May 17, 1969.  Camp Evans, Vietnam.

Dearest Rita,

Don’t have much time tonight but I thought I’d write a few lines anyway.  I’m kind of in a lousy mood because I’ve got KP tomorrow.  Whenever I see my name on the roster it ruins my whole week.  And I know they’re going to work our butts off because we have an I.G. inspection Monday.

The IG coming up here has all the brass in a panic.  We’ve spent the last couple days prepping for it.  Some guys are working until midnight getting everything ready.  You’d think they’d cut out all that kind of bullshit in a combat zone.

Still don’t have any word on how Bill is.  I’m hoping he’s not too bad off, but he sure was sick when he left here.

I haven’t had a chance to get over to finance yet.  Dave D. is going to try to get that extra money too, so we’ll go as soon as we can get an hour off.  When that will be I have no idea.

I’m sorry Rita, and I’m going to have to close this and go to bed — I can’t even see straight.  I’ll try to get a longer letter or a tape off you tomorrow — no, Monday.  I won’t feel like doing anything when I get off KP tomorrow.  Anyway, real soon.

I love you Reet.

Your Hubby,