The Weight
By Charlie Vallance
…Some of them died.
Some of them were not allowed to.
—Bruce Weigl, “Elegy”
The Band recorded the song “The Weight” in 1968. I arrived in Vietnam that same year and left in late 1969. I spent most of my tour with Hotel Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines as a platoon commander in the bush. I first heard the song while I was still in country. Although it’s full significance didn’t sink in right away, “The Weight” struck me even then as yet another metaphor for the war. Gradually it would dawn on me that the song is about laying down burdens, and it appeared we were going to have a lot to learn about that. But, this would all come much later.
When I came home, I assumed I would just move on. I got married, went back to school, got a job, had kids, and did the other things that seemed normal. I had been back fifteen years when my family and I made our first visit to The Wall. It may have actually been the first real step home from Vietnam, but it was going to take a while to grasp the weight of that.
The Wall has helped to heal a lot of people. It has quite literally become the touchstone for veterans and families alike. Alone, however, there’s only so much The Wall can do. This became clear to me recently when I came across a remembrance posted on the VVMF website. It talked about a Marine’s experience during a firefight on the night of August 29, 1969. Two of his friends, PFC Louis Vincent Hermann, Jr. and PFC Gerald Allen Smith, were killed that night when their unit was ambushed by the NVA. On the same night, Hotel Company was also in contact with the NVA. We had several people down including 2nd Lieutenant Michael Patrick Quinn. Mike and his team were cut off from the rest of the company, and for a while, we were unable to reach them. The two Marines were with Golf Company 2/7 and were on their way to help us recover our dead and wounded. They probably died almost within shouting distance of us. I never knew this until now.
I’m at once grateful and sad to finally learn their story; grateful to know that their sacrifice won’t go unrecognized, but sad that it has taken over forty years to find out about it. I wonder too whether the families know of the circumstances surrounding their deaths. And, for that matter, do the families of their surviving comrades know what they went through that night. I suspect not because I doubt any of them have ever talked much about it.
This is just one story that emphasizes the significance of sharing these memories and keeping them alive. There are many more of them. Soon the Education Center at The Wall will begin doing what The Wall can’t; bringing stories like this home before we lose them. The dedicated people at VVMF are working hard to collect these stories. Unfortunately, considering the age of the average Vietnam vet, there is limited time left for this to happen. VVMF has undertaken a mission that amounts to a sacred trust; not unlike the trust that existed between veterans in Vietnam. And, they are going to need some help from us to complete their mission.
When veterans returned from Vietnam, there wasn’t much incentive to talk about our experiences. Given the cultural and political climate at the time, we just wanted to put it behind us. That, of course, wasn’t so easy to do. As time has passed, I think a lot of veterans have attempted to open up but found it more difficult than they expected. This probably goes way beyond just not wanting to relive painful experiences. I suspect we’ve all found that, whether we talk about it or not, that part doesn’t go away. I think we just don’t know how to talk about it.
When we do try and talk about Vietnam, the results may not always be as helpful as we’d hoped. Over the past few years, guys I haven’t heard from since leaving Vietnam have started calling or emailing to talk about our experiences. It’s been great to reconnect, but what’s been a bit unsettling about these conversations is that they tend to deal more with the logistics and chronology of things than with how we felt then, or feel now, about them. For example, near the end of my tour, we landed in a hot LZ on Hill 953 in the Que Son Mountains. The area was occupied by elements of an NVA division. We took casualties during the landing, but due to weather and heavy ground-fire, the LZ was closed before we could get our medivacs out. It took us five days to walk down off the mountain. During those five days, the Marines carried the body of one of their brothers, PFC Wilford Lynn Donoho. Some of the recent conversations I’ve had dealt with this, but mostly they were debates about who was where when what happened. Nothing much was said about how this affected us.
After Lynn was killed, his Marine brothers carried him down the mountain with compassion, love, and respect. In a sense, they were his pallbearers and brought him home to his family. The family may never know this, but those Marines paid Lynn the highest possible honor, and they did so at great personal risk. They will live with this for the rest of their lives, but they should recall it with pride. Unfortunately, without the feedback they might otherwise have received, I’m not sure this will be the case. So, I’ve come to appreciate that, while the facts are important, so too are how they made us feel. Perhaps through these emotions the veterans and the families will be able to connect.
Much of the difficulty in communicating stems from the fact that veterans came back filled with conflicting emotions. Pride, shame, anger, regret, and sadness were among them, but perhaps the one that surprised us the most was homesickness. We were, to our dismay, homesick for Vietnam. Not homesick for the war, but for the others who were still there. A lot of us weren’t quite sure how we got back, or in fact, whether we deserved to be here.
Deserved or not, we’re here, and it seems that we now have an opportunity to do something we couldn’t do, or didn’t know how to do, back then. The Education Center at The Wall will give us a chance to pay our respects in a way that I hope will help the families of Vietnam veterans who died there as well as the veterans who didn’t. However, as I’m finding, even as we try to tell our stories, questions arise. How much of the story do I tell? What do families and friends really want to know? Am I even worthy of telling their stories?
PFC James Stingley‘s story is one that I found particularly difficult to tell. James was a young Marine from Durant Mississippi. He was a college graduate with a degree in accounting and at the time had a two-month-old daughter he would never see. Few of us knew any of this about James. He was a quiet guy, well liked by his fellow Marines, but apparently not one to talk much about his personal life.
James was killed on the morning of August 25, 1969, during a daylong firefight in the Hiep Duc Valley. Just about all of 2nd Battalion was similarly engaged that day. James was among a number of Marines killed, but he was in a different platoon, and I didn’t know him by name.
In the days prior to the 25th, our Battalion had been in almost constant combat. As we moved out that morning, we knew contact with the NVA was certain. James, fully aware of the danger, took his position with the point squad without hesitation. I can imagine him thinking, ‘I don’t really want to be here, but if it’s not me, it will be one of my friends’. As they moved through a tree line, the NVA opened up with mortars, RPGs, and heavy machine guns. He and two other Marines died in the initial volley.
Repeated air strikes and artillery failed to dislodge the NVA, and they kept the company pinned down until dark. At that point, we were out of ammunition and withdrew under cover of darkness. James and the other two Marines were left on the battlefield that night. We went back early the next morning, and under covering fire, several marines went into the open to bring back the Marines. I helped another Marine bring James back. I didn’t know who he was at the time. I don’t remember who the Marine was who helped me, and I don’t know who the Marines were who recovered the others. It didn’t seem important then, and as it usually happened, the choppers arrived, took away the dead and wounded, and we moved on.
Now I’m beginning to realize that there are a lot of stories like James Stingley’s and that the details are indeed important. James has a daughter somewhere who never knew him and may have no idea of the kind of man he was or what his fellow Marines did to make sure he got home. I didn’t known James, but I can still feel the weight of him.
I have gone to The Wall a number of times since that first visit. It’s a profound and emotional experience each time. On the first visit, my daughters were very young, but as they grew up, and we returned to The Wall, they started to realize how deeply these visits affected me and millions of others. Over time, they asked a lot of questions, and, I think, truly began to understand what was lost to the names on The Wall and their families. In the picture above, my daughter Susan is holding an old photo taken when I first arrived in Vietnam. Corporal Christopher John Ricetti, my radio operator, and Lance Corporal John Joseph Schmidt, one of my squad leaders, are on the left. I’m still working on their stories, but when I look at this picture, it reminds me that The Wall really can keep the memory of these names alive. If a weighty hunk of black granite can do that, I can only imagine what the Education Center will be capable of.
Charlie Vallance served in Vietnam from 1968-69 as a platoon commander with Hotel Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines. He lives in Indian Harbour Beach, Florida with his wife Marianne, where he works for Underwater Engineering Services, Inc. as Vice President of Nuclear Power Services. He has two daughters, Susan and Catherine, and one grandchild.
I served during the same time with 2nd Battalion 7th Marines as a radio operator for our 81MM mortars forward observer and later took over that position when our observer received his third purple heart. If I remember correctly his name was Corporal Black. We were on what they call float which means our headquarters was on a helicopter carrier and we were in the bush until I rotated out of country.
Having tried to put it all behind me I have lost some of the names and places I knew there. Did not talk about my experience for many years after I returned. Only in the last 10 years have I been willing to talk about somethings though my wife has heard all the horror stories from early on upon my return. She helped me through the nights that every Nam Vet knows all to well. Do not know what I would done without her.
Many, many friends were left behind and to this day I think of them almost daily. Young men who returned home badly wounded and those who came home in a body bag. I suppose we will all take those memories with us to our graves.
Do not know if the guy, who wrote this and I ever met while there but there is a good chance we did.
My name is John W. Baker and I returned home in early ’69 as a corporal.
Semper Fi!
John, I wish for you that you continue to release the thoughts and memories of the war and find peace within yourself. I too never spoke of my experiences in RVN, but am glad I finally began to years ago and have come to accept those experiences with peace and calm.
John, can’t say for sure if we met, but I’d like to think we did. In any case, sounds like we were working close together. Welcome home.
Charlie (Rudy) Vallance
Thanks you, for expressing what some of Viet Nam vets are unable to say. You have said clearly what many, probably most, Viet Nam vets feel. While I myself cannot express the feeling I had then, it helps to hear that others have similar stories.
Welcome Home to Those of us that Survived This Horrific Event in Our Lives ‘ I Know that as a Vietnam Veteran and A Member of the 77th Combat tracker team in Quang- Tri Vietnam Was a Life Changing Event in My life and Haunts Me till this Day ‘ Although I seek Help it is still hard to talk of some Aspects of that war ‘ But they are coming out little by Little and with many tears but i Still think of all the vietnam veterans that have passed since coming home with no real closure.
Well said!
I remember when we were starting that operation in October 1969. They had us fly on Hill 953 on that big CH 53 but the first group of choppers took fire and returned to LZ Ross or Baldy, I forget what LZ. We were told to hump to that location since the area was hot. It took several days to get there. By the way I was with Golf 2/7. When we got to Antennae valley, we found a way to get to Hill 953. The first day we got to the top, we took enemy fire and we lost our platoon commander, John Pickett. We could not get a medivac due to the clouds and it was getting dark so we stayed up there until the next day. At daybreak, there were only two of us alone with the body because the other guys decided to head down the hill. I was confused at that scene because I was in charged of the body and I definitely needed more help then the two of us. When I read your article about how those men handled Wilford Lynn Donohoʻs body it brought back bad feelings in me because the other guys left me and John on the hill with the body!!! At first, I tried to carry the body by myself but it was too heavy and the body started to smell due to the blood in the poncho. I put the body down and asked John if he could help me and he said okay. It was a nightmare trying to drag his body all the way down that muddy, slippery, monsoon drenched mountain. There were no security to watch us since we were the only guys left behind. We cussed and bitched all the way down the hill until we were almost at the base of the hill and four guys appeared from the trail and said there was a chopper waiting for the body and took the body from us. We just dropped in exhaustion and started cussing at them. Why didnʻt they help us when we needed the help on the hill? When I read your story of how your unit handled Wilford Lynn Donohoʻs body with great respect I was without words and my mind went blank and i said to myself WTF!!! The haunting thing that I remember is his eyes was stuck opened and i could not close it and every time we would cross over these big roots along the trail, I would apologize if our handling was a little rough and or if we slipped and fell and lose a hand on the body we would just shake our heads in discuss and curse those guys and the freaking whole damn stupid war. It was just heart wrenching and sad. So I will say thank you for your story because at least there were units who cared beyond themselves and their own safety. By the way, it did not take us five days, it only took almost one whole day. I agree with you that there are people with different stories and it just grieves me to think that after all these years someone is out there to take the credit, Thanks for your story. I only wish I had a better ending. PTSD probably. God bless Charles Kanehailua/Golf 2/7-1969-Hill 953
Charles, Hotel must have been coming down from 953 as Golf was on its way up. Just like you, we couldn’t get a chopper in to take out our KIA. We humped down single file until it got dark, and as you well know, in triple canopy jungle, dark comes like somebody flipped a light switch. The entire company just sat down in place as waited for first light. I don’t even remember any radio traffic talking about digging in or sending out listening posts. We just waited for the sun to come up. As it turned out we came down in several disconnected groups. I’m guessing the same thing happened to you and the rest of Golf Company. In any case, whether the rest of the Marines just got confused or actually abandoned you and Lt. Pickett, you did the right and honorable thing. I don’t know if Lt. Pickett’s family knew what happened, but if they did, I’m sure they would have been grateful to you and the Marine who helped you bring him home. Semoer Fi, Charles