Send us a text

April 30, 1971 — First Day, Last Flight

In this letter from April 30, 1971, my father has just arrived at Bien Hoa after a long journey to Vietnam. It’s his first full day on base, and already he’s soaking in the surreal details: air-conditioned hooches, stereo systems, steak dinners, and a stuffed chickadee perched five inches from his pillow.

The comforts may seem striking—especially compared to what many endured during the war—but they don’t diminish the weight of his role. As a rescue pilot, he was part of the team responsible for pulling others out of danger. The days ahead would be long, the missions critical, and the risk constant.

What he doesn’t know—and neither does my mother—is that she’s already pregnant with me. That unspoken future adds a quiet urgency to his words. He writes with playful affection, calling her his “wittle chick-a-dee,” but beneath it is the unmistakable ache of separation. A fellow pilot makes his final flight that day, taxiing past the alert pad while “Earth Angel” plays. My father watches and quietly hopes his own last day will come soon.

This letter captures a deeply human moment—equal parts homesick, hopeful, and surreal. Written four years to the day before the fall of Saigon, it reminds us that war is rarely just battlefield trauma. Sometimes, it’s found in the space between steak dinners, stereo music, and a man aching to be home.

Support the show

Thank you for listening to Allgoods: Vietnam Through the Eyes of Love.

These letters capture a love story separated by war, but never by heart.

https://www.patreon.com/TheAllgoodsLove

New episodes coming soon.

Follow the journey, and help keep their story alive by subscribing, sharing, or supporting us.

Love endures. Memories matter

https://www.patreon.com/TheAllgoodsLove