← Part of Letters from Vietnam
letter
Letter to Terrie, c. February 1970 — orders, and 80 days in the army
Charlie's letter to Terrie from Army training, written early on a Wednesday morning in roughly mid-February 1970 (undated; placed by the 'nearly 80 days in the army' count against his late-November 1969 induction). His orders have come down and rumors are flying; everything on base is finished except turning in equipment. There had been an inspection the night before that he found stupid, and he's contemptuous of the officers running it. He's been paid, including an extra $22.50 in food money for the Christmas break (the army pays it so soldiers don't go hungry when the mess hall is closed). He expects to call her that night, and notes she should receive two letters because he forgot to mail one the day before.
What the letter is
Early on a Wednesday morning, around mid-February 1970 — one of the pre-deployment training letters, written at the end of a cycle when “everything in base is over except for turning in our equipment.” Orders are in, rumors are flying, and there had been a pointless late-night inspection that left Charlie sneering at the officers running it. It’s a small, ordinary letter — pay day, a promised phone call, an apology for a letter he forgot to mail — but it sits at the very start of the whole correspondence, in the months before Vietnam.
Transcription
Dear Terrie,
Today is early Wednesday morning. We got our orders today and rumors are flying. Everything in base is over except for turning in our equipment. We had an inspection last night and it was all kind of stupid. Our officers were really pricks. I don’t think they know how to hold inspection.
Today I will have spent nearly 80 days in the army. I got paid yesterday and got an extra 22.50 for food money over the Christmas break. The army doesn’t want you to starve so they pay you now. I should be calling tonight or so. You should receive two letters. I forgot to mail the other one yesterday.
Love Charlie
What the letter records
The start of the road. This is among the earliest letters in the correspondence — a training-base note from a man counting his first eighty days in uniform, with Vietnam still ahead of him. Read against the field and rear letters of 1970-71, it’s the before-everything baseline.
The institution he already disliked. “Our officers were really pricks. I don’t think they know how to hold inspection.” The loathing of Army brass and “lifers” that defines the later letters didn’t come from the war; it was there in basic, over a botched inspection.
The ordinary machinery. Pay day, commuted rations, a promised phone call, a letter forgotten in the mail — the small domestic texture that the correspondence would keep, even from the firebases.
Scans
