← Part of Letters from Vietnam
letter
Letter to Terrie, 17 October 1970 — 'the only group that has contact anymore,' and 240 days left
Charlie's two-page letter to Terrie dated 17 October 1970, reassembled from its scans (dad281 page 1, dad282 page 2). He notes, somewhat wearily, that his unit seems to be the only one still making enemy contact. A forecast typhoon never really materialized — some rain, nothing bad — and he still doesn't know how long they'll stay in the lowlands, guessing anywhere from a week to the rest of his tour. As of now he figures he'll be home around June 12, about 240 days away, and out of the Army by then. He acknowledges some of his letters read as depressing but says he just writes how he feels, and tells her not to worry about his safety since neither of them can do anything about it. The last few days have passed quickly, which he's glad for, and he's in fairly good spirits waiting on the resupply helicopter. He doesn't expect to be sending Christmas gifts this year — nothing available over here worth sending beyond consumables — and closes as the helicopter is due any time.
What the letter is
17 October 1970, two pages written waiting on a resupply helicopter, two days after the 15 October letter’s VIP visit. The letter opens on a small, weary observation — his company again the only one making contact — before settling into a typhoon that fizzled, an out-date estimate, and a gentle but firm instruction not to worry about things neither of them can control.
Transcription
Oct 17
Dear Terrie,
It seems that we are the only group that has contact anymore. No one else but ours, in every[thing]. Oh well.
We were supposed to get a lot of rain from a typhoon that was in this area, but so far it hasn’t materialized. We had some rain but nothing really bad. I still don’t know how long we will be in the lowlands. It may be a week or a month or the rest of my tour. As of now I guess I’ll be coming home June 12 or so. That is 240 or less days away. I’ll be out of the army then.
I guess some of my letters are rather depressing in tone, but I just write the way I feel. Don’t really worry about my getting home. There is really nothing I can do, or you can do, about
[page 2:] it for 240 days or so. The past few days have been passing rather quickly, which is good.
I am in fairly good spirits now, just sitting around waiting for the [chopper] to pass — I think this year will [pass] more or less.
Oh, don’t get me wrong, but I doubt if I’ll be getting anyone anything for Christmas. There just isn’t anything worth sending over here — you can’t send anything other than consumables, such as goodies.
The helicopter is due any time now, so I guess I’ll end this letter.
Love Charles
What the letter records
“The only group that has contact anymore.” A quiet, weary complaint that his company keeps drawing the engagements other units seem to be avoiding — the same pattern noted two days earlier when his company made the brigade’s first kill in three months. Whether accurate or just how it felt from inside the unit, it’s a recurring note of specific bad luck running through this stretch of letters.
240 days, named twice. Charlie repeats the number across the page break — “that is 240 or less days away” and “about it for 240 days or so” — the kind of repetition that shows the count is less information than mantra, the fixed point he organizes the rest of the letter around.
“I just write the way I feel.” A rare piece of explicit self-awareness about his own letters’ tone, paired with an instruction not to worry rooted in practicality rather than reassurance — not it will be fine, but there is nothing either of us can do about it. It’s a philosophy of endurance more than comfort, consistent with his approach throughout the corpus.
No Christmas gifts, by necessity. A small, concrete detail about what Vietnam actually made possible to send home — nothing but consumables — that quietly explains why so many of his letters ask Terrie to expect only letters, not presents, for the holidays.
Scans
