Letter to Terrie, 9 January 1971 — mail delays, the extension math, and the 'Donut Dollies'

What the letter is

9 January 1971, written on a windy, chilly night while pulling guard. Two of Terrie’s letters — the 27th and the 31st — have arrived together after the usual mail lag, and they are anxious ones; Charlie answers the anxiety head-on and a little impatiently (you should have stopped worrying), then turns to the only forecast he has, which is his own departure. The letter is one more pass at the extension-vs-drop math, and it ends on the Donut Dollies and a line that is half a joke and half a marriage proposal: I’ll be telling you for the rest of your life.

Transcription

Jan 9

Dear Terrie,

I got your letters dated 27 and 31 today. Evidently our 4–5 day mail service isn’t working very well. You still seem concerned that I don’t love you or something. Well you should have at least received 4–5 letters before this one so you should have stopped worrying.

It is a windy chilly night and once again I’m writing while on guard. If they keep up the pessimistic rumors you may yet get to go to Hawaii. If there are no drops I think I’ll extend to get out of the army over here too. If I extend I’ll have at most now 155 days left. If it ever gets warm again it shouldn’t be too bad. What would you do if Bobby was pimping for you? That is about how old some of these kids are who try to sell their sisters and marijuana and about anything else you can imagine. I have yet to follow these kids although he does say his sister is number #1 boom-boom!! Well you are still #1 Terrie.

I hope you don’t think I’m comparing you with anyone over here, though. There are some American Red Cross girls over here and are called “Donut Dollies”! Some are pretty sad looking even for [horny] GI’s and we fondly call them “Biscuit Bitches,” although not to their face. Just thought you would like to know a little of what goes on. I’ll be telling you for the rest of your life so don’t get too curious.

I’ll write again tomorrow night — esp. if I receive another letter from you.

Love Charles

What the letter records

The mail lag as the engine of worry. “You should have at least received 4–5 letters before this one.” The single most common misunderstanding in the whole correspondence: Terrie reads a gap in delivery as a gap in feeling, and Charlie, who is writing steadily, keeps having to reassure her across a postal delay neither of them controls.

“At most now 155 days.” The countdown at its January height — it would fall through the winter and spring (136, 131, 130) as the drops did their work. The logic is the same one he repeats all season: extend the tour to discharge from Vietnam, and bank every administrative advantage toward an earlier real exit.

“I’ll be telling you for the rest of your life so don’t get too curious.” The tenderest line in the January letters, and the truest to where they were heading. He is narrating a whole world — the base, the Donut Dollies, the war — to the person he means to spend that life telling it to. Seven months later they were married.

The children around the base. The hardest passage in the letter — “that is about how old some of these kids are who try to sell their sisters and marijuana” — is a firsthand glimpse of the exploitation that surrounded American bases, where children were pulled into the war’s black markets, including prostitution. Charlie reports it as something he witnessed and “have yet to follow,” in the crude shorthand of the GI culture around him. It is preserved here as written, an ugly piece of the record the war left.

Editorial note: the page-2 closing was previously mis-catalogued with another letter and is restored here.