A few days after her death, Sam told Randy not to worry about “Aunt Cinny” anymore. “What do you mean, Sam?” Randy asked his son. Sam said Aunt Cindy came to him in a dream the night before. “What did Aunt Cindy say to you, Sam?” Randy asked.
“Well, Dad,” Sam patiently explained, “she said, ‘Hey hotrod!’ Just like she always does. She was running and laughing because her bad knee didn’t hurt anymore.”
The autopsy report stated the propoxyphene level in Cindy’s blood was present at a toxic level, but not at a level sufficiently high enough to indicate suicidal intent. Too much of my medication in her system had caused her death by stopping the body’s involuntary ability to breathe.
Cindy had lived her life as two different people, one as a wonderful, compassionate person, the other a troublemaker and jailbird. I think her gullibility and good heart made her more vulnerable to being hurt. Cindy’s inability to develop coping skills brought the angry, bad side out. With learning disabilities and a dysfunctional family, she hadn’t lived a very pleasant life, but usually kept a smile on her face. Many friends from various states, along with workers and patients from the different facilities where she had lived, attended Cindy’s memorial service. A stack of handwritten condolence cards describes Cindy far better than I ever could:
“Many times I told Cindy if you would take care of yourself the way you take care of everyone else, you would be in good shape. Cindy would smile and say, ‘But Ms. Vickie, someone has to take care of these people, they’re my family.’ Recently I had to talk Cindy out of organizing a ‘sit-in’ on the parking lot to protest a situation. I will miss the hug I got from Cindy each morning when she came in and each evening when she left.”
“The thing I remember about Cindy was that she stood up to people who were pushing other people around. She was always for the underdog.”
“I wanted you to know that Cindy really meant a lot to me. Cindy was really one of my good friends. She was always there for me when I needed her, and she was there for everybody else as well. She was a sweet and wonderful person and she will always hold a special place in my heart and I will remember her forever and ever.”
“Cindy was a good friend. She’d help me without me even asking. She had a true heart of gold and will never be replaced.”
“Cindy will always be in my heart and soul. When I look around my room there are so many things Cindy has given me. I will never forget her smile, her kindness with other people. She loved them all, and the people of Evergreen loved Cindy, too. Sadness is deep down in my heart for losing a dear friend, a real friend. I might not meet another friend like Cindy in my lifetime...”
One poignant sentence that really touched my heart, and described the Cindy I knew and loved, was scrawled by the labored hand of an older woman who was mentally challenged: “She helped me with my close [clothes].”
It was months before I could even look down at my hardwood floor without wanting to cry. Cindy Ann, my sister—my friend. Her death left an aching emptiness in my life because we shared most of the same memories, and that was gone forever. Once again, Jerry’s unknown status in Vietnam contributed to the loss of a member of our family.
Chapter Twenty-One
In ‘Nam
I wrote to the Joint Task Force requesting permission to accompany the investigation team when they surveyed the Case 1000 loss site. Colonel Marc E. Freitas, Acting Commander, JTF-FA, responded by letter on April 27 with an approximate timeframe for exploration of the Old French Fort by the 55th JTF, sometime between May 6 - 12, 1999. However, there would be no final decision until the team arrived in Vietnam on May 4, evaluated the weather, crash site conditions, and any political considerations that might delay, or cause the investigation to be canceled literally at the last minute.
The colonel cautioned me that JTF could not accept legal responsibility, provide transportation, or lodging for my travel to Vietnam. He wrote, “Because of the hardships and hazards encountered on a day-to-day basis, the only help we at JTF-FA are allowed to provide you is a general case briefing by our Detachment upon your arrival in Vietnam.” That said, COL Freitas offered to facilitate our linking up with the team at the crash site. Mike and I were aware the trip would be stressfully unpredictable. No one could anticipate how events might unfold, or guarantee any results, but going to the Old French Fort with the JTF to search for Jerry was a once in a lifetime opportunity.
On the day of my departure, Storm and I attended an early morning wedding. Fearful the long ceremony might cause me to miss my flight, Storm parked the truck while I ran to the airport ticket counter. Frazzled from the rush, I anxiously checked in and picked up my boarding passes. Storm arrived in a few minutes to walk with me to the flight gate. Although supportive, he was uneasy about my travel to Vietnam. His thoughtfulness and concern touched me. We embraced, held each other close for a suspended moment in time, and tenderly kissed goodbye. When the flight attendant announced it was time to board the plane, I didn’t want to leave the comfort of his arms, yet I was eager to get to Vietnam.
Through the untimely loss of my family, I’d learned you never know; each departure might be the last chance to say farewell. I pulled away, looked into his eyes, whispered, “Love you, Storm, goodbye,” and joined the other last minute passengers boarding the plane. Buckled into my seat, I looked out the window, surprised to see Storm still waiting in the terminal. He stood with one hand pressed against the glass in a farewell gesture. Unsure if he could see me through the small rectangular airplane window, I felt a little silly, but I waved as the plane backed away from the gate. Storm smiled, touched his heart, and blew me a kiss.
Once in the air, I told myself to focus on the matter at hand. It was the first day of May 1999, and I was en route from Little Rock, Arkansas to Khe Sanh, Vietnam. Ironically, Jerry and the 268th Pathfinders had arrived at Cam Ranh Bay on May 4, 1967. Mike Teutschman and I would arrive in Saigon on May 3, 1999, a span of almost thirty-two years to the day.
Mike and I were to meet in the lobby of the Rex Hotel in downtown Saigon. He departed from Seattle, Washington, on the same day I left Little Rock. Mike is one of the nicest people anyone could ever hope to meet. When I first asked him about going to Vietnam, he never hesitated. He took time off his job as a computer systems analyst for Boeing, and sold some of his Harley-Davidson stock in order to make the trip. It was a big step for him to return. Many shocking events transpired during the war. Mike said only that he had unfinished business in Vietnam.
The excitement of going to Vietnam overshadowed my nervousness about what might actually happen once we arrived. The only information we had about Jerry’s loss location was that it was close to the village of Khe Sanh. We didn’t know if we would have to walk miles of rough dirt trails littered with unexploded ordinance, or beat our way through the thick underbrush of the jungle. What we did know was sometime in May, the 55th JTF would investigate the area where both Case 1000 MIAs, Jerry and Billy Hill, went missing. I didn’t want to rely on secondhand information when there was an alternative. I had to be there. I would no longer have to imagine, or be frustrated with attempts to guess, how the loss site lay, or what was nearby. I would at last see the Old French Fort with my own eyes. I needed to walk this hallowed ground, to stand where my brother had stood, and more importantly, search for clues to his disappearance. Conscious of the situation, I was well aware all that lingered of Jerry might be my memories.
Unsure of what to expect concerning transportation and lodging, Mike and I booked a tour with Sundance Travel. Expenses put a big dent in my savings, but I believed the trip would prove to be worth every penny. I was hopeful I could find some answers that would finally make sense. I thought maybe, just maybe, we might find my brother after so many years of waiting and wondering.
On the flight from Dallas to Los Angeles, there were only two seats to a row on the small plane, and the aisle seat next to me was empty. The vacant seat only served to remind me how much Cindy had wanted to
go to Vietnam, to feel as if she was doing something worthwhile for Jerry. Her absence was painful. Cindy Ann should have been beside me with her usual big smile. I missed my little sister so much it was difficult to talk about her in the past tense. I wanted to cry; my heart so full of loss it didn’t seem possible my chest could hold all the pain. I thought about how the catalytic event of Jerry’s disappearance indirectly contributed to the deaths of Mama, Daddy, and Cindy. Those tragic memories made me even more determined to follow up on every plausible lead, and close out Case 1000. The irony of looking for a brother, only to lose a sister, was not lost on me
I opened my notes. Over the years, I’d spent countless hours studying the color photo Lennis Lee took in 1968. The incident location was atop a very steep hill on a flat, barren plateau surrounded on three sides by lush, tropical forest. Bomb craters left deep scars on the adjacent countryside, which appeared to offer the only access to the hilltop. Because I couldn’t determine north or south from the picture, it was impossible to pinpoint the exact location of the choppers when ambushed. No doubt, the JTF team would have directions to the crashsite from previous visits. I would depend on them to lead us to the Old French Fort.
Situated eight-hundred miles west of the Republic of the Philippines, Vietnam is a long, narrow country. The 1,500-mile S-curve of the land resembles a bamboo pole with a rice basket on each end. Vietnam shares common borders with China to the north, Cambodia and Laos to the west, and the South China Sea on the east. The tropical climate varies as summer and winter monsoons control the unpredictable weather. From the mountainous landscape of the north, the terrain diverges to the southern Delta where most of the country’s rice grows in mile after mile of quilted green paddies. In contrast, the coastline has sugar-sand beaches, tiered waterfalls, colorful reefs, and a calm, gentle wind.
Prior to our departure, while surfing the internet, I discovered a news article that mentioned an MIA ceremony in Vietnam planned for early May, in which JTF would receive information and/or remains from the Vietnamese. There were no further details such the names of the MIAs who were to come home, or exactly where the repatriation was scheduled, but I wanted to attend this meaningful event. I thought it possible that since the Vietnamese were turning over information on American MIAs, I might learn something about procedure, and possibly Jerry’s fate. Mike was game, so I asked Sundance Tours to find out when and where the ceremony was, and inquire if we could attend.
After spending two tiring days in the air, I arrived at the Tan Son Nhut Airport in Ho Chi Minh City, better known as “Old Saigon.” In the late afternoon heat, I waited impatiently with the rest of the throng who moved at a crawl through customs and immigration. When I finally pushed through the turnstile, I was relieved to see a smiling young Vietnamese man holding a sign with my name on it. Once on the road, he turned from the front seat and handed me a note. The tour company had determined the MIA ceremony would take place the following morning, although our admittance remained in question.
“Where is the American Consulate?” I asked urgently. “Please take me there.” I hadn’t come all this way to give up without good reason. Upon my arrival at the American Consulate, I learned the staff operated behind security guards and locked doors. I was denied admittance. I didn’t understand why, as an American citizen with a valid passport, a Vietnamese guard would deny me access. I had always assumed a U.S. Consulate or Embassy was a place of refuge for Americans. A Vietnamese woman eventually came downstairs and stepped outside to speak with me. Unable to permit my entry, she said I was welcome to wait while she delivered my message. I scribbled a hasty note and handed it to her. She walked back upstairs to the offices, and after some time, returned with the information I needed. The good news was we could attend the MIA ceremony; the bad news was the ceremony was seven-hundred miles away in Hanoi, and getting there on such short notice was our problem.
A door attendant, dressed in a yellow-silk shirt, buttoned from snug collar to waist, opened the wide glass door to the Rex Hotel, and bowed slightly. The graceful female staff wore tradition ao dai, colorful tunics that flowed over loose-fitting pants. Large aquariums with an array of strange and wonderful fish amused curious guests. Handcrafted woodwork adorned the high ceiling of the cool, lavish lobby, where ornate wood tables flaunted bouquets of delicate flowers in oversized ceramic vases. It would have been easy to wander aimlessly around the hotel and fancy life as a royal living in luxury. The Rex was quite a place; no wonder the U.S. Information Agency made it their headquarters during the war.
I spotted Mike right away at the reception desk. With a head full of thick, silver hair he was easy enough to find. Busy trying to track down his lost luggage, the idea of boarding yet another plane didn’t spark a smile. However, we felt the event worth the effort and expense, and made travel arrangements through the hotel to attend the MIA ceremony.
Mike wanted to go shopping in case his lost luggage didn’t arrive before we left for Hue by train the following evening. There wouldn’t be time to shop after the flight back from Hanoi. When we stepped out of the quietlobby into Saigon’s teaming street life, an entirely different experience awaited us—the beggars. It was impossible to ignore them, especially the little ones the Vietnamese call bui dri, or “children of the dust.” As we explored the streets around the hotel, we saw many homeless people asleep on the sidewalks. An extremely thin man, shirtless and barefoot, caught my eye. He was stretched out with both arms across his only possession, a round bread pan, to keep anyone from stealing it. I counted my blessings when I climbed into a clean bed with fresh sheets that night.
The next day, Mike and I boarded an early morning plane to Hanoi. As we flew over the Hanoi Noi Bai Airport, heavy rain began to fall accompanied by strong gusts. The aircraft landing was rough, and passengers exchanged apprehensive looks as the plane bounced down the runway. Although unable to get off the plane for twenty minutes due to high winds, everyone was relieved to be safely on the ground.
I called the JTF office in Hanoi and spoke with a Vietnamese woman who told us to go to the building next to the airport where we would find the JTF team. Her directions in broken English were unclear; the only building we could see had a wrought iron fence around it with a guard at the gate. When I tried to approach on foot in the pouring rain, he waved me away with a weapon. We hailed a taxi and tried a more formal entry, but no luck. I called the JTF office again, and the same woman told me to go to the airport VIP lounge, but we couldn’t gain entry there either.
When we stepped outside of the airport in frustration, Mike noticed an American in a blue polo shirt with the JTF logo. Danny Cox was a welcome sight, but he didn’t have good news for us. Delayed due to the weather, the ceremony was rescheduled for 2:00 p.m. We had booked an early flight back to Saigon so we could catch the 7:30 p.m. train to Hue. Immediately, we changed our return flight and paid the fifty-dollar change fee. At least we knew for sure our names were on the JTF guest list. Our side trip had turned into a lot of expense and aggravation, but we were determined to be at the MIA repatriation ceremony.
The first indication something of interest was happening on the tarmac came from the crowd of excited Vietnamese. A large group of people suddenly left the shelter of the airport awning to stand in the monsoon rains to catch a curious glimpse of something on the runway. We followed the crowd to see what drew their attention. Men, women, and children pressed up against the big, metal gates to get a better look at the massive C-141 Starlifter aircraft with “U.S.” written in giant black letters on the nose. Although we couldn’t understand a word of Vietnamese, their animated voices indicated they hadn’t seen an airplane like this in a long time and they were curious. “They probably think we’re coming back,” Mike joked.
We stood in the rain with the crowd of Vietnamese and strained to see who would walk down the ramp of the C-141. Suddenly, Mike spotted several dark blue JTF shirts inside the gate, and waved them down. One of the team members gave the Vietnamese guards a
paper with our names written on it. At last, we were granted entry inside the locked gate. Soaked, and chilled to the bone, it felt good to climb into the warm van that would take us to the runway area set aside for the ceremony.
So soon after Cindy’s funeral, I wasn’t prepared for what awaited us on the tarmac—two boxes, about a foot wide and twice as long, simply marked #1 and #2. I realized the remains of two U.S. soldiers were inside those small, dark green wooden boxes. From facial expressions, I could tell Mike also struggled to hold his composure. We were in awe that each little box contained all that was left of someone’s lifetime of experiences. There was no pomp or circumstance, no brass band, only respectful silence as the exchange took place. A member of the multi-service color guard marched to the first box and picked it up with exact movements. He very carefully carried the box to a full-size transfer case, and gently placed the modest wooden box inside. The lid closed, four members of the U.S. armed forces carefully unfolded the American flag, snapped it open, and tucked the corners over the aluminum case.
Repatriation ceremony for two American MIAs, Hanoi, May 1999.
Conducted with equal solemnity and reverence, the JTF repeated the ritual for the second soldier. Official paperwork signed, General Terry Tucker, team members, and other visiting American veterans saluted the repatriated soldier inside the metal tomb as his comrades carried him up the loading ramp to begin the journey home to his awaiting family.
Too late for Mama, Daddy, and Cindy, I wondered if there would come a time when our diminished family would stand together to lay the past to rest with honor. Only then would the search for Jerry be finished, the mission complete, the promise kept.
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 21