← Part of Letters from Vietnam
letter
Letter to Terrie, undated — mortar training next week, and why NCO school 'just isn't worth it'
Charlie's two-page letter to Terrie from Army training (undated on the page), reassembled from its scans (dad222 page 1, dad223 page 2). It rained and was fairly miserable; a parade that afternoon was called off, so at least the last half of the afternoon was inside. Next week he begins mortar training, which should be fairly interesting. Everyone expects to go to Vietnam, but he'd honestly put the odds at 50/50 for somewhere else — though it still looks good for Vietnam since all the training is geared for it. He's still rather depressed but everything is going smoothly and the week is almost over. She had asked about NCO school: the training there is for young sergeants to lead men, they're needed in Vietnam, and a much higher percentage of them ship over than out of his company now — so going NCO would cut into his time too deeply even if he went over anyway. It just isn't worth it. Closes 'What are you doing? Love, Charles.'
What the letter is
A training-day letter, rainy and low, that turns into the clearest surviving statement of Charlie’s reasoning on the decision that shaped his whole tour: whether to go to NCO school. Terrie had asked about it; he lays out the logic plainly and lands on “it just isn’t worth it.” Around that sits the ordinary texture of the training pipeline, a called-off parade, mortar training coming, the flat depression of the place, and the soldier’s-eye read on where all of it is pointed: “everyone expects to go to Vietnam.”
Transcription
Dear Terrie,
It rained today and it was fairly miserable. We were supposed to have a parade this afternoon but it was called off so at least the last half of the afternoon was inside. Next week I begin mortar training so at least it should be fairly interesting.
Everyone expects to go to Vietnam but I would honestly put the odds at 50/50 for some other place. It still looks good for Vietnam though, since all the training is geared for it. Everything is fine here so far. I’m still rather depressed here but everything is going smoothly. The week is almost over.
You asked about NCO school. The training there is for young sergeants to lead men. They need them in Vietnam and a lot higher percentage of them will go over than out of my company now. So if I go NCO it would cut into my 150 days [page 2:] too deeply even if I went over anyway. It just isn’t worth it. Lights are out so I must close.
What are you doing?
Love Charles
What the letter records
The NCO-school decision, reasoned out. “They need them in Vietnam and a lot higher percentage of them will go over than out of my company now.” Charlie’s calculation is cold and clear: NCO school produced junior sergeants who were shipped to Vietnam at a higher rate, and it would extend his service commitment (“cut into my 150 days too deeply”) for no benefit if he was going to end up over there anyway. So he refuses it. The same decision the withheld late-1969 NCO-school letter records him making, here with the arithmetic on the page.
“Everyone expects to go to Vietnam.” “I would honestly put the odds at 50/50 for some other place. It still looks good for Vietnam though, since all the training is geared for it.” The soldier reading the tea leaves of his own future from what the Army has him practicing, mortars, infantry weapons, and correctly guessing the destination the whole pipeline pointed at. It’s the pre-war counterpart to the day-counts that fill the in-country letters.
Mortar training. “Next week I begin mortar training so at least it should be fairly interesting.” The infantry-AIT weapons rotation, the same advanced-training period as the M-72 rocket-launcher letter and the Fort Bragg pistol-and-grenades letter, the making of an infantryman, one weapon system at a time.
“I’m still rather depressed here.” Said plainly and then walked past (“but everything is going smoothly”). The low-grade unhappiness of the training months, the same “I hate this place” register of the other training letters, stated and endured rather than dwelt on.
Scans
