33.Vietnam

Christmas Night, 1967

Dear Carlene,

You know we can see each other and talk when I get back. I don’t think things will ever be like they once were, but who knows? Don’t worry about it. We have a lot of time until then. It is eleven months until I get home. We don’t have to decide anything now.

How was your Christmas? We’re here in a place called Gilligan’s Island, just for a few days. (A lot of jokes about the Skipper and company, of course.) It is a small island that is a fishing village on the South China Sea, still in Quang Ngai.

Our captain somehow managed to get us a Christmas tree, and we had a big dinner tonight, but it sure wasn’t anything like I would have gotten at home. We sat around singing carols, though. Old favorites like “O Little Town of Ban Me Thuot,” “God Rest Ye General Westmoreland,” “Deck the Halls with Victor Charlie,” and a few others I can’t mention in mixed company.

As far as contact with the enemy goes, there hasn’t been much. The guys before us pretty well searched and destroyed everything around this area. I would estimate that ninety percent of the houses were burned, and most of the people have relocated. What we have been mostly doing is guarding bridges and practicing our search-and-destroy in the deserted villages that are left. A lot of the guys are real unhappy that they haven’t had any gooks to kill, but I’m not. In fact, I’m not so sure I could kill a man, gook or not, if it came right down to it. I mean, I think I could if he was coming at me and it was self-defense, but what if I just saw one minding his own business? Could I shoot him in cold blood? That, I don’t know.

The hardest thing to get used to over here is the living conditions of the people. They have nothing—I mean literally nothing—and live almost like prehistoric people. They squat by the fire and eat their little bowls of rice, scooping it into their mouths with their fingers, but to them it is as good as steak and potatoes. When they need to go to the bathroom, they just drop their drawers and squat right wherever they are—on the trail, in the field, anywhere—in front of God and everybody, and don’t even wipe. I dread like heck to step in a pile of it, but you can’t avoid it. A lot of the guys hate the Vietnamese, but I feel sorry for them. The kids are the most pitiful. They are wormy little beggars, all the time wanting gum or candy or C rations. “Numbah-one GI!” They have learned to say. “Numbah-ten VC!” Our lieutenant hates it when we give them anything and runs them off, but I sneak them something once in a while. It’s funny, this attitude most GIs have about the Vietnamese, like they are all worrisome dogs or something. The whole purpose of this war is supposed to be to save them from the Communists. They are supposed to be our allies, but the lieutenant is scared of all of them—even the kids—because there’s no way to tell where their loyalties lie. The Cong use them to set booby traps. The kid you give a Hershey bar to today might be the one who sets a trap that gets you killed tomorrow. This area around here is supposed to be a bad booby-trap area, but so far, so good. It won’t be long, I think, until we go out on patrol for real. Then we’ll see what we are made of. I am almost looking forward to it.

Take care of yourself. Say hi to Baby, and tell her and everyone else to write to me. Letters from home mean a lot.

Your friend,

Jerry

P.S. It is now two in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about wanting to tell me some things. Maybe you should write me the big secret. Nobody will read it, and I will burn the letter if you say to. It might be easier than saying it in person. Then we will know for sure what the score is before we see each other. But only if you really want me to know. I do think we have to have no secrets between us if we see each other again. And if we can’t deal with it, we’ll know that, too. Think about it. J.