There was no shade on the barren plateau of the Fort, and it was smothering hot. Everyone was sweating, even the Vietnamese. The work was very tedious. Sections of ground divided into grids, were marked off with survey tape. The teams carefully busted each grid into smaller chunks of dirt with heavy picks, and carefully shoveled every clump into buckets. Dirt, grass, bugs, and anything else the teams dug up, went into the buckets. The bucket brigade carried dirt to the screeners, who worked with leather gloves in order to avoid contamination of any possible DNA evidence. Every clump of dirt, every cluster of grass was pulled apart, closely examined, and forced through %-inch screening boxes. I saw buttons, grenade pins, metal wire, and bullet fragments go into what Zib called the goodie bucket. Everything not organic was set aside for closer examination by forensic experts at CIL. The Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) technician carefully separated all EOD pieces and bagged them. Everything was marked and categorized to the retrieval grid.
“Put me to work, Zib,” I pleaded. “Anything would be easier than standing around here in the hot sun, or sitting on the grass as an open invitation to the leeches.” The truth was I was too nervous to be still. I couldn’t walk off the tension because Gary told me the Vietnamese set the ground rules; we weren’t to wander off the immediate recovery site. Because there was the possibility my DNA could contaminate any bone fragments the team uncovered, my duty consisted of helping the Vietnamese carry the buckets of dirt to screeners. My contribution was minimal, but I was grateful for something to pass the time. I must admit, it was an odd feeling to wonder if the bucket in your hand contains a piece of your brother.
The team members were open and friendly. They broke out in song occasionally, which helped the time go faster, and kept our spirits up. Their kindness made it a lot easier to not feel awkward or out of place. I could tell from the bits and pieces of conversation the team knew of my previous trips to Khe Sanh. Maybe I was wrong, but I concluded it was unusual for Gary to remain for any length of time on a dig, and I thought he might be there to keep a watchful eye on me. His presence certainly surprised the Vietnamese counterparts. Gary said the Vietnamese government charged the USG for ten officials to assist JPAC that day when only two were present. Our first day on the dig in Khe Sanh finished, the site secured for the evening, we returned to Dong Ha and found rooms at different hotels. I ate supper in my room, alone with my thoughts.
Black cat reunion, savannah, Georgia, 2009.
Chapter Thirty
Keeping the Promise
Colonel Smith’s borrowed driver, Louie, picked me up at seven and drove me to Gary’s hotel. Lingering over coffee in the dining room, he casually informed me we had a problem. Quang Tri Province officials refused to clear either of us to return to the site. “They think I’m a ‘spook’ for the CIA,” Gary told me and laughed. Since I hadn’t encountered a problem going to the Old French Fort on three previous visits, I contemplated whether Gary’s well-known ability to speak fluent Vietnamese was the issue, or the fact that he had busted the Vietnamese on their incorrect headcount of officials at the Old French Fort. Either way, if Gary wasn’t allowed to return to the site, it was apparent I would also be excluded.
Although we had clearance from Hanoi, apparently the final decision rested with Quang Tri Province officials. We were eventually granted permission. When we arrived at the site hours later, the team had already moved a lot of dirt. Gary was right about one thing-there were many officials present, and this day the number of white shirts tallied correctly. I never did quite understand the composition of the Vietnamese counterpart teams. Officially, there seemed to be four team leaders and eleven team members, but there were a lot of white shirts around who never toiled at all, they only “observed.”
The work moved as fast as possible, and Zib was very much in charge of the excavation. The team was digging much deeper than I’d imagined they would. Although I was impatient to open the grave, Zib made sure every square inch of ground was meticulously marked, dug up, and carefully screened. From the point-of-discovery to the grave, she left no ground unturned. I admired the JPAC team members—no gripes, no bickering, just dirty work conducted with deep dedication. I tried to help, but the only thing I could do was carry buckets. It was hot and sweaty work, and my joints ached from carrying the heavy buckets of dirt, so I switched over to hauling the empty buckets back to the dig. One Vietnamese in particular looked at me with an expression that asked, “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” I decided the locals didn’t appreciate me working with the buckets; I was probably in their way. Thank goodness, I wasn’t in the pit swinging a pick, or pushing a shovel. I took three times more breaks than anyone on the team did.
The following day when Gary and I arrived, Zib was excited because they had found more bone fragments to the right of the dozer scrape. She extended the search area a few more grids. I was impressed the team had already sifted through several cubic yards of dirt, enough topsoil to make a good-sized garden. Too sore to haul buckets this day, I noticed the Vietnamese workers were a lot friendlier to me. I quickly realized my attempts to help must have appeared as if I wanted to take work away from Vietnamese laborers who needed the income. They didn’t know my intentions had nothing to do with money.
Restless for results, I tried to hide my anxiety by listening to the cheerful banter between the American team members. Morale was high, discussions revolved around music, movies, and current postgraduate classes. Most had college degrees, were working towards their masters, and here they were, digging in the dirt. Damn, I liked these people!
Language seemed to be no barrier between U.S. and Vietnamese team members. It was fun to watch a JPAC team member working the screens share his IPod with a counterpart. His face lit up as the young Asian unconsciously tapped his bare feet to the beat of American pop music while he picked through the red clay dirt in the tray.
Elsewhere on the site, COL Nguyen Tri Chu, the Vietnamese CO, was extremely busy doing everything from supervising to actually hauling dirt buckets. Always cordial to me, he seemed more relaxed since Gary and I received Province level permission to be on-site. He proudly showed me a photograph of himself and several other Vietnamese officials with former President Bill Clinton. I told him, “Even in America it is a great honor to meet a U.S. president and have your picture taken.” His smile grew so big even the character lines on his face turned upward.
JPAC team members screen buckets of dirt with Vietnamese counterparts.
“Dig, dig, dig all day long, dig ‘till all the dirt is gone.” This was RE-4’s new theme song; they no doubt needed some form of encouragement. The standard policy on a JPAC excavation was to dig four meters beyond the last find of bone. The discovery of those two small skull fragments had expanded the dig quite a bit. The third day of the excavation, for eight grueling hours the team dug, hauled, and sifted through the red dirt, but found nothing of value.
Tomorrow the team would exhume the body. Most of the earth cut by the dozer had been excavated, and thoroughly sifted. The mound containing the reburied remains was next. I tried to prepare myself for whatever emotional reactions might surface, but my mind wouldn’t let me focus on possibilities. All I could think about was the next day, I would be fifty-three years old, and a thirty-six-year-old mystery might come to an end. I spent most of my life questioning Jerry’s disappearance. If nothing else, maybe the nightmares that began with the September discovery would cease, and that alone would be a fine birthday present.
The next day the team found two more bone fragments, one piece Zib thought to be part of a rib. Although the find delayed excavation of the grave, which caused slight disappointment, I respected the thoroughness of the search. There was no question when the team found a tooth. The voice was loud and clear, “Zib, Zib, we’ve got a tooth.” American and Vietnamese team members alike reacted as if the announcement heralded the discovery of a gold nugget. Discovery of teeth is always exciting on a dig because identification is possible
by matching a tooth to dental records. As she ran from the dig to the screens, I was right on her heels. Zib quickly identified the small, enamel object as a pig’s tooth. Not long after, the call went out again, only this time it was a piece of human bone. A small fragment an uneducated eye could have easily overlooked, yet a tiny discovery big enough to perk everyone up. Less than an hour passed when the team meticulously sifted another fragment of rib out of the red dirt. Zib was shocked, she “never expected to find anything in the grid below the earth scrape.”
The day finally arrived, April 27, 2004. Already working in the grid when Gary and I reached the site, two team members were busy lifting sod from around the burial mound. This simple job alone took a couple of hours as every cut of grass, every shovel of dirt, was sifted through the screens. The sun was a fireball, but I was riveted to the graveside.
By mid-morning, the team uncovered a rotting old sandbag at the edge of the mound. Unsure if it contained the remains, they carefully began to cut the earth away, a few inches at a time with trowels. At last, it was time to remove the dirt from the top of the mound. Zib decided to dig into the south half of the mound first; within minutes, big black ants scattered in every direction, including up the legs of three team members. Unable to use insect repellant for fear of contaminating the remains, the ants went into the buckets along with the dirt. It wasn’t long until the screeners began to grumble, and even though the ants bit, no one stopped working.
In addition to the black ants, hundreds of winged termites now joined the evacuation. At this point, I don’t think anyone would’ve been surprised if a snake crawled out of the hole, but fortunately only a few crickets, a tiny frog, and one worm surfaced. Still no bones. I began to wonder if there was anything to find. Scrape by scrape, Zib and two other team members carefully dug around in the hole. Zib finally touched something soft with the tip of her trowel. She brushed dirt away to reveal the old, ragged blue raincoat the Vietnamese soldiers used to wrap the remains in for reburial. Gently, Zib prodded the bundle out of the hard ground. I teetered on the edge of the grid and tried to remember to breathe. She slowly peeled the raincoat away. Underneath was a rectangular piece of olive-drab material. Similar to military poncho liners, the cloth appeared to be U.S. issue, but no one on the team recognized it.
Team members fill buckets with dirt from a grave one trowel at a time.
Zib laid the bundle out on a sheet of plastic, and ever so gently began to pull back the folds of material. This was the moment I fought so hard to make happen. Dizzy from tension, I felt I might pass out, but I couldn’t turn away. I had to see for myself. Disregarding the leeches, I sat on the ground next to the grid marker to watch every move the team made. I saw three or four long bones, not articulated or jointed, and very deteriorated. Most recognizable to me were the black leather U.S. combat boots. Both soles had separated from the leather uppers. One laced boot contained a foot still in the sock, held in place by tightly packed red clay. I looked long and hard at the boots.
I immediately knew this was not Jerry. This soldier was not my brother. The boots looked to be about a size nine. Although I didn’t know Jerry’s exact shoe size in 1968, his foot hadn’t fit in a shoe that small since junior high.
Zib told me she thought there was a very good possibility the clay had preserved the foot bones, and CIL could perform DNA testing on the big toe. I didn’t know whether to cry from relief, or be happy the ordeal was over. On one hand, I was glad it wasn’t Jerry. However, there was that nagging question again, “What happened to my brother?”
Between both the American and Vietnamese workers, there was a great deal of excitement regarding the find. I continued to remain silent, but three words kept circling in my brain like a merry-go-round, “Where is Jerry? Where is Jerry?” Zib asked if I knew exactly what size shoe Jerry wore, and I told her no. I gave her a list of previous injuries, along with enlistment height and weight in 1966 compared to the last recorded measurement in his case records in 1968. She remarked how much Jerry’s height and weight had changed. He had gone from one hundred fifty-four pounds to one hundred seventy in two years, and grown from 5'9" to 6'2". I gave Zib a weak smile and said, “Jerry grew up in Vietnam.”
When she had a moment, and we were alone, I asked Zib if she could tell what the ethnic origins of the remains were. She said without hesitation, “Probably American.” That, at least, was good to know. I was eager to share the information with Danny, Dale, Geof, and Steve. These men were instrumental in bringing one more American MIA home to his family, and I hoped this news would make them realize their efforts had been worthwhile.
With the grave opened, Gary was eager to leave Khe Sanh. I asked RE-4 if they would stop work long enough for a team photo and a short goodbye. Afterwards, Gary and I packed up and left. Neither of us said much until Khe Sanh was far behind us, and then Gary asked, “What do you think?”
“He’s not Jerry,” I stated bluntly.
“What do you do now?” Gary queried. Why, I asked myself, was he always asking me this question? Shouldn’t he be advising me in regard to JTFs next possible move?
“I think maybe the trail ends here for now,” I answered, “You could be right, Gary, when you said it’s going to take a Vietnamese eyewitness to solve this case.”
“The problem is,” he mumbled almost to himself, “we may have killed all of the 66-B soldiers.”
I’m not a trained analyst, merely a sister searching for her missing brother, however my research revealed a February 1968, MACV Order of Battle Summary that placed the strength of the NVA 66-B Regiment at 1,900. A three-hundred strong element of the 11/9th, the battalion responsible for the Black Cat ambush, was sighted within a mile of the Old French Fort in March, and again in May. Aldous Huxley wrote, “Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.” Possibly a number of 66-B soldiers survived the war, only Hanoi knows.
This is what I do know. Keeping the promise, I stood where my brother was last seen alive, surrounded by hundreds of enemy soldiers, but I did not find Jerry in Khe Sanh.
America Remember Me*
I’m known as MIA,
America, don’t forget!
As long as, I’m in Vietnam,
this war ain’t over yet.
They’ve got me shackled,
won’t you come and set me free?
America, remember me!
You cannot see me,
so you think I’m not alive.
I don’t know how much longer,
I’ll be able to survive.
Inside a bamboo prison,
in this God-awful heat.
America remember me!
America remember me!
I did everything, you asked me too.
America remember me,
and all that I’ve been going
through for you!
Jerry Elliott, 1967.
Progressive sketch of what Jerry might look like today, by forensic artist Eileen Barrow.
How many years,
do you expect me to be strong?
Do you think this living hell
Is where I belong?
I still love my country,
and I miss my family.
America remember me!
America remember me!
I did everything you asked me too.
America remember me!
Haven’t I sacrificed enough for you?
What else can I do?
America remember me!
I did everything you asked me too.
America remember me,
and all that I’ve been going through for you!
Oh, America, please remember me,
America, please remember me!
*Lyrics by Marine vet Ron Saucier, written and recorded in 2007 as a tribute to all Vietnam veterans.
Postscript
Transparency?
By May 21, 2004, the remains recovered from the Old French Fort had undergone a joint U.S./Vietnamese examinati
on during the 70th Joint Forensic Review supervised by Dr. Robert Mann. Believed to be an American, the soldier was honored with a repatriation ceremony at Hanoi’s Noi Bai International Airport. Major General (MG) Edward J. Mechenbier, the last active duty former Vietnam POW, piloted the “Hanoi Taxi” for his retirement flight. This same C-141, used more than thirty years earlier to return freed prisoners in Operation Homecoming, would today carry two sets of remains to the lab in Hawaii for analysis and possible identification.
Three days later, JPAC issued a press release announcing remains believed to be an unaccounted for American, recovered during the 77th Joint Field Activity in Vietnam, were believed to correlate with the 1968 loss of an Army UH-1D Huey Helicopter in Quang Tri Province. It had to be the soldier from the Old French Fort. Upon inquiry, Dickie Hites confirmed this information. Although I did not believe we had found Jerry, I wasn’t positive, and all I could do now was wait. Official notification of the final analysis results would come through DPMO.
A year later, at the end of the March 2005 Family Update Meeting in Memphis, family members were granted fifteen minutes with accounting command staff to ask specific questions about their particular case. Hites informed me the recovered remains were still undergoing analysis, but based on the two skull fragments recovered, CIL forensic scientists thought the man was Mongoloid [people of Asian origin], not American. I argued that the two pieces of skull thought to be Vietnamese had not been recovered from within the grave, but were found in the general proximity of the dozer scrape when the search grid was expanded. This information was verified in Dr. Elizabeth Martinson’s Search and Recovery report.
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 34