We rode up and down Highway 9 a few more times, and then weaved south on side roads. Tra decided it would be necessary to continue on foot since these unpaved roads were barely navigable by car. Mike, Tra, and I left the air-conditioned car and slogged through red clay mud in the midday sun to begin our trek in search of the Old French Fort.
We got lucky. Half an hour later, we climbed a small hill to see the four-wheel drive vehicles of the JTF. The team, busy loading equipment, appeared hot, dirty, and tired. My heart pounded in my chest so hard I wondered if the others could hear it. Major Royalty greeted us. “Ms. Elliott,” he said, “we located the crash site, but I’m sorry to say we didn’t find any sign of the chopper, or your brother.”
I swallowed my disappointment. I didn’t want the team to feel they had let me down. The major told us they had found the exact spot where the helicopter crashed, then used metal detectors to make a few exploratory shallow digs. He handed me a fragment of mortar round the team had dug up from the site, along with a scrap of sandbag material. It was obvious the team was truly remorseful they didn’t have more information for me. I looked down at the olive-drab wad of burlap in my hand, and wordlessly squeezed until I could feel grit break loose in my palm.
The team was ready to take a well-deserved break and eat a hot meal. After lunch, they and their Vietnamese counterparts planned to locate and interview two local residents who had scavenged the crash site. We agreed to meet back in Dong Ha at the hotel that evening. At that time, the major would brief us on the JTFs findings.
Mike and I wanted to walk around the site, look things over for ourselves, and examine where the team dug test pits. Maybe they had overlooked something; the area was completely overgrown with young trees, shrubs, and grasses. I’d traveled halfway around the world to explore this consecrated ground, yet I didn’t really know what I expected to find; only that I needed to search the Old French Fort myself.
We impatiently made the steep climb up to the plateau. Soaked with sweat, I breathed a sigh of relief when we reached a tall concrete and metal tower on top. We stood on an uninhabited flat area, which comprised the northeast corner of the hilltop. Directly north of the tower, a mile east of its original location, stood the post-war township of Khe Sanh. To the south, across two levels of terrain, lay a very large civilian cemetery. To the east, there was a shallow ravine, and beyond, a steep slope that plunged thousands of feet down to the river.
Unable to find any recently disturbed soil, Mike checked his GPS again. No one spoke. The mood remained intense for the first half hour while we stomped around in the tall grass. Tra watched as Mike took more satellite locator readings. I wandered around attempting to divine without rod or experience. I needed to be alone, to get a feel for the place, to see if some kind of sixth sense would miraculously kick in. Our presence quickly drew a small group of curious onlookers. With a stroke of military genius, Mike paid some young boys a few Vietnamese dong to show us where the Americans dug a hole and sprayed yellow paint. The kids took us about eighty-yards down the northern slope. We fought our way through “wait-a-minute” bushes that gouged us with sharp stickers, to stand below a big yellow X on a utility pole.
The Old French Fort, facing north towards the village of Khe Sanh, 1999.
I tried to remember the details from Tom Pullen’s letter in which he described events he had witnessed from the air that fateful day. Something didn’t feel right. I didn’t think we were in the right spot. The yellow X location the JTF had marked on the northern slope didn’t fit Tom’s account. I clearly remembered his story of escape mentioned flying his chopper down into a river valley, not back into the village. I walked around until I found a high spot, a small knoll, which provided me a better view. I stood on tiptoe, and looked to the east. On the opposite side of the narrow valley far below, several bamboo huts nestled next to a curve in the river. I couldn’t determine if any roads lead to the settlement. I made a mental note to ask the major if he knew the name of this particular Bru community, if it was there back in ‘68, Jerry might have made it that far. Maybe one of the elders had information.
I followed a well-used foot trail that wound down the eastern hillside towards the shallow ravine. Thinking Jerry might have tried to escape in this direction, I intended to walk every inch of ground. I didn’t get very far; Mike and Tra were right on my heels.
“Donna, where are you?” they called.
“I’m right here,” I yelled, realizing their concern was unexploded ordnance (UXO). I stepped into the middle of the path to reassure the two men. “You don’t have to worry about me getting off the trail and getting lost. I’m not stepping anywhere somebody else hasn’t already walked many times before.”
Beads of sweat rolled down Tra’s face and dropped to the ground. He looked so relieved to see me I had to assume the Vietnamese government held tour guides responsible if anything happened to their patrons. This was awkward. I wanted to be alone, to feel whatever came to me. I had read somewhere:”Pain from loss contains within it the seeds for healing and renewal.” I was in Khe Sanh to find some of those seeds.
None of us wanted to give up and walk away, despite the smothering heat.We searched for a clue, a piece of the crashed chopper, anything. What could we possibly find that a team of experts might have missed? I didn’t know, but it sure felt good to try. Mike asked me if I felt anything. I knew what he meant. I answered truthfully, “No, I don’t feel like Jerry is here.” We tossed theories around. Did the NVA kill and bury him, yet leave McKinsey and Seymoe where they fell? That was doubtful. Fighting was very heavy during the first days of the Siege on Khe Sanh, with no time to bury the dead. The C 2/5 Cavalry’s April 7, 1968, combat assault on the Old French Fort had been so swift, the NVA retreated with only their lives, leaving behind a .51 caliber machinegun. The 2/5 soldiers searched the area for two hours, recovering only McKinsey and Seymoe. They found no sign of Jerry or Billy Hill.
If a wild animal made a meal of my brother, there would have been large pieces of bone lying around when the 2/5 recovered McKinsey and Seymoe, so we ruled that out also. Did a local villager find Jerry’s body sometime between January and April and bury him? Not likely, the indigenous people of the area were evacuated on January 22. Khe Sanh remained scantily populated until resettlement in 1975. Was Jerry captured, and taken prisoner? Did he survive capture and torture, only to never to know freedom again? As usual, I had no answers, only questions—endless questions.
I found no trace of my brother at the Old French Fort. Exhausted and somewhat discouraged, we plodded down the plateau to follow the red clay road to Highway 9, where Nam waited with the car. Along the way, Vietnamese children fell in beside us and chattered every step of the way. They asked questions with open curiosity, “Hello, hello! You American? I learn speak English!” Dog-tired, I left friendly conversation with the kids to Mike. They charmed him with cheerful sun-kissed faces and singsong voices. We treated them to bubble gum before climbing into the wonderful cool air of the car. Worn-out and hungry, we headed to the nearest restaurant for food and a cold beverage.
Ducks challenged one another over a mudhole in the parking lot. A young girl rested on a bamboo mat in the next room, ignoring a group of loud, chatty women gathered for lunch. A large, black spider spun on a thread over Mike’s head as he ate a steamy plate of rice and vegetables. Too hot to eat, I nibbled on a box of stale cookies and sipped a cool soda. As we squared up the dinner bill, the restaurant owner noticed Mike’s tattoo. His right forearm was marked, “67 VIETNAM 68” above paratrooper jump wings. Since Mike’s arrival in Vietnam, several people had approached him and asked permission to touch his tattoo, especially the youthful shopkeepers. They often asked Mike, “You fight in American War?” This question made him very uncomfortable at first. He expected to be the brunt of some of the bitterness he himself felt, but that was never the case. Mike’s tattoo was a useful conversation starter, and provided an opportunity to make new friends.
Our hos
t proudly turned his right arm towards us to reveal his tattoo: the amateur outline of a dove with an olive branch, popular during the Sixty’s to symbolize the end of war and continuing peace. He had fought with an ARVN company attached to an American armor unit. I asked if he suffered any consequences because of his tattoo after the war. The restaurant owner said officials had given him a hard time at first, but as years passed, it didn’t seem to matter much. He was fortunate; many South Vietnamese who allied with the U.S. suffered imprisonment in re-education camps for years after the war.
On the return trip to Dong Ha, I noticed three Bru females glance at us from the side of the road. I asked Nam to stop so I could take pictures of the women dressed in their customary ankle length embroidered skirts. A blue cloth tied around her steel-gray hair, an elder with a long stemmed pipe clenched between her betel nut stained teeth was my main photo subject. She immediately held out her hand. I gave her five hundred dong. Obviously offended, she mumbled what was surely an affront to my American generosity, and gave it back to me. I handed her a U.S. dollar. She grumbled under her breath, although she held onto the greenback. I couldn’t help but smile, this Bru woman had a proud attitude worthy of a runway model.
The Bru huts that dotted Highway 9 were built on stilts, split bamboo and large leaves covered the floor and walls. I wanted to stop and visit, but Tra seemed uncomfortable. He said it wasn’t a good idea to drop in on the villagers without permission, so I didn’t push the idea. I still wanted to find the village I’d seen across the river from the Old French Fort, but this venture would have to wait for a different set of circumstances.
The JTF team, busy reviewing case files at the hotel in Dong Ha when we arrived, paused to brief us on their investigation results. They were in a small room with a large rectangular table, several chairs, and a noisy wall fan. Major Royalty informed us the team had identified, located, and interviewed two Vietnamese witnesses who had scavenged the site. Duc Luong Cong had foraged the area in 1982 and again in ‘83. In 1993, he acknowledged to the 24th JTF the recovery and sale of the front portion of a helicopter, and one electrical panel. He had not seen remains or personal effects. A farmer, Tran Van Gai, discovered part of a helicopter rotor blade in 1993 and salvaged the scrap metal. The team planned to locate and inspect the rotor blade for possible identification markings the next day.
I told MAJ Royalty about the Montagnard village I spotted in the curve of the river below the crash site. I asked him if we could go there, or find out if the Bru had occupied that area back in ‘68. It seemed possible Jerry might have been able to escape to one of the Bru villages near the crash site. After all, Stiner and Williams made it through the jungle at night. Not to mention CIA Advisor Robert Brewer’s assertion that soldiers from the 258th Regional Forces made it from the Old French Fort to safety at the combat base. Major Royalty said he would check with his counterpart and get back to me the next day.
Before I had time to respond, the door suddenly opened. In walked MAJ Royalty’s Vietnamese counterpart, COL Luu Van Tho. I was a little shocked to see him since I knew the Major was probably under orders to keep the Colonel and me, an unpredictable MIA family member, apart. If I offended COL Tho, diplomatic hell could certainly break loose and jeopardize the JTFs mission. A hush fell over the room. I could sense the tension building as COL Tho seated himself across the table from me. The Major introduced Mike and me through the team interpreter, and explained my status as a family member of Case 1000.
The Colonel looked down at his callused, hazelnut hands. He spoke to me through Master Sergeant (MSGT) Nguyen, the JTF linguist, “I regret we meet under these conditions, and it is with a sad heart I must tell you we have no news of your brother.” The old soldier looked directly at me and said in Vietnamese, “Perhaps, in the future we will be able to answer your questions.”
Major Royalty immediately tried to end the meeting, but I held up my hand to stop him. “Wait, sir, if you don’t mind I have something to say to the Colonel.” Almost as one, the JTF team members cautiously shifted positions. Would I curse the colonel? Worse yet, would I leap across the table and try to choke the truth out of him?
“Colonel Tho,” I began as I locked eyes to maintain his complete attention, “I came to Vietnam to look for the bones of my brother,” I held out both hands and spread my arms wide, “and now I must return home with empty hands.” Master Sergeant Nguyen translated. Colonel Tho would not look at me; he sat with head lowered. Awkward silence filled the room as everyone wondered if I had offended the colonel, who sat quietly, and offered no further information. Realizing it wouldn’t benefit the mission to end the meeting with the colonel appearing to have lost face, I reached across the table, cupped his rough hands in mine, and cheerfully said, “But I go home with many new friends.” Everyone took a deep breath, and the meeting closed with smiles and handshakes all around.
Did meeting a member of the Vietnamese counterpart command make any difference? I doubt it, but I hoped Case 1000 would bring my face to mind the next time COL Tho encountered my brother’s name. Perhaps he would remember that this American G.I. had a sister, and she traveled to Vietnam to look for him simply because she would not, could not, forget her brother.
The next morning, Mike told me about his strange dream. In his dream, he walked down a street and when he looked next to him, he saw Jerry beside him. “I thought you were dead!” Mike said to him, but Jerry answered, “No.”
This prompted me to share with Mike my reoccurring dream. Jerry is standing on an opposite corner at a very crowded downtown intersection. There are no vehicles in the street, only people. He smiles patiently, and waves to make sure I see him. I repeatedly fight my way through the endless tide of humanity that separates us, but every time I reach where he last stood, he’s moved. I wake up feeling as if we were playing a game of tag. I can never quite catch up to him; he’s always on the next corner.
There was no point in returning to Khe Sanh since we could not accompany the JTF team to conduct their interviews with local residents who might have personal knowledge related to Case 1000. Colonel Tho had told the major he couldn’t allow JTF team members, or us, to go into the Bru villages because he couldn’t guarantee our safety. I didn’t understand this reasoning; the Bru had fought alongside Americans during the war. Perhaps the safety of the Vietnamese counterparts concerned COL Tho.
After lunch, Nam drove us to the market in Dong Ha. The market was a large, two-story concrete structure filled to capacity with vendors inside and out. Here it was possible to buy everything from a rice machete to gold jewelry. Spicy Vietnamese dishes simmered in pots as Vietnamese music blasted from portable CD players, and children played within reach of their shopkeeper mothers. Two elderly women squatted up against a wall with huge clear plastic bags of dried spices and herbs beside them. The old women giggled when Tra placed my order, and I asked him why. He explained most tourists bought kilos of the red saffron. They found humor in my small purchase. Downstairs, in the open-air part of the market, I spotted an ancient one, an elder whose hair and beard were completely white. He sat on a blanket with a few children scattered around as he told stories. I asked Tra what he was doing in the market since I couldn’t see any wares for sell. Tra told me the old man was a fortuneteller. He asked if I would like the old man to throw stones for me. “Sure, why not?” I answered.
It wasn’t from stones the old man would read my fortune. He handed me a dried chicken claw, then motioned for me to toss it on the blanket. Immediately a thick crowd surrounded us to hear what the old man had to say. “He say you come from good family,” Tra translated. “He say there were five, and now only two.” Once there had been five Elliott’s: Daddy, Mama, Jerry, me, and Cindy. “Now only two,” what exactly did that mean? Was the old man trying to tell me something?
When we returned to the hotel, the JTF team presented me with an eight-foot-long section of rotor blade from Black Cat #027. They found it holding up the corner of a cow pen, which belon
ged to the farmer who had salvaged the blade from the Old French Fort.
Mike and Donna with the 55th JTF IE-2 and section of recovered rotor blade.
Struck by the sentiment of the gesture, I was truly touched. I knew the team went out of their way to give me something tangible to take back home. I didn’t have a clue as to how I would get the big chunk of charred metal back to the states, or what I would do with it when it arrived, but I couldn’t have been more pleased if they had handed me a chunk of gold. Unable to fit the blade in trunk of Nam’s car, the team helped me arrange to have it cut into two four-foot sections.
Mike told MAJ Royalty how much we appreciated the team’s efforts. He gave him his own POW/MIA bracelet with Jerry’s name on it as a small thank-you. He hoped it would remind the major of how important his mission was to the friends and families of the missing. The major put the bracelet on and thanked Mike. He still wore it the next morning.
For our last night in Dong Ha, the JTF team members invited us to eat supper with them. We walked down the blacktop road together, and tried to converse as we dodged vehicles, bicycles, and potholes to reach the restaurant. I had packed a fifth of Jack Daniel’s Black Label whiskey because I’d read it was unavailable in Vietnam and thought it might come in handy as barter. After dinner, a better purpose arose. We passed the bottle around, and when everyone had a drink, Mike offered a toast to the 55th JTF team. He told them how much we appreciated their hard work and dedication because they “humped the boonies of Vietnam looking for our brothers who have been missing for over thirty years.”
“As far as I’m concerned,” Mike said earnestly, “you are Vietnam veterans, and I am proud to call you brothers.” It was an emotional moment for everyone. Mike spoke to each member of the JTF Team personally. He told them they were always welcome in his home. Everyone toasted MAJ Royalty who was on his last tour in Vietnam with the JTF; he planned to retire from the military and move his family to Kansas. In turn, the major made a toast to Jerry Elliott, “a brave soldier, a hero.” Tongue-tied with emotion, I said nothing.
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 23