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Letter to Terrie, 1 July 1970 — 'the month is over with, I have survived,' 50 days in
Charlie's three-page letter to Terrie dated 1 July 1970, reassembled from its scans (dad321 page 1, dad322 page 2, dad323 page 3), one of the earliest surviving letters from his Vietnam tour. The month is over and he has survived it with only one real contact; after the next resupply they'll carry more ammunition, which will make the load heavier but should be safer at night. Yes, she can send packages, but keep them small and coordinate with his parents so two don't arrive at once. He keeps her letters for several days to answer her questions before burning them. At most he has 350 days left, at least 305 or so; he's been in-country 50 days now, and time alternately flies and drags. He asks about her summer school hours and how much longer until graduation, and tells her the choice of where to get married is entirely hers — 'most anything you want I'll go for.' The field stretch is running longer than expected; when they come in around the 5th it will only be an 18-hour break. He doubts he'll ever feel clean, though he washes with water daily. They'll be with the third platoon for a while — helicopters have spotted an enemy complex and that's the direction they're heading. He hopes his luck holding no contact continues, closes asking her to keep writing and praying for him, and signs off until the next resupply.
What the letter is
1 July 1970 — one of the earliest surviving letters of the Vietnam tour, written as Charlie’s first full month in-country closes. “The month is over with, I have survived and we still have made little contact. Only that once.” The tone is still finding its register: relief at having gotten through the first stretch, practical logistics (packages, letters, ammunition loads), and an early, generous answer to the marriage question — wherever she wants, he’ll go for it — before the letter turns back to the field stretch that keeps running longer than planned.
Transcription
1 July 70
Dear Terrie,
Well the month is over with, I have survived and we still have made little contact. Only that once. After the[next] resupply we will be carrying more ammo which will make things harder, but I guess safer, esp[ecially] at night.
You asked if you could send packages. Of course, but they are expensive to send and I must ask that you keep them small as it is hard enough to carry stuff as it is. Also, somehow coordinate with home before you send something so two packages aren’t hard to carry at once. Just keep sending letters letting me know what and how you are doing. I keep your letters for
[page 2:] several days and try to answer your questions, but if I don’t, just keep asking them. I have to burn them after a while.
Well at the most I have less than 350 days left and at the least I have 3[0]5 or so. I hope time keeps going fast. I’ve been here 50 days now. It just doesn’t seem that long, and then it seems a lifetime.
What are you taking in summer school? How many hours do you have and how many more do you have before you graduate?
Wher[ever] you want to get married? It’s up to you, you know. Most anything you want I’ll go for.
It seems we will be out in the field longer than I thought. When
[page 3:] we come in the 5th or so it will only be 18 hrs or so. I don’t think I’ll ever be clean. I don’t really smell that bad because I wash off with water every day. Maybe I’ll get in the habit.
It seems we will be with the third platoon for a while. The helicopters have spotted an enemy complex and we will be heading that way. Oh well, maybe my luck of no contact will hold. I hope so.
I can’t really think of much to say except keep writing and praying for me. I love you very much and I’m waiting for you. Til next resupply date.
Love Charles
What the letter records
“The month is over with, I have survived.” The plainest possible statement of the tour’s actual unit of measurement — not days exactly, but survived months, stacked one on another. It is the same accounting that later letters make explicit with day counts (“144 days,” “227 days,” “305 days”); here, a month in, the count is still fresh enough to be marked as a small victory in itself.
Burning the letters. “I keep your letters for several days… I have to burn them after a while.” A detail rarely stated so directly — in the field, paper was weight and a security liability, and burning read mail was standard practice. It quietly explains why Terrie’s side of the correspondence doesn’t survive.
“Wherever you want to get married? … Most anything you want I’ll go for.” An early, generous version of a decision he’ll spend the next year returning to with more constraints attached — money, timing, his own preferences about apartments and honeymoons. It’s worth reading against the Aug 5 letter’s worry about marrying into debt, and the far more detailed wedding-logistics letters of September and beyond — the same question, answered with steadily less blank-check freedom as the actual wedding gets closer.
The enemy complex. “The helicopters have spotted an enemy complex and we will be heading that way.” One of the earliest field-operations details in the surviving corpus, stated with the same flat calm that runs through every combat mention here — followed immediately by “maybe my luck of no contact will hold.” Fifty days in, the luck was still holding.
Scans
