Letters Never Sent: A Vietnam Veteran's Steno Pad
Why do people write letters they never intend to send?
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Letters Never Sent: A Vietnam Veteran's Steno Pad
A spiral-bound steno pad turned up in a Goodwill donation bin in central Indiana in 2023. Brown cover, two overlapping coffee rings, wire binding still intact. Inside: draft letters, none of them torn out, none of them mailed. The dates run from 1969 to 2004.
This episode reads four of them. The first goes to a wife named Bev, written somewhere in Quảng Nam province six weeks into a first deployment — the letter that crossed out whatever it most wanted to say and ended with instructions about a carburetor. The second goes to a village boy in Quảng Trị the writer calls Minh, the boy with the bicycle — written in English, addressed to someone who couldn't read English, about a can of peaches left by the side of a road. The third reaches toward a brother named Gary, from Terre Haute, October 1983, over a decade after the war — an attempt to explain what it's like when nobody asks. The fourth is a letter to a sergeant who died in 1972, written the spring the Abu Ghraib photographs broke: a fifty-seven-year-old man still checking in with someone who couldn't answer.
Each notebook archived here follows the found-object convention: fabricated from historical record, regional detail, and occupational vernacular — not a claim about any real named individual.
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