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.

  After the toasts, I sat in my chair and watched the JTF team. The men talked among themselves, or quickly made friends with the local Vietnamese seated nearby. These were men with vibrant personalities, exceptionally trained, and dedicated to the mission to account for America’s POW/MIAs. I wanted to stay in Vietnam and be an active part of the search, an impossible pipedream for a damaged woman of forty-eight.

  Mike and I returned to the hotel worn out from the day. Public internet was scarce, so Mike went to his room to telephone his girlfriend, Nora. At five dollars a minute, I couldn’t afford international rates after the initial safe arrival call, no matter how much I missed my family. I lay in bed and stared up at the white, acoustic ceiling tiles while I wrestled with my thoughts. I couldn’t get Cindy off my mind; I really missed my little sister. At the market, I picked up souvenirs a dozen times to take home to her, only to remember she wouldn’t be there. Never again would I be able to put a small gift in her hands and see her face light up like a child. I fell asleep only to have a wretched dream, something about my family. I couldn’t remember the details when I awoke, only a sense of deep loss. I got up, turned on the light, and tried to try to cope with my desolate thoughts.

  I decided the right thing to do would be to send half of the rotor blade from the crashed Black Cat #027 to the survivors. I would take the other half to the Wall, and lay it at the foot of Panel 35E with Jerry’s name on it as a memorial from the men of the 55th JTF. Maybe someday Jerry would come home and be able to visit the section of rotor blade at the Vietnam museum in Washington, D.C., then he would know how hard and long we searched for him, and that we never gave up.

  Prior to leaving Dong Ha for Tuy Hoa, Mike and I said our goodbyes to MAJ Ken M. Royalty, MSGT Hung M. Nguyen, SSGT Daniel J. Nice, CT12 (Communications Technician) George Ribeiro, Jr., Technical Sergeant (TSgt) Vy V. Tran, SSGT Eugene Snow, Jr., HMT (Hazardous Materials Technician) Mark K. Ridgeway, MSGT Mark T. Mitchell, and Mr. Robert T. Pasquerella, DPMO Analyst. It was an honor to have made their acquaintance.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘Run For The Wall’ and ‘Rolling Thunder’

  Although there were many facts concerning Jerry’s loss left to uncover, I did feel we had departed Vietnam with a piece of Black Cat history. It took about three hundred dollars and several months for the chopper blade to arrive at port customs on the Arkansas River. I was surprised at my excitement once the rotor blade was actually in my possession.

  When team members first presented the blade to me, I felt very little attachment. However, during the ensuing months I found myself thinking about the charred blade in connection to Jerry. I wondered if this piece of metal would be all that we ever had of him. The charred, old piece of OD (olive-drab) steel became symbolic to me. The blade had survived a rocket attack, laid undiscovered in the red dirt of Khe Sanh until found by a scavenger, and then spent years holding up the corner of a cow pen. Lastly, the rotor blade had come home, as I hoped Jerry would someday.

  I sent half of the blade to the Black Cat Association, where the section was cut into smaller pieces and presented to the 282nd Assault Helicopter Company (AHC). Joe Sumner was a survivor of the action at the Old French Fort. Joe and Jerry had bunked in the same hooch, their bunks across from one another. Joe told me he enjoyed knowing Jerry. He found my brother to be a lot of fun, a great guy. He looked forward to hearing anecdotes about life in Mississippi. He recalled after a day’s work, Jerry would get out his whip to practice cracking it in the air. I’d forgotten about that old black and white leather whip. Joe gave me back a pleasant memory, for which I expressed appreciation.

  He said it was hard to talk about what happened at Khe Sanh because the four men the Black Cats lost on January 21, 1968, were each special to him. He was the crew chief on the chopper piloted by MAJ Ronald Rex. Joe told me how Jerry ran south to his chopper, jumped on board, talked with the pilots briefly, and left as quickly as he had arrived. At that point, Joe’s ship lifted, and took off. This encounter was not on file in the Case 1000 records. In my search for Jerry, I have learned that any small piece of information, no matter how immaterial it may seem, can be a significant piece of the puzzle. I assumed this new information to be vital to the case, so I asked Joe if it was okay to have JTF contact him. With his permission, I provided his phone number and address to the accounting command more than once, but to my knowledge, contact has never been made to document this eyewitness report, even though Joe Sumner was probably the last person to see Jerry alive.

  Now, there was a promise to the 55th JTF to keep. Mike Teutschman made plans for us to take the other half of the chopper blade to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C., with the Run For The Wall (RFTW) riders. Every May, these dedicated men and women ride across the country for ten days, eventually joining up with Rolling Thunder for their annual Memorial Day motorcycle demonstration from the Pentagon parking lot to the Wall. RFTW and Rolling Thunder are two organizations that grew out the need for vets to make a difference in America’s awareness of the needs of veterans, and the POW/MIA issue. Many vets bought motorcycles after they returned from Vietnam. Drawn to the freedom of the open road, the wind in their face helped to clear their head. They rode alone or in packs, seeking the warrior brotherhood they had drawn support from during the war.

  Turned off by bureaucracy, veterans might not write letters to politicians, but they will get on their iron horses to ride thousands of miles in order to make a statement. The unheard cry of American POWs left behind prompted Marine veteran Ray Manzo to organize veterans to address this injustice. With the aid of Army SMA John “Top” Holland, Ted Sampley, 1SG Walt Sides, and Bob Schmitt, the men sponsored a motorcycle rally on Memorial Day 1988. Their intent was to show the country, and the world, that their vet brothers had not abandoned America’s POWs in Southeast Asia.

  They called the event Rolling Thunder, named after the B-52 strikes that thundered across Vietnam. The biker vets wanted the roar of their tailpipes to resound in the streets of Washington, D.C., the cohesive voice of Vietnam veterans demanding an accounting of the POW/MIAs. Vital restorative steps included the call for a full accounting of POW/MIAs from all wars, honoring the memory of our KIAs, and support of military personnel currently in service all around the world. The word went out that Vietnam vets were meeting in D.C. for Memorial Day in an effort to grab national attention for the cause. They came from as far away as Hawaii and Australia, from big cities and small towns. Many riders met up on the long road to Washington D.C., to ride together as a convoy with a common goal that fired them with purpose. The mission of Rolling Thunder touched the hearts and minds of veterans everywhere, and 2,500 bikes showed up for the first run. Although there was little media coverage in the early years, thousands of Americans came out to stand along the route from the Pentagon to the Wall in order to take advantage of an opportunity to give thanks to America’s vets.

  Run For The Wall formed when Marian Shelton, the wife of known POW USAF COL Charles Shelton, who did not return from the war, asked a handful of Vietnam vets who rode motorcycles, “Can you help? What can the bikers do?” Touched by Marian’s plea to bring the plight of the POW/MIAs to the public, they rallied and rode from San Diego to Washington, D.C. In 1989, under the leadership of James “Gunny” Gregory, Carl Rice, and Bill Evans, the first RFTW pulled out of San Diego. A pack of one hundred fifteen bikes traveled across the country for Rolling Thunder’s Memorial Day demonstration. The following year, in 1990, after fighting for twenty-five years to find out what happened to her husband, and if he might still be alive, Marian gave up hope and committed suicide. She would never know her simple query led to a mission staunchly conducted every May with solemn reverence and dedication.

  By 1991, there was a new effort building in support of the POW/MIAs, vets were telling other vets, and RFTW and Rolling Thunder participants had grown to 45,000 strong. Vets welcomed the chance to stand with their brother and sister vets and take a stand. The Pent
agon north parking lot became a reunion spot for vets from all wars. Every year familiar faces reappeared, as thousands of new participants rode in.

  After a few years, RFTW became an official non-profit organization. The pack began its yearly trek by starting out enmasse from Ontario, California for the ride to D.C. During their ten-day mission, riders visited schools, VA hospitals, war memorials, and participated in parades and community events at the invitation of towns along the route. Occasionally, local vet organizations, school organizations, or Harley-Davidson dealers feed the group or provide free camping or gas; but the riders pay all other expenses for the Run.

  I really wanted to go on the Run to take the blade to the Wall with Mike. A ride with friends to remember Jerry would be a nice way to begin the new century. Physically unable to drive my Tacoma truck that far by myself, I looked around for a driver. Neither Storm nor Randy showed interest in making the trip, so there was only one thing to do—I called Cathi. When I mentioned “bikes and vets in support of the POW/MIAs,” and delivery of the blade to the Wall, she was immediately interested. Fortunately, although her husband, Amos, wasn’t a vet, he was sympathetic to the cause and had no reservations about money or time well spent.

  The plan was for Mike to ride his Harley from Seattle, Washington, down to Ontario, California where the Run would pull out on Wednesday, May 17, 2000. We would meet him along the route in Wentzville, Missouri, on the sixth day of the Run. The 2000 RFTW would mark two milestones for me: keeping the promise made to the 55th JTF, and my first trip to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in D.C.

  Mama’s suicide note kept coming to mind. It seemed only fitting the chopper blade should go to the Wall in a pine box. What I had in mind was a simple box with two rope handles. I wanted to burn Jerry’s name and loss date into the wood, and glue some pictures of him on the inside of the lid. Storm wasn’t happy I was “going off again,” but as an expression of empathy, he skillfully constructed a quality pinewood case to house the blade.

  I contacted Don “Bear” Stringer after he posted on the RFTW message board that he and other riders planned to leave from Jackson, Mississippi, to catch the Run in Missouri. We agreed to meet after I picked Cathi up from the Memphis airport. Bear was a big ol’ country boy from Mississippi with an easy smile, a heartwarming chuckle, and a patch that said, “I wasn’t there, but I still care.” His riding partners were Tony “Spoiled Rotten”’ Compton and Latt McGinnis. Cathi and I immediately felt at home with them, and it was not long before “Bear” became “PapaBear.”

  “PapaBear” told us a story that gave me goose bumps. After we arranged to ride together, he had called his best friend, Tony, an Army vet, and told him about our emails. “So old ladies want to follow us to the Wall?” was Tony’s flat response. “PapaBear” then told Tony that I had been to Vietnam, recovered a piece of a helicopter blade from my brother’s crash site, and had asked for their help in delivering it to the Wall. He also told him my brother had been missing since January 21, 1968, he was from Greenville, Mississippi, and his name was Jerry Elliott. Moments of silence elapsed before he asked Tony, “Did you hear me?”

  “You know that bracelet that I wear?” Tony replied, “Well, it belongs to Jerry W. Elliott, and I haven’t taken it off in seventeen years.” Tony had worn the red paint down to the silver band, but he had never taken the bracelet off. He doesn’t intend to remove the silver band from his wrist until Jerry comes home. “PapaBear” said after that conversation, nothing could have stopped them from having the honor of carrying the chopper blade to the Wall. Those two Mississippi boys, whose only wish was to honor Jerry, will be my friends forever.

  Cathi and I arrived at the Wentzville Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) to meet up with the Run. We enjoyed the lighthearted jokes and laughter of the local vets as more bikes trickled in to greet the riders. Suddenly, the chatter in the VFW stopped. We could hear them long before we could see them—three-hundred motorcycle tailpipes blasting down the blacktop created their own arrival announcement. The room cleared as everyone ran outside to greet the riders.

  Tiny American flags lined both sides of the road as far as the eye could see. A group of vets stood stiffly at attention near the VFW entrance, saluting when the last rider rode past. As the lead bikes roared into the parking lot, an honor guard appeared with banners waving, shouts and cheers greeted the sunburned, smiling riders. There was a brief ceremony, complete with certificates of appreciation presented to the VFW and local supporters, followed by a tasty meal.

  Cathi and I found Mike in the crowd. The first thing he wanted to see was the chopper blade. He stared at the blade for a long moment, and then asked us to leave it on the tailgate for all the riders to view. Word spread quickly. I was amazed at how much attention the blade drew from the vets. I watched former soldiers slowly drag their fingers down the length of the blade, as if they traced names only they could see. My attachment to the blade was a sentimental link to Jerry. What mattered to the vets was they could actually touch a piece of metal from a Huey helicopter that had crashed in South Vietnam. They had many memories of riding on choppers with their “brothers,” and the artifact was an instant link to those who had died. The rust speckled olive-drab rotor blade represented a soldier’s pain and signified their mark in history. Although battered and scarred, both survived to come home.

  On Day Seven of the Run, we moved from the VFW onto Old Highway Z for a quick ride through town and a stop at the Wentzville Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Next was the St. Louis’ Jefferson Barracks V.A. Medical Center for a visit with patients and staff. The day ended in Carefree, Indiana, with a proclamation from the Governor declaring May 23, 2000, “Run For The Wall Day.”

  The following morning, the Director, staff members, and patients at the Veterans Administration Medical Center in Louisville, Kentucky, who were enthusiastically celebrating “Motorcycle Day,” greeted the Run. Staff members took the time to ensure patients who were bedridden received visitors. Watching vets reach out to other vets was very emotional. Patients and riders alike were often so deeply moved they wept. We continued on to Frankfort, home of the Kentucky Vietnam Veterans Memorial. A remarkable sculpture, the shadow of the giant sundial falls on the name of each Kentuckian at the time of his loss.

  Around noon, the Run left Huntington, W.V. and headed southeast towards Rainelle. In the town of Ansted, American flags lined the streets on every utility pole and most homes. Businesses sported red, white, and blue balloons in front, and “Welcome Vets” signs. Around noon the Run thundered into Rainelle and paraded through town cheered on by whistling, flag-waving townspeople. The bikes were directed onto the elementary school’s football field where kids wanting autographs mobbed the riders. As in previous years, the school presented a patriotic ceremony with children singing and community leaders speaking. Vietnam veteran Gerald Mc-Cullar, demonstrating as a POW trapped in a tiger cage to express his solidarity with his comrades who never returned, caused some of that famous “West Virginia coal dust” to make my eyes water. Overall, it had been a great day, old friend’s reunited, new bonds formed, and the plight of the POW/MIAs introduced to the next generation.

  Arriving in Arlington, Virginia, on the last day of the Run, the RFTW riders went directly to the Marine Corps Iwo Jima War Memorial to pay their respects, and take the traditional group photo before continuing on to the Wall. Because of traffic problems, Cathi and I didn’t make it to the Wall with the Run as planned, but ended up at the hotel in Arlington instead. Cathi, as well as other vehicle drivers and passengers who had gotten lost when the pack broke apart, were frustrated and disappointed to have come so many miles bonded as a group, yet not make it to the Wall together. It wasn’t much of a letdown for me, deep inside I dreaded seeing Jerry’s name etched in the hard black granite.

  The next morning, “PapaBear” and I went with the Run to lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknowns in the Arlington National Cemetery. This crypt is a national monument dedicated to American soldie
rs who died during a war, and whose remains were not identified. John C. Metzler, the Arlington Cemetery Superintendent, announced that Run For The Wall was the only motorcycle group ever allowed to roll thunder through the consecrated hills of Arlington. The solemn expressions of the bikers left little doubt as to how seriously they considered the honor. RFTW presented a red, white, and blue wreath with all four-service branches epresented. Four riders were called forward to form a wreath-laying detail. They stood proudly at attention, shoulders back, chin up, and stepped forward with as much precision as rusty memories could muster. Rain drizzled throughout most of the ceremony, as well as the changing of the ever-vigilant tomb guards, but weather had little to do with all the damp eyes.

  The RFTW leaders signaled to the pack it was time to leave. As everyone started to wander back to the parking lot, “OmahaMike” Smith, a brown water Navy Vietnam vet, asked if I would like to take the position opposite the Missing Man (empty space to honor POW/MIAs) in the pack for the ride out of Arlington. As everyone mounted up, “OmahaMike” asked, “Where’s your bike parked?”

  “Bike? I don’t have a bike!” I exclaimed. Unable to quickly find “PapaBear” in the crowd, I spied Harry Hand and quickly asked, “Would you mind if I rode on the back of your bike in the Missing Man position?”

  Run For The Wall riders lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, 2000.

  “I would consider it an honor,” Harry said without a moment’s hesitation. I climbed on the back of his motorcycle, and as we moved slowly past row after row of small white headstones, I turned to look at the bikes behind us. The headlights of hundreds of motorcycles reflected across the wet blacktop. Each rider cared about the plight of those we left behind who wait to come home. Their concern motivated them to ride a motorcycle across our great nation in all manner of weather, at their own expense, to take part in a show of support. Jerry had loved motorcycles since he was old enough to sit on one. He would have been proud to see this loyal, inspirational show of bikes. To my mind, each headlight signaled a beacon of hope for our POW/MIAs.