #027 chopper pilot Killed-In-Action during the ambush, arrived from California for the reunion. A pleasant, soft-spoken couple, I thanked Mrs. McKinsey for the handpainted portrait of Jerry, and let her know Mama was especially touched that a woman grieving the loss of her own son could reach out in such a heartfelt manner. The McKinsey’s asked me what information I had about January 21; they only knew, “Our Gerry died that day.” I wrestled with myself about how much to tell them. I was aware from the witness statements in the Determination Hearing what had happened to their son. Even though the story wasn’t pretty, I decided I had no right to withhold the truth from them. I would want to know if he were my son. I reasoned that knowing how brave Gerry was, that he died instantly with no pain, might help with their grief. I gave them my copy of the Hearing transcript. The next morning when they thanked me, I knew I’d done the right thing.

  After speaking with the Black Cats, I realized the truest source of information would be the very people who were with Jerry in Khe Sanh. Thousands of vets served in the Khe Sanh area in January 1968. Perhaps one of them had seen or heard something that would yield valuable clues. If I could locate other Khe Sanh vets, I might find some answers.

  The Arkansas Vietnam War Memorial was unveiled under a cloud streaked gray sky on the Little Rock state capitol grounds in March 1987. Retired General William Westmoreland was present to honor the soldiers who had given so much. Tasked to cover the story for the 122nd Army Reserves Command (ARCOM), I listened and watched from behind the lens of my camera, and tried to remain objective. The camera served to challenge my perception of events, and redirected my emotions from MIA family member to interested observer. When the crowd recited the Pledge of Allegiance, I saluted and felt immense pride as an American soldier. When a Marine bugler played “Taps,” I submerged into private sorrow as the sister of an MIA. Events such as this made me feel the emotional loss of Jerry, and my parents, even more than usual.

  A camouflaged shroud draped the memorial. The slow ascent of the cover revealed a monumental three-quarter circle of stone, engraved with the names of six hundred sixty-two Arkansans who died or were missing in Vietnam. Reserved for family members, the bleachers overflowed. Faces silent and sad, each one sought solace in their own way. Westmoreland invited the families to be the first to enter the Wall of Names. Hesitant, they reluctantly moved forward to enter the solemn embrace of the memorial. I moved among them, camera down, as the families scanned the walls for the engraved name of their loved one. I watched as undetectable restraints snapped. Fingers trembled as they reached out to gently touch the wall, or lightly trace a name.

  Colonel Charles Wascom, USA, Chief, Public Affairs, described the article I later wrote as “a sensitive, moving account of the memorial’s unveiling ceremony...a superb example of Command Information that not only informs, but inspires as well.” It felt good to bring POW/MIA awareness to others and gratifying to receive acknowledgement for my efforts.

  With my right arm in a sling, I continued to write articles and take photographs for The Diamond, the official 122nd ARCOM publication. Slotted to perform two weeks of summer camp in Honduras, everyone in the unit was excited about the out-of-country assignment. I was still on “medical profile,” a document from a military doctor that indicates limitations due to a medical problem that interferes with a soldier’s performance of military duties. My medical hold status made me an albatross around the CO’s neck because the 343rd PAD was only a thirteen-person unit. Major William Russell considered me a “superb journalist...a quality soldier,” but the CO was “plagued with confusing and conflicting guidance and direction from a variety of sources” in regard to my duty and medical status.

  My next doctor’s visit to Reynolds Army Hospital found me accompanied by the Executive Officer (XO). Captain Regina Maxim was assigned to hand deliver a letter from the CO; the major needed an immediate ruling. Dr. John Morrissey determined I was no longer physically fit for military service. He told me to go home and wait for a letter from the Medical Determination Board. This dead-end diagnosis was completely unexpected. Shocked, I bit my bottom lip so my chin would stop quivering. After earning an Army Achievement Medal, the Army Commendation Medal, and three Fifth U.S. Army Minaret Awards along with the U.S. Army Forces Command (FORSCOM) 4th Estate Award for excellence in journalism, my military career was over. I left a piece of myself, a large part of how I defined myself as a person, in the orthopedic clinic at Fort Sill, Oklahoma.

  As of March 11, 1988, I was officially relieved of duty because of permanent physical disability incurred as a result of injury and placed on the retired list. Represented by a Judge Advocate General (JAG) attorney at the Medical Determination Hearing, he counseled me to accept a thirty-percent rating decision for my neck. The JAG rep advised it would be easier to get my VA ratings increased to include my shoulder and back injuries. The next step would be to file a claim with the VA for medical and compensation entitlement. The first thing the VA did was knock the cervical entitlement down to the minimum of ten percent. An appeal kicked off a series of medical examinations, unsuccessful treatments, and an eight-year paper battle.

  I found the VA hospitals full of Vietnam vets who hadn’t yet digested their own war experiences, much less examined the twisted politics surrounding the POW/MIA issue. As I listened to waiting room conversation, I realized most vets wished they could just forget the war ever happened. The majority of veterans expected the POW/MIA problem would resolve itself. After all, the media said the government was doing everything possible to find answers. Yet, it became difficult for vets to ignore a whistleblower who was a respected Special Forces combat veteran. In February 1991, a highly decorated Viet
nam vet, COL Millard Peck, resigned as Chief of the Special Office for POW/MIAs at the Pentagon intelligence unit. Peck’s resignation letter alleged Southeast Asian Communists held American POWs after the war. He charged that DIA not only monitored these prison facilities, they prevented action to rescue the prisoners, or negotiate their release. He also claimed DIA failed to follow-up on live sighting reports until families complained. Even then, rather than verify, efforts discredited the sources of live POW information. “Any soldier left in Vietnam, even inadvertently, was, in fact, abandoned years ago,” stated Peck, who resigned because of his belief that the accounting system was set up to stop any live POWs from coming home.

  In 1989, eleven members of the House of Representatives introduced HR 3603, Truth Accountability Bill, a measure commonly called “The Truth Bill.” The bill required the heads of Federal agencies to disclose classified information related to POW/MIAs from the Vietnam War. Under this legislation, DoD was required to declassify all material pertaining to POW/MIAs, except for information that if disclosed would compromise intelligence sources, put at risk any live POWs who remained in Southeast Asia, or information the next of kin declined to release for privacy reasons. Bitterly opposed by the Pentagon, the bill disappeared until reintroduced in the House in early 1991, only to go nowhere again.

  Suddenly, two months after Peck’s resignation, on July 11, 1991, returned Vietnam POW Senator John McCain introduced the “McCain Bill.” Under this Act, DoD must notify only the White House, the Senate and House Intelligence Committees about live POW sightings. DoD is not required to tell the public, nor are they obligated to report rescue efforts.

  “The Truth Bill” introduced in 1989 contained a provision that made it a crime for anyone to destroy, cover up, or to withhold from family members any information about a POW/MIA, but McCain omitted this part of the law in his version. He thought this passage would have a negative effect on the Pentagon’s recruitment ability to staff the POW/MIA office. Under the new “McCain Bill,” one major subject remained classified. To the dismay of the POW/MIA families, the Pentagon debriefings of the POWs who returned from Vietnam became unavailable, locked away. The law did allow a returned POW to view his own file, but he couldn’t make copies, or take notes. Information I might glean from the records of returned POWs captured in the same AO as Jerry remain classified and legislated into secrecy.

  Chronic spine and shoulder problems eventually forced me to resign from JOBS, Inc., the nonprofit community organization I co-founded. Broke and desperate for work, I signed up for Volunteer In Service To America (VISTA). VISTA made allowances for the physically challenged and paid a subsistence stipend. Assigned to the Arkansas Rice Depot, a non-profit organization that supplied community food banks, my job was to travel the northern part of the state, inspect the various food banks, and assist with program development as needed.

  One of the food banks, founded by John and Donna Steer, was located at Fort Steer, a rural retreat and veteran’s recovery center in Charlotte, Arkansas. John had served as a paratrooper with the 173rd Airborne in Vietnam. He lost his right arm and sustained numerous other injuries on Hill 875 at Dak To in 1967. After lying wounded for two days under the dead bodies of his friends, John was finally rescued. Flown to a rear echelon hospital, it took four surgeons five hours to save his life.

  Friends or family often chauffeured me on trips to the food banks because muscle spasms plagued me whenever I drove very far. One such day in July 1991, even though I felt well enough to drive myself, my friend Katie decided to go along for my visit to Fort Steer. We were traveling down the highway when suddenly I heard Katie scream, “Donna!” My name was the last thing I heard. Stone-cold unconscious for about forty-five minutes, my first recollection was a noise that irritated my ears and pierced my slumber: the oww-ee, oww-ee of the ambulance siren. My eyes flew open.

  Strapped down in a head block, all I could see was the sea foam green of the metal roof. I cast my eyes about, saw the white-uniformed attendant at my feet, and frantically tried to figure out what in the world had happened. Where was Katie? I heard her voice and glanced to my right to see her on the other side of the ambulance with a bloody bandage wrapped around her head.

  “Katie, are you alright?” I needed to know what had happened, but she was my first concern.

  “Yes!” she hollered back, “Yes, I’m alright! Yes, I have the keys! Yes, I have the purses!” I didn’t understand why she was so aggravated with me. Apparently, I’d been asking her the same questions repeatedly for the better part of an hour while semi-conscious on the side of the highway. Later, I would learn a Ford pickup had struck my Subaru on the driver’s side and tossed me around “like a rag doll.” My seat broke loose, I bent the steering wheel with my chest, and my head left three starbursts on the windshield. When the car finally came to a stop, I was wedged between the windshield and the steering wheel. Katie thought I was dead.

  We spent several hours in the emergency room. Katie had scalped her widow’s peak when she broke the rearview mirror off its mount with her head, and fractured her pelvis. I had no broken bones, only knots and bruises. After a week of painkillers and observation, the hospital released me with a final diagnosis of “concussion with multiple contusions,” and instructions to follow-up with my family doctor.

  Once home, a new problem surfaced. I began to experience periods of amnesia with episodes lasting from a several minutes to a few hours. The memory lapses scared me. I didn’t think anyone else detected how fre-quently this happened. Strong emotional swings caused me to fluctuate from unsuitable hilarity to dark despair within seconds. With the worrisome realization some mental disorders are genetic, memories of Mama’s odd behavior crossed my mind. I struggled to overcome nonstop migraine headaches, debilitating vertigo, and intensified muscle spasms, but by far, the most difficult fight was the deep depression. Unexpectedly, gloom would roll in and settle over me like a heavy wool blanket. The depression would then lift as it had arrived, sudden and swift. Mood-incongruent, I laughed when I should have cried. I often envisioned my world as a cardboard box, folding in on me one flap at a time.

  Randy was away at college, Cindy lived in Batesville, and although my husband could manage his own hurts, he couldn’t handle other people’s pain. He went to work, came home, and left again every evening. I felt alone and abandoned. Everyone seemed wrapped up in his or her own hectic life. I spent most of the next two months immobile. Katie said she spent almost two weeks on the couch at my house. I only remember the long bedridden days and nights; my brain felt like a team of mules used it for a kickball.

  Months later, when I was able to move about and entertain illusions about a return to work, John Steer and Wayne Gutridge invited me to develop a proposal with them that would expand the services of Fort Steer. Wayne served in Vietnam with the 1st Cavalry, and worked as a Veterans Service Officer with the State of Arkansas Veterans Affairs. He probably got my case when he drew the short straw, but over the years, we had become good friends as he helped me, and Uncle Bouler, apply for VA benefits.

  Wayne and John wanted to create a program that would help vets learn to cope with PTSD. John explained his efforts to help veterans resembled the jungle darkness at night. In the jungles of Vietnam, there grows an iridescent blue-green leaf from a little tuberous begonia. When crushed, the leaf glows in the dark. To avoid a stumble, and to keep pace, a soldier would stick the crushed leaf in the helmet of the man ahead and follow the glow. John and Donna’s goal was for Fort Steer to be a glow leaf, a refuge to give homeless veterans a place to regroup, and hopefully a reason to want to live.

  We arranged to meet at Ft. Steer to discuss the project. The day after our get-together, I noticed a date and time written on the outside of the folder I used to collect information on PTSD. I didn’t have a clue what the memo to myself signified. There was nothing in my notes. Puzzled, I called Wayne to ask him what the date meant. After a short silence he said, “If you don’t know, Donna, then n
o one knows. You took over the meeting, assigned everyone tasks, and set the date for the next round of discussion. I thought you were acting a little strange.”

  I remembered nothing but feeling anxious during the first few minutes of the meeting. I’d attempted to keep John and Wayne focused on the subject at hand so I could leave as soon as possible. Embarrassed and frustrated because of my odd behavior, I stepped down from the project and went into seclusion. I did my best to hide the memory lapses. If I messed up because of a memory glitch, I would try to cover it up by making a joke to save face. I didn’t call any of my friends to ask for help. Afraid I was losing my mind, I feared they might actually say it, and therefore make it real. I had forgotten; you have to be a friend to have a friend. I knew that I wasn’t the same person I’d been before the car wreck, but I didn’t know exactly who I was anymore. My entire perspective on life had changed; things I once enjoyed brought no pleasure, and even my favorite comfort foods tasted different. Even worse, mental abilities I once took for granted were all but impossible now. My ability to sequence time was faulty. I couldn’t seem to remember the time, or day of the week, no matter how many times I looked at a clock or a calendar.

  I became argumentative with anyone who insisted I’d done something I didn’t remember. One of the few big spats Randy and I ever had took place over such an incident. I think it was particularly hard on Randy to see his usually strong mom so mentally unpredictable. Fortunately, he was away at college most of time. I was glad my son wasn’t around to watch his bewildered mother muddle through life. On a visit home, for the first time ever, we parted with heated words still hanging in the air when I slammed his car door shut and stomped into the house. As far as I was concerned, I had gone to bed for the night. The next day I was confronted with reality. I’d driven to a friend’s house for supper, ate heartily, and participated in lively conversation, but the entire evening was a big blank to me.