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What My Husband’s Vietnam Letters Revealed About Brotherhood
After he died, I discovered correspondence that showed the depths of male friendship and left me nostalgic for the lost art of letter-writing
3.5-minute read
Monica Garwood
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From the moment I could talk, I shared everything with my sister and girlfriends. And to this day we easily discuss all facets of life, from sexual encounters to feelings of loss postmenopause.
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My guy friends, on the other hand, limit their conversations to topics involving sports, work situations or home repair tips.
Or so I thought.
I was recently given a packet of letters my late husband wrote while serving in Vietnam, addressed to his older brother back home in Detroit.
Reading them changed the way I thought about male friendship.
My husband’s letters were full of angst. He kept insisting he was OK when, from his undertone, one could clearly tell he was not. In one letter, dated “June ’71,” he wrote, “I think I’m in Da Nang…. I’m making out fine. So don’t fret. Just keep those cards and letters coming, OK?”
Reading those words broke my heart. I could picture his young face, waiting eagerly for word from home.
Author Janie Emaus’s husband kept the letters he wrote to his older brother back in the U.S., while he was serving in Vietnam.
Courtesy Janie Emaus
In another letter he even mentioned “crying” and hanging on to fellow soldiers after getting injured. My brother-in-law’s letters talked about events at home and were a bit less personal, but he was clearly concerned about his brother’s well-being.
While guarding a prisoner, my husband poured his heart onto paper about how music filled his entire being. “I’ve got some good ideas in my head for some really good music when I get back.” In the next sentence, he wrote, “The camp a mile and a half down the road is surrounded by the enemy and they’re taking small arms fire. Hope our asses stay in the green. You can hear the incoming at the airport.”
My heart was heavy reading that letter.
My husband hated the war but never once begrudged his brother for not being drafted. Rather, he was glad his sibling could write him from the safety of home.
Their love lived on those pages, between the neatly printed words. One brother starting a life. One brother fighting for his life.
After his return from Vietnam and throughout their lives, my husband and his brother never stopped talking: about music, new bands, synthesizers and concerts.
Their correspondence continued after my husband left their hometown and moved across the country. His first wife had left him, and once again his brother became a confidant. They wrote often: my husband baring his soul and asking for marriage advice; his brother providing the support he needed.
In one correspondence, his brother wrote, “I think it is wise to remain at a distance. It is senseless to subject yourself to such pain. I love you.” My husband’s reply: “Developing new ways to interact with women, with the concept [that] all involvement doesn’t have to resolve negative. Even though every past experience has proven so. I love ya. Take real good care of yourself, stay healthy and win some ball games.”
It takes vulnerability to be open and honest. The boys I grew up with were taught that crying and showing emotion were signs of weakness. My husband’s letters to his brother showed me that men can share their deepest thoughts and innermost fears with each other. So why don’t they do so more often?
That may be changing. My grandsons and their friends seem more willing to be vulnerable than the boys who grew up in the ’60s and ’70s.
As they grew older, my husband and his brother stopped writing and stayed in touch through weekly phone calls. The topics changed from the heartfelt to how they felt about the Detroit Lions or a new Netflix show. Perhaps the act of putting thoughts on paper lent itself to more sharing of feelings.
As I read their letters, often with tears in my eyes, I longed for a time machine to take me back to those two young men and those days of written communication.
It saddens me that letter-writing has become a lost art. We may be communicating more these days — endless text threads, daily emails, social media posts — but how much of that correspondence is meaningful, and how much will survive? Very little, I’m afraid. And future widows may never be given that unexpected gift, as I was, of finding two brothers’ love indelibly preserved on paper.
AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.
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