Episodes

Send us a text It’s Friday, May 28, 1971, and Captain Dick Allgood, a U.S. Air Force rescue pilot on alert in Vietnam, writes to his wife Sarah with aching tenderness. He’s been reading The Seven Minutes—a racy novel that stirs memories of their intimacy—and he can’t help but tie its themes to the passion they share. With each passing day, he saves himself for her and dreams of fatherhood, asking how their “little baby” is coming along. Even as mail disruptions frustrate their connection, Dic...

Send us a text On May 27, 1971, Sarah Allgood writes to her husband from San Antonio after a day that pushed her to the edge—physically and emotionally. Just a few months pregnant, she faints twice while scrubbing in for surgery, narrowly avoiding the floor thanks to a nearby sergeant. She’s frustrated, foggy, and overwhelmed—but still determined to reassure Dick that everything will be okay. A visit to her doctor confirms what her body’s been trying to tell her: her blood pressure is low, ...

Send us a text On May 27, 1971, my dad, Capt. Richard Allgood, wrote two letters to my mom in one day—one in the afternoon, and one just before bed. Together, they offer a glimpse into the rhythm of his life in Vietnam: picking up mail at the post office, flying training hours over the base, eating meatloaf at the detachment, watching Flip Wilson and Ironside on TV, and thinking constantly of the woman he loved. He doesn’t talk about rescue missions or danger in these letters. What he share...

Send us a text It’s the last week of May 1971, and Memorial Day is approaching. Sarah is writing from their apartment near Lackland Air Force Base — the one she and Dick once shared before he left for Vietnam. She writes with her usual mix of tenderness, humor, and deep emotional clarity. There’s longing in this letter — but also intention. Sarah had an intuitive spirit. She often sensed things before they happened. And even when she had a hunch that a call might not come, she kept hoping...

Send us a text Sarah writes from Lackland Air Force Base at 4:45 in the morning, just off a night shift in the operating room. She’s been selected to assist with a cardiac surgery — one being scrubbed in on by the Surgeon General himself — and it’s clear: she’s not just a nurse, she’s exceptional. But this letter isn’t about accolades. It’s about love, perspective, and presence. In the quiet before sleep, Sarah asks her husband to make a decision — to stay happy. Even in a war zone. Even ...

Send us a text On May 26, 1971, Captain Dick Allgood writes from Bien Hoa Air Base in Vietnam to his pregnant wife, Captain Sarah Allgood, stationed at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio. It’s a quiet day—he’s on alert, flying just two hours, watching the Emmys, and aching for a letter that didn’t arrive. Still, his focus never wavers. He checks in on their baby-to-be, gently reminds her to see the doctor, and holds space for their growing family through the only thread that connects th...

Send us a text Writing from San Antonio, Texas—just outside Lackland Air Force Base where she works as a military nurse—Sarah Allgood pours her heart out to her husband, Dick, who is deployed in Vietnam. Now newly pregnant, she writes with equal parts love, exhaustion, and fierce honesty. She shares the first doctor’s advice since confirming the pregnancy, vents about a dinner with a troubled couple, and closes with a vivid scene of herself by the pool, letter in hand, missing him deeply. ...

Send us a text In this heartfelt letter from Vietnam, Dick Allgood writes to his pregnant wife, Sarah, from Biên Hòa Air Base. His words are warm and playful—reflecting his joy over the baby they’re expecting and his longing to be home. From gin and tonics to surprise gifts in the mail, Dick shares the rhythm of his days while reminding Sarah—and their unborn daughter—that love is his anchor. This is wartime through the eyes of a husband and father-to-be. Tender. Ordinary. Profound. To su...

Send us a text In this letter from May 24, 1971, Captain Sarah Allgood writes to her husband, Dick, after coming off another exhausting overnight shift as an Air Force nurse. She’s sharp, skilled, and deeply respected—a woman who worked hard to earn her rank in a male-dominated field. Even as she juggles transplant prep, pregnancy fatigue, and a long-distance marriage, her steady professionalism shines through. She jokes about her growing breasts, considers leaving work to become a full-tim...

Send us a text In this letter from May 24, 1971, Dick writes to Sarah from Vietnam with deep affection, quiet reflection, and a surprising vulnerability. He shares how he held back his excitement when she first thought she might be pregnant—not out of indifference, but out of fear that it might not be real. Now, with the news confirmed, his joy and curiosity come pouring through. Even in the middle of a war zone—where the crash phone could ring at any moment—he takes time to write about swi...

Send us a text Welcome back to The Allgoods: Vietnam Through the Eyes of Love. I’m reading the real letters my parents—Dick and Sarah Allgood—wrote to each other during the Vietnam War while they were expecting me. In this letter from May 23, 1971, my dad had just been to a wild detachment party where they served something called “Pussy Punch.” He made it himself—vodka, gin, Cointreau, fruit punch, and lemon. Let’s just say… it packed a serious kick. But in between the drinking, the jokes...

Send us a text In this short but striking letter from May 22, 1971, Dick writes to Sarah from Biên Hòa Air Base in Vietnam. He’s been unexpectedly called back to Saigon to pull alert and vents about the constant movement, lack of rest, and missing their intimate connection—complete with a signature joke about the “quarter bank.” But through it all, his tenderness shines. He promises to try calling again that weekend and signs off the way he always does—with love, longing, and the certainty of...

Send us a text In this deeply personal letter from May 22, 1971, Sarah writes to Dick from their apartment in San Antonio with joyful, vulnerable news—her pregnancy test is positive. She shares her mother’s instant certainty that they’re having a girl and reassures Dick that he is, without question, the only one she loves. The pain of missed phone calls and distance weighs on her, but she closes with a tender plea: “I wuv you!! Please remember that—your wife, the Mom of your child.” This ep...

Send us a text In this brief letter from May 22, 1971, Dick Allgood shares his happiness after hearing that Sarah’s pregnancy test is confirmed. He promises to be the best father he can be and imagines how deeply loved their child will be. There’s a quiet tenderness here — an acknowledgment of the distance between them and his wish that he could be by her side. It’s a short but meaningful expression of joy, commitment, and love during a time of waiting and hope. Support the show The Allg...

Send us a text Dick Allgood begins this May 21, 1971 letter to his wife Sarah by confessing it was “one of the hardest” days he’s had — but he never says exactly why. Instead, the letter unfolds with devotion, longing, and his deep hope that he’ll soon be a father. He calls Sarah his “wittle chickie-dee,” tells her how beautiful their children will be, and shares how he’s gotten used to being sad — a quiet reflection from a man writing in the heart of a war zone. This episode is being recor...

Send us a text In this late-night letter dated May 21, 1971, Sarah Allgood writes to her husband, Capt. Richard “Dick” Allgood, from bed in San Antonio — too tired to get up, too in love to sleep. As she watches an old Robert Mitchum movie, she imagines Dick beside her, talks to his photo, and jokes about needing “an allotment for her husband” thanks to their private quarter bank pact. It’s a letter full of physical yearning, quiet hope, emotional dependency, and deep humor. Sarah writes as...

Send us a text In this letter dated May 21, 1971, my mom, Sarah, writes to my dad, Dick, with life-changing news: she’s officially pregnant. Unlike today, a urine test in 1971 couldn’t confirm pregnancy until a certain amount of time had passed after a missed period. She had to wait. But she already knew. And when she finally could take the test, her neighbor — who worked at the hospital — ran it for her so she didn’t have to wait in line. By 12:30 that afternoon, she had her answer: right ...

Send us a text In this second letter from May 20, 1971 — his 27th birthday — my dad, Dick, writes from Vietnam late at night, having just finished letters to everyone else. But this one? This one is for my mom. He writes to his “wittle chick-a-dee” and imagines he’s sitting beside her, just talking. He’s flown that day, but all he wants is to stay connected to her through words — and love. He confesses that before he left, he may not have been the most practical husband, but he was focused ...

Send us a text In this letter dated May 20, 1971, my dad, Dick, writes to my mom, Sarah, from Vietnam on his 27th birthday. It’s not the birthday he hoped for, but her gifts — a photo album, a poster, cards, and her words — make their way to him across the world. He calls the album “the best gift you could’ve given me” and admits he looks at it every day. He tells her about plans to grill steaks with the guys, share some shrimp from the coast, and maybe even celebrate with a little too much...

Send us a text In this letter from May 20, 1971, my mom, Sarah, writes to my dad, Dick, on his birthday — from halfway around the world. She’s working long hours as a surgical nurse, and on this day, she gets called in unexpectedly to scrub an emergency open-heart surgery. She’s not even on the schedule, but they need her — because she’s the best. And she shows up, even while physically exhausted and emotionally stretched thin. She writes with love, humor, and quiet strength. There’s hope i...

Send us a text In this tender birthday eve letter written on May 19, 1971, my dad, Dick, writes to my mom, Sarah, from Vietnam with a mix of humor, longing, and vulnerability. He’s baking in the sun, waiting for her to send his bikini swimsuit, and imagining the “sexy tan” he’ll have when they’re together again. There’s lightness and playfulness — but also deep love and aching distance. He reflects on how close her letters make him feel and how painful the thought of her needing more than h...

Send us a text In this unfiltered letter from May 19, 1971, my mom, Sarah, writes to my dad, Dick, after what she calls a “shitty day” in the operating room. She’s tired, overwhelmed by military red tape, and anxiously wondering if she might be pregnant — with me. But even in the middle of it all, it’s a letter from her “wittle chickadee” that keeps her going. Now, as their only child, I’m reading these letters aloud more than fifty years later. And it’s dawning on me: I was born from this ...

Send us a text In this May 17, 1971 letter from Vietnam, Dick Allgood writes with such raw emotion that at one point he has to pause—his tears making the page too blurry to see. He’s just missed reaching Sarah by phone again, after multiple failed attempts to call her across the world. Now he has to wait another week, unless he gets lucky and makes it onto the elusive commercial call list. This letter is full of longing. He aches to know she still feels him near, that she still loves him af...

Send us a text In this letter dated May 18, 1971, Dick Allgood writes from Vietnam with deep vulnerability, reflecting on how hard it is to watch another man—Ray Hunter—prepare to go home for good. As Dick puts it, “I sure wish it were me.” The letter begins gently—calling Sarah his “sweet wittle chick-a-dee”—but what follows is one of his most emotionally open reflections yet. He admits he used to be afraid to write about emotions, but now he pours himself out onto the page, confessing tha...