The Allgoods: Vietnam Through the Eyes of Love

Send us Fan Mail On July 12, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood mailed five separate letters from Vietnam—all in one night—just to share a handful of candid helicopter photos with the woman he loved more than life itself. The pictures were a surprise gift from a fellow airman, but instead of keeping them to himself, Dick thought only of Sarah. In these short but sweet notes, we see a man who was thoughtfu...

Send us Fan Mail This letter is pure devotion. My dad had just gotten off the phone with my mom after finally reaching her — the lines in Vietnam had been down all day, and he was antsy, pacing, waiting to hear her voice. But once he did, something opened up in him. This isn’t just a letter about a phone call — it’s a letter about everything he felt but couldn’t fit into those five minutes. He tel...

Send us Fan Mail In this letter, my mom is still glowing from hearing my dad’s voice — one of those rare phone calls that managed to break through Vietnam’s overloaded phone lines. She tells him there’s only one better way to be woken up — by his kiss, his touch, and the kind of love they shared so easily. But if she can’t have that, a phone call will do just fine. She pours a glass of their favor...

Send us Fan Mail This letter is such a snapshot of who my dad was. Written from Vietnam on July 10, 1971, it moves fast — from longing and sex to plane tickets and savings accounts — and somehow it all makes sense. That was my dad: wildly in love with my mom and completely grounded in taking care of her. He was always financially minded, even back then. Practical, methodical, and constantly thinki...

Send us Fan Mail In this letter from July 10, 1971, my mom wakes up craving waffles — but my dad isn’t there to make them. So she goes to Oscar’s with a friend instead. It’s such a small moment, but it says so much. My dad wasn’t just a romantic. He was a cook — a good one. Even later in life, when he opened the Allgood Bar & Grill, waffles were always on the menu. It wasn’t just about food —...

Send us Fan Mail In this letter from July 9, 1971, Sarah leans into the lifelines that are getting her through: her deep love for Dick, the baby growing inside her, and the women around her who keep showing up. From cherry cheesecake and grocery runs to tearful toasts and going-away parties, her community in San Antonio becomes a stand-in for the partner she misses so badly. Jan, Pam, and others h...

Send us Fan Mail In this letter from July 9, 1971, Dick writes from Vietnam with tenderness, apology, and longing. He’s on alert again, soaking up sun on the roof, trying to pass the time—but what’s really on his mind is Sarah. He congratulates her on her promotion (belatedly, with an honest apology), and dreams of their reunion—both emotional and physical. He tells her he can’t define the word lo...

Send us Fan Mail On July 8, 1971, my mom was just starting to imagine a new kind of life. She had left the Air Force behind and was writing from San Antonio, pregnant with me and dreaming about where she and my dad might end up. In this letter, she asks her friend Judy to send the want ads from the Miami Herald — and you can feel how real that hope was. What’s incredible is: they made it. They eve...

Send us Fan Mail On July 8, 1971, my dad was on alert again — another day of waiting, paperwork, and passing time. But in the middle of it, he sat down to write to my mom. This letter is tender, grounded, and a little raw, filled with his signature blend of blunt honesty and deep love. He tells her she’s his life — his wife, his lover, and the mama of their babies. He imagines what she must look l...

Send us Fan Mail My dad could always sniff out a good deal—and he was pretty proud of the pair of giant speakers he picked up at the BX in Vietnam for a steal. He didn’t have anything to play through them yet, but that didn’t stop him from planning for the life they’d build together. But the real heart of this letter is the dream he shares: watching my mom brush her hair in front of the mirror whi...

Send us Fan Mail In this letter from July 7, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes to his wife, Sarah, from Vietnam, just after receiving three of her letters — one written on Thursday and two on Friday, the day of her farewell party. He talks through plans for their upcoming R&R in Hawaii, sharing flight arrival times and working out how she’ll get her ticket while visiting Miami. Even from halfw...

Send us Fan Mail On July 7, 1971, my mom was officially discharged from the Air Force. At 30 years old, pregnant with me, she became a dependent wife — no longer an officer, no longer in uniform, and no longer working long hospital shifts. In this letter, you can hear her exhale. She writes about discharge pay, a sandwich and Nehi grape soda, and how much better she feels knowing she’s finally hom...

Send us Fan Mail It’s Sarah’s last full day of work in the Air Force, and everyone shows up to send her off. From enlisted techs to commissioned officers, they take her to the NCO Club, buy her beer, and give her a card that makes her cry. She drinks more than usual — martinis, pink ladies, Kahlúa — and writes to Dick while still a little buzzed. She’s tired, emotional, and deeply grateful. This i...

Send us Fan Mail n today’s letter from July 5, 1971, my dad writes from Vietnam after a full day on alert—“no real action or excitement,” he says. But I can’t help wondering if that’s the truth, or just the version he was allowed—or willing—to share. Like so many servicemen during the war, he may have been trained not to say too much. But what he does write is full of emotion: he misses her, he mi...

Send us Fan Mail It’s July 5, 1971, and my mom—Captain Sarah Allgood—is writing from San Antonio in the middle of a hot summer day. My dad, Captain Dick Allgood, was stationed at a real wartime airbase in Da Nang, Vietnam. He’d just sent her a steamy Special Delivery letter, and she’s responding the only way she knows how: with longing, humor, and another quarter in the kitty. She writes about the...

Send us Fan Mail On July 4, 1971, Captain Sarah Allgood wrote two letters to her husband, Captain Dick Allgood. She was pregnant, stationed in San Antonio, and just days away from separating from the Air Force. It was a holiday they normally spent together — with ribs, potato salad, and each other. But this year, they were apart. In her morning letter, she’s seepy, playful, and full of longing. By...

Send us Fan Mail On July 4, 1971, my dad, Captain Dick Allgood, writes from Vietnam with his heart on full display. His letter isn’t about fireworks or freedom — it’s about the kind of love that endures across oceans, months, and war. He tells my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, how much he misses her, aches for her, and still remembers the exact week they fell deeply in love. Even in the middle of a w...

Send us Fan Mail This letter from my dad, written on July 3, 1971, is full of tenderness, memory, and quiet ache. He’s writing from Vietnam — still on alert, still in danger — but what he talks about is baking brownies, missing my mom, and planning where to send her letters when she travels to Miami. He turned down a regular commission with the Air Force — a stable, lifelong career — because he ne...

Send us Fan Mail It’s been 68 days since my dad left for Vietnam. And in that time, my parents have been writing constantly — sometimes more than once a day. These letters were their lifeline, their only way to stay connected across distance, danger, and everything they were missing in between. In this one, my mom writes about sewing a maternity swimsuit to fit her “wittle pregnant belly,” skippin...

Send us Fan Mail On July 2, 1971, my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, wrote two letters to my dad — both on the same day, but in completely different moods. The first one came after her three-month pregnancy checkup. She writes with excitement and relief — she’s healthy, the baby is growing, and her doctor is supportive of traveling to Miami for R&R. She shares flight plans, military red tape, and...

Send us Fan Mail My dad wrote this letter from Vietnam after helping one of his closest friends board a flight home. He says he was happy for him — but admits he was filled with envy. That could’ve been him. That should’ve been him. In this letter, he talks about catching a little sun, eating a decent steak at the club, and winding down with the guys who worked under him. But nothing — not beer, n...

Send us Fan Mail In this letter from July 1, 1971, my dad writes to my mom after receiving three letters and a card from her — and his mood lifts right off the page. He’s playful, sweet, and a little jealous as another friend prepares to head home from Vietnam. He jokes about never getting a tan, thanks to the monsoon rains, but says he still made time to “groove to his wife on the roof.” He tells...

Send us Fan Mail This letter from my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, is pure gold. It’s July 1, 1971, and she’s funny, flirty, and a little bit filthy — all while pregnant, lonely, and trying to get through another day without my dad. She’s dreaming of a life where she can “sit back, rest, and become beautifully pregnant” — and she’s already putting quarters in the bank for their baby (me). She writes...

Send us Fan Mail In this episode, I’m taking a moment to reflect on everything I’ve uncovered so far — from the day my dad deployed to Vietnam in late April 1971 through the end of June. My mom was still on active duty in San Antonio when she found out she was pregnant with me. My dad had just arrived in Vietnam, flying rescue helicopters with the 38th Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Squadron. They...

Send us Fan Mail This is the last letter my mom wrote in June 1971. It’s also the end of Chapter 2 in this story — one month at a time, one letter at a time. She was 12 weeks pregnant with me and still writing every single day from San Antonio, where she was finishing her time as a U.S. Air Force nurse. My dad, Captain Dick Allgood, was still on alert in Vietnam — a rescue pilot who didn’t talk mu...