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letter
Letter to Terrie, 13 January 1971 — rats, the Bob Hope show, and a word against poetry
Charlie's two-page letter to Terrie dated 13 January 1971, answering four of her letters at once. Domestic and wry throughout: a worry about what the phone calls have cost his parents; the rats around the firebases and the two-to-three-inch cockroaches ('if you don't believe me say so and I'll mail one to you'); relief that his recent letters reassured her, with a hope he didn't get too mushy; affection for Anne; news that a friend, Abbott, is reportedly stationed only a mile or two from Camp Evans where Charlie is based, and that he'll try to see him; a flat verdict on the Bob Hope show ('really wasn't worth much except to say you've been there'); honest uncertainty about when he'll be home; a deadpan instruction to Terrie to 'stay away from poetry'; and the running stereo-and-stainless-steel logistics, including the $700 he has sent home for to start buying audio equipment.
What the letter is
13 January 1971. Four of Terrie’s letters had arrived together, and Charlie answers them in a loose, funny, affectionate register — the rats and cockroaches of firebase life offered as comedy, a friend reportedly stationed a mile or two away, the Bob Hope show damned with faint praise, and a teasing word against the poetry Terrie had apparently sent. Underneath the jokes is the same honest refrain of the winter: he doesn’t know when he’s coming home, the rumors swing good to bad, and he’s filling the not-knowing with stereo plans and letters.
Transcription
Jan 13
Dear Terrie,
I have 4 long letters from you & now I’ll answer them & I’ll write a little more too I guess. […] the only thing is that [the calls?] are pretty high. My poor parents haven’t told me what I’ve cost them yet and I’m afraid to ask.
If you think you have mouse problems you should see the rats around here and on the firebases. We don’t bite them and they don’t bite us and we get along fine. Also the cockroaches are 2–3 inches long. If you don’t believe me say so and I’ll mail one to you.
Well I’m glad you are finally relieved by my letters of today. I sure hope I didn’t get too mushy. Anne may be younger but she is not your little sister. I’ll still love her. Please tell her for me.
A friend of mine here told me that Abbott is 2 clicks or about 1½ miles from Camp Evans where I’m based. If it is true I’ll see him if I can when I get back. It just goes to show how little they tell us infantry.
The Bob Hope show really wasn’t worth much except to say you’ve been there.
Don’t really ask me when I’ll be home because I don’t really know. The rumors are very good then bad. I just don’t know.
One piece of advice — stay away from poetry my dear, it just didn’t make much sense.
Well I sent home for $700 to start buying my stereo. I hope I can get most of it and order it from here. I hope the stainless steel ware arrives soon so I’ll have an idea of how long it takes to arrive.
Love Charles
What the letter records
Comedy as reassurance. The rats-and-roaches routine — “if you don’t believe me say so and I’ll mail one to you” — is Charlie managing the distance the way he often does: turning the grim texture of where he lives into a bit Terrie can laugh at, right after worrying he’d gotten “too mushy.”
“How little they tell us infantry.” Even a small thing — whether his friend Abbott is really stationed nearby — comes to him as rumor. The line is a quiet indictment of the information vacuum a rifleman lived in.
“Stay away from poetry my dear.” Terrie had evidently sent him some verse; his deadpan dismissal is pure Charlie — affectionate teasing dressed as blunt practicality.
The stereo and the stainless steel. The two material threads of the winter letters — audio equipment for himself, flatware for the marriage — both advancing by mail-order while he waits out the tour.
Scans
