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letter
Letter to Terrie, 30 November 1970 — disgusted with the Army, the lowlands flooding, and November finally over
Charlie's two-page letter to Terrie dated 30 November 1970, reassembled from its scans (dad191 page 1, dad192 page 2). Pay is due tomorrow, and Charlie is once again completely disgusted with the Army and the people in it: he has had several chances to get to the rear for a week or two, but each one has been blown out by one thing or another, which he finds really frustrating. The rain is still with them, a misty rain most of the time. They finally got smart and pulled the other two platoons out of the lower ground when one group found itself surrounded by slowly rising water; his own unit has been operating on a small hilly area for the last six days and should be there until about 19 December. On packages: if she sends magazines, send the latest copy in an envelope rather than a package (a package takes too long and the news is second-hand by the time it arrives) — something like Newsweek or Playboy. November is finally over and time seems to be going fast, though over here he has no sense of season: a warm rain, fairly warm weather though he is cold, and no sense of the holidays since there is no communication with the outside world. He'll send another letter on the next resupply, in 4-5 days. Signed 'Love, Charles.'
What the letter is
30 November 1970, written from a small hilly area in the field at the end of the month. The keynote is exhaustion-as-disgust: “I am once again disgusted completely with the army and the people in it” — not over the war as such but over the petty machinery of it, the several chances at a week or two in the rear that each got “blown out the window by one thing or the other.” Around the complaint sits the physical record of the late monsoon: the misty rain that won’t quit, and the two platoons pulled out of low ground when one group found itself ringed by slowly rising water. November ends with Charlie noting he has no sense of season at all.
Transcription
Nov 30
Dear Terrie,
Well tomorrow the sorry asses plan to pay us and after sending our mail all over the place I shall get it too. I am once again disgusted completely with the army and the people in it. I have had several chances to get to the rear for a week or two but each one has been blown out the window by one thing or the other happening. It is really frustrating. Nothing much happening now. The rain is still very much with us as it is a misty rain most of the time. They finally got smart and got our other 2 platoons out of the lower ground when one group found they were surrounded by slowly rising water. We have been operating on a small hilly area for the last 6 days and should be [here] until Dec 19 or so.
[page 2:] If you send any magazines over please get the latest copy and put it in an envelope because a package takes too long to get here and by then most of the news is second hand. Send something like Newsweek or Playboy if you send one.
Well November is finally over. I guess time is going fast. I really couldn’t tell though. I have no sense of season over here. It is a warm rain although I am cold, [and] the weather is fairly warm. There is no sense of holidays either since there is no communication with the outside world.
Well there have to be better days ahead. I’ll send another letter on the next resupply out here which should be in 4-5 days.
Love Charles
What the letter records
Disgust at the machinery, not the war. “Disgusted completely with the army and the people in it” — the target is the bureaucracy that kept blowing out his shots at a week in the rear, not the enemy or the mission. It’s the recurring register of the short-timer: the war is endured, but the Army’s own petty failures are what actually rankle.
The flooding. The two platoons surrounded by “slowly rising water” is the monsoon as an operational fact, not a backdrop. The line “they finally got smart” carries the enlisted man’s standing verdict on the chain of command: the right call, made late.
“Newsweek or Playboy.” The package economics of the 15 and 23 November letters, refined to magazines: send the latest issue in an envelope, because a package arrives too late to carry news. A small window onto how slowly information reached a man in the field.
No sense of season. “I have no sense of season over here… no sense of holidays either since there is no communication with the outside world.” The same flattening of time that the 25 November Thanksgiving letter names — the calendar of home gone meaningless in the field — stated again as November closes.
Scans
