Prior to daybreak, Dennis slipped away from the guesthouse to climb Hill 861 in the rain again. He spent four hours alone with his memories. At least he thought he was alone. In preparation for the journey, he had carefully etched Easter Sunday palm leaves with the names of friends who had died on Hill 861. He threw the handful of leaves into the brisk wind. As he bent over to grab his backpack, Dennis saw a group of men in U.S. military uniforms; they stood together in the mist at the top of the hill as their ponchos moved in the wind. He shut his eyes, looked away, tried to shake it off, and looked again. They were still there. Dennis started to cry, he called out the goodbyes there had not been time for during the heat of battle. Before leaving, he asked the ghost soldiers to watch over his family and friends.
Down below in the village, I was thrilled that Titi agreed to go with me to see Anha and translate. David and Jeff decided at the last minute to come along as well. We crammed backpacks with school supplies, and loaded our arms down with all we could carry to give to the Bru. Paul agreed to come with us and stay behind on the road to keep an eye on our gear in the van. Our little group attracted a lot of attention as we walked through the wind and the rain to Anha’s hut. The locals quickly joined us on the path to ask questions. With my military-issue poncho wrapped around her slender frame, edges flapping in the breeze, Titi moved like a shrouded specter down the footpath. I asked her to tell all the children we encountered to visit Paul on the road; he had school supplies to give them.
Much chatter and enthusiasm greeted us when we reached Anha’s home. Apparently, word had gone out about the strange visit by the lone American woman. People were scattered everywhere. I thought the one-room bamboo hut might collapse from the weight of so many visitors, and more clustered in doorways and peeked in windows. Anha welcomed us as if we were old and dear friends. The Bru chief and I greeted one another with a firm handshake. As I sat cross-legged next to him on the rice mat, Titi began to tell him of my quest. She told him my brother had last been seen alive when a helicopter crashed south of the village on the day the ammo dump exploded at the combat base. Anha listened carefully, head bent in concentration. He didn’t speak immediately to my question, giving much thought to his words before he answered.
“I do remember this day in the war,” Titi interpreted as Anha spoke, “but I was not here. That morning I had flown on a helicopter to Dong Hoi Mountain. I am very regretful, but I can tell you nothing of what happened to your brother.” I’d known from the beginning that finding the Bru chief was only a long shot worth exploring, but it was still disappointing when Anha was unable to shed any light on Jerry’s disappearance. However, I came away from our meeting with respect and admiration for Anha and the Bru Montagnards. They had fought hard and suffered greatly during and after the war. There was no question they still held great affection for their American brothers. If Anha could have helped me discover what happened to Jerry, I think he would have done so, even at risk to himself. Honored to be a guest in Bru Anha’s home for a few privileged hours, I now understood why American soldiers were willing to die to protect these humble people from Communist persecution.
The weather took a turn for the worse, and the taxi scheduled to deliver us to Dong Ha by 3:00 p.m. was over an hour late, there was no way we would make our appointment on time. When we finally arrived in Dong Ha, we found the police station closed. We called from a restaurant telephone, there was no answer, and no machine picked up so we could leave a message. A police officer on a motorbike finally pulled up. He ordered us to check into a hotel just a stone’s throw down the street, and to stay there until further notice. Thanks to the two undercover agents posing as friendly engineers at the hotel in Khe Sanh, we were under house arrest in Dong Ha, Vietnam!
Bru Anha and wife (center) with three generations of family.
The four Khe Sanh vets felt trapped by the very same political system they had fought to keep out of South Vietnam. Offended by the irony of the situation, the Marines voiced loud indignation at our unjust treatment. Visions of rat-infested work camps jumped into my head. Then it hit me, “I’m in a Communist country. I have absolutely no rights, not even a phone call.” Suddenly that one phone call represented all of the small personal rights and liberties we Americans take for granted. Our soldiers fought and died in an attempt to insure these same basic privileges for the people of South Vietnam. Finally, after all these years, the Vietnam War made sense to me: free will is not free.
We checked into our designated hotel for the night, and regrouped in the lobby early the next morning, ready to deal with the authorities. We hoped to talk our way down to a small fine for some minor transgression unknowingly committed, which we would pay so we could get on the road back to Hue. We all walked into the police station, but only Bob, Dennis, and Glenn were required to remain for questioning. The police told the rest of us to return to the hotel. Everyone did as told, except for me. I was afraid an unmarked van would pull up, officers would shove my three friends in the back, and we would never see them again. I sat on the steps of the police station until told to move away. I moved to the corner. A police officer came out and sternly directed me towards the hotel. I walked back to the hotel, but instead of going inside I lingered by the gate, convinced to give up my vigil only when someone pointed out I might make the situation worse if I irritated officials by attracting too much attention.
The doors of the hotel flew open as Bob, Dennis, and Glenn spilled into the lobby with angry faces. Officials had called a mid-morning break. Although not formally charged with any specific crimes, the police insinuated we were spies for the USG and attempted to incite an uprising of the Bru against the Vietnamese government. Included among our infractions of the law was Paul’s roadside distribution of the English/Vietnamese dictionaries as “American propaganda.” Although not yet formally charged with any specific crime, fines over a thousand USD each were threatened, and there was mention of a trial in Hanoi, which meant we would be prohibited from leaving Vietnam. It seemed we were in a lot of trouble.
Glenn couldn’t understand the problem. He’d made five previous trips to Hill 861, and never purchased the “special permit” the police insisted was necessary. He intended to call his wife in California and have her contact political friends. Paul ranted and cussed. Dennis calmly sat on a lobby sofa reading a novel. Apprehensive, Bob was too quiet. As USMC CPL Robert J. Arrotta, he had served on Hill 881S as a FAC before and during the legendary Siege of Khe Sanh. After personally taking control of a PRC-41 UHF radio, which put him in direct contact with attack pilots, Bob delivered over two-hundred air strikes directly onto the enemy during the one hundred thirteen days Hill 881S was under constant attack. His actions under fire earned Bob the Bronze Star and the Navy Commendation Medal, as well as the title “Mightiest Corporal in the World” from his peers. Aware the Vietnamese could well know his identity, on this day, Bob didn’t feel so mighty. He admitted the intimidating situation made him anxious, and his candor elevated my apprehension.
Maybe I overreacted, but I felt an urgent need to connect with my son. This was no casual ripping-American-tourists-off swindle; the shit was getting deep. I went immediately to my room and sighed with relief when the overseas call went through to Randy. The telephone rang a few times before he woke up. It was two o’clock in the morning U.S. time.
“Randy,” I tried to sound calm, “I’m under house arrest in Dong Ha. What? I can’t understand you. Are you laughing?”
“I can’t help it,” Randy admitted, “it just sounds like something that would only happen to you.” When I didn’t laugh with him, he realized the situation was serious and asked what I wanted him to do. Before leaving for Vietnam, I’d given him a list of names and telephone numbers to contact in case of an emergency. Feeling better just hearing his voice, I reassured my son things would probably work out okay, but if he didn’t hear from me in the next few days to start calling every name on the list and asking them to check on us in Dong Ha. We definitel
y said our customary, “love you,” to one another with a little more thought than usual, and hung up.
At 2:00 p.m. on the second day of our house arrest, all eight of us reported to the Dong Ha police station as ordered. Bob, Dennis, and Glenn underwent questioning as a group again. Titi was in another room for a private interview. Paul and Jeff directed to yet another room, while David and I had an escort to an upstairs room where two men waited for us. A very somber, gray-haired high-ranking officer in military uniform sat stiff and erect, allowing the younger man to do most of the talking. He would stop often and confer in Vietnamese with his elder. The officials were very polite, but persistent with their line of questioning, “Why are you in Vietnam? Why would you venture into the hills surrounding Khe Sanh when so much unexploded ordnance makes the area hazardous?” Ultimately, the conversation came around to the Bru, “Who did you speak with in the Bru village and why?”
I knew Titi had already answered these same questions during the morning session. The trick would be to confirm Titi’s story without providing more information than already known. David and I simply answered all the questions put to us truthfully, without much detail, until the focus turned to the Bru. Forced to acknowledge my conversation with Anha regarding Jerry’s MIA status, I sat on the edge of my seat and began to ramble on and on about my long and weary search. I confessed Anha had no prior knowledge of my visit, and had offered no answers since he was not in Khe Sanh on that fateful day.
After a few hours, we were all told to go back to the hotel and return to the police station the next morning. The third day, it was more of the same. The questions didn’t stop. In fact, they were beginning to repeat the same questions using different words. I decided it was time to get serious. “I know there are many Vietnamese families who also continue to look for their relatives who did not come home from the war,” I told the same two Vietnamese officials from the day before. “I also know there are 300,000 Vietnamese MIAs. I understand the pain of their families. I have information with me that could perhaps lead to the recovery of many North Vietnamese soldiers who are missing.” The old Vietnamese soldier did not have a flicker of expression on his face, but his posture changed dramatically, and instead of acting bored, he began to study me openly.
Dubbed the “Mightiest Corporal” by Newsweek and his fellow Marines, Bob Arrotta served as a FAC on Hill 881 S with India Company. Photo courtesy Charles J. Schneider.
The junior official was not so nonchalant. He eagerly took the papers I offered him, and skimmed the contents. After a brief discussion with his superior, he left the room to make copies. Upon his return, he politely handed the original to me. The information I released to the Vietnamese were grid coordinates. The locations came from Vietnam veterans who had personal knowledge of mass gravesites that could lead to the recovery of hundreds of NVA MIAs, and they were willing to exchange that information to help me in my search for Jerry. The tone of the interview changed, and shortly thereafter, David and I were free to leave with no fines, as were Paul and Jeff. Bob, Dennis, and Glenn, who had spent the night on top of Hill 861, were all fined forty U.S. dollars. They didn’t argue the price tag, and tossed in a copy of the Vietnamese/English dictionary, along with my fifth of Jack Daniel’s for goodwill. After three days of questioning, it was over. We could travel on to Hue. Vietnam is a gentle land ruled by rough politics. I’m glad we didn’t have to stay in Dong Ha and wait for the U.S. Embassy to rescue us, we later discovered two months passed before anyone from the Embassy made an inquiry.
I have never met an American, civilian or military, who ventured into the hills around Khe Sanh and didn’t climb down out of the clouds feeling changed in some way. Climbing to the top of Hill 861 with my vet brothers was an experience I will always remember. The Marines have a saying, “If you ain’t been to Khe Sanh, you ain’t been to Vietnam,” and I would have to agree with them.
We shared a taxi from Hue to Da Nang, where I split from the vets and flew to Hanoi for a meeting with the JTF. Gary Flanagan was one of four analysts I met at “The Ranch,” the compound where JTF Detachment 2 offices were once located on the outskirts of Hanoi. We quickly reviewed Jerry’s case, no news there. Reference had been made to Case 1000 in two North Vietnamese historical books, Highway 9—Khe Sanh Offensive, Spring and Summer 1968 and 304th Division. I’d asked DPMO to provide me with English translations of these two accounts, which they did. I also received North Vietnamese maps, and a memorandum prepared by Senior Case Analyst and linguist Robert Desatte.
From the book Su Doan 304, published by the People’s Army of Vietnam Publishing House, Hanoi, 1990, Desatte’s translation read: “Just as we had anticipated, when we opened fire against Huong Hoa (Khe Sanh village), the enemy inserted the 258th Regional Force Company by air assault into Ku Boc (the Old French Fort). The 11th Company, 9th Battalion was waiting for them there. Because the unit had carried out good deception and maintained good security, our men were able to wait until the enemy had inserted its troops and then opened fire and annihilating nearly the entire company. A number of survivors, including the company commander, 1st Lieutenant Nguyen Dinh Thiep fled in the direction of Lang Khaoi (Sweet Potato Village) and were captured alive by soldiers of the 9th Regiment.”
I read the excerpt from Su Doan 304 aloud, and asked, “The Vietnamese version says they took live prisoners doesn’t it?” The analysts agreed that was what the Vietnamese account stated. I wanted to know, “If the NVA took South Vietnamese prisoners alive isn’t there a chance they also captured Jerry alive?” With heads bowed, the analysts conceded we could not rule out the possibility, and fell silent. Easier to pick the nutmeat from a black walnut with a soggy toothpick, I realized I wouldn’t get any additional information from these men.
Gary Flanagan broke the awkward lull in the conversation when he asked if my room was satisfactory. I told him no, the hotel was nasty, and I thought they might rent rooms by the hour. They all snickered and Gary offered to drive me to a better hotel. We stopped at a small restaurant owned by an Aussie who flipped beef burgers, and casually got to know one another over the meal. Gary was from Texas, and was one of the original members of the Hanoi Detachment office staff. He said his wife had divorced him over his job with JTF in Vietnam. The subject shifted to food and we discovered a Southern favorite in common: black-eyed peas and cornbread. After the meal, Gary dropped me off at a hotel in downtown Hanoi and wished me well.
Unfortunately, my trip didn’t end as expected. Although I ate and had a good rest, my brain wasn’t functioning properly and I had trouble comprehending my airline flight details. Tired and confused, I mixed up times and dates to arrive in Saigon the day after my plane had left. Placed on standby, I waited alone in the parking lot. My mind raced. I would arrive home a day late. Storm would have already gone to the airport to pick me up and discovered that I hadn’t made the flight. Considering what had happened in Dong Ha, he and Randy would be afraid I was under arrest again. I had ten U.S. dollars in cash and credit cards, but the closest ATM machine was miles away in downtown Saigon. With the public phone rooms at the Saigon airport closed, Tokyo would be my first opportunity to call home. Knowing physical and emotional fatigue were triggers for survivors of brain trauma, I’d pushed myself beyond my limits and unnecessarily worried those I loved. I decided never to let that happen again, especially in a foreign country.
Gary and I exchanged a few friendly emails, and he occasionally forwarded news articles. On April 7, 2001, seven U.S. members of the JTF, and nine steadfast Vietnamese counterparts died in a helicopter crash in Quang Binh Province, Vietnam, when their chopper flew into a fog-covered mountaintop while en route to survey the loss site of U.S. MIAs. Seven exceptional Americans perished in that fateful crash: Army LTC Rennie Cory Jr., Army LTC George Martin, Air Force MAJ Charles E. Lewis, Army Sergeant First Class (SFC) Tommy J. Murphy, Air Force MSGT Steven Moser, Navy Chief Petty Officer Pedro J. Gonzales, and Air Force TSGT (Technical Sergeant) Robert M. Flynn.
/> I was surprised to receive an email from Gary two weeks after the chopper crash. He vented his frustration and expressed the “raw pain of losing sixteen friends too vividly.” He called my attention to an article in the April 23, 2001, edition of Time Magazine, titled “Diminishing Remains: The ambitious hunt for MIAs has become mortally expensive,” by Tim Larimer. The article downplayed the importance of the mission of the JTF, and implied the men aboard had died in vain. I was concerned about the reaction of the families of the team members who had given their lives for the cause. I emailed Larimer my response to his article, and copied the email to Gary with other news. At my request, “Greasy” Belcher, Executive Director for Task Force Omega of Kentucky read the seven names of the late JTF members at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall during the 2001 Rolling Thunder Memorial Day event. The following month, I received an email from Gary in which he asked me to call him in Ballinger, Texas. When I called, he thanked me for my heartfelt response to Larimar’s criticism of the JTF mission, and for my request for the reading of the names. This exchange encouraged me to consider Gary an ally.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Honor Among Warriors
In June 2003, Ron Paye kindly arranged for me to meet returned POW Special Forces MAJ Mark A. Smith. A highly decorated soldier, whose military accomplishments include awards of the Distinguished Service Cross, the Silver Star, eight Bronze Stars, three Air Medals, two Meritorious Service Medals, three Army Commendation Medals, four Purple Hearts, and the Humanitarian Service Medal, MAJ Smith is also wellknown as a dedicated and relentless POW/MIA activist.
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 27