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Letter to Terrie, 27 March 1971 — 'I'm beginning to hate everyone around me'
Charlie's letter to Terrie dated 27 March 1971 — short and unusually raw. He hasn't heard from her in a while and assumes everything is all right. He asks again whether she has spoken to her parents, hoping she won't have to fight them but that they let her go. The core of the letter is isolation: he really needs someone to talk to, he is beginning to hate everyone around him, the men nearby are 'really poor excuses,' and the place is getting to him. He signs off abruptly — 'well I guess I'll read a book. I love you.'
What the letter is
27 March 1971. Two days after the steady, planning-minded 25 March letter, this one drops straight through the floor. It is short, and for Charlie unusually unguarded: a mail gap, the old question about Terrie’s parents, and then the plain statement of a man worn thin — I really need someone to talk to. I’m beginning to hate everyone around me. These people are really poor excuses. This place is really getting to me. No firebase, no enemy, no incoming. The thing wearing on him is the rear: the brass and lifers of the office, the absence of anyone he can actually talk to, and the slow grind of waiting out a war from a desk. He catches himself, ends almost mid-thought — well I guess I’ll read a book — and signs it I love you.
Transcription
March 27
Dear Terrie,
I haven’t heard from you for a while. I assume everything is all right. Have you asked your parents yet. I hope you don’t fight them but that they let you go. I really need someone to talk to. I’m beginning to hate everyone around me. These people are really poor excuses. This place is really getting to me. Well I guess I’ll read a book. I love you.
Love, Charles
What the letter records
The mail gap as mood. Across the whole correspondence, a stretch with no letter from Terrie reliably precedes Charlie’s lowest entries. Here he names it in the first line and then, rather than performing cheerfulness, simply lets the isolation show.
“These people are really poor excuses.” His contempt for the rear-echelon world — the “brass and lifers” of the 5 March letter — curdles here into something closer to despair. The relief of being off the line came with a cost he does not usually admit: he had nobody around him he wanted to be around.
“Well I guess I’ll read a book.” The deflection that closes the letter is characteristic. Having said the hard thing, he steps back from it, names a small ordinary act to fill the evening, and reaches for Terrie in three words before signing off.
Scans
