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In 1971, two young Air Force veterans — Richard and Sarah Allgood — found themselves separated by the Vietnam War, yet connected through hundreds of heartfelt letters. Decades later, after their passing, their daughter discovered a preserved box of their correspondence: a story of love, family, courage, and hope written one letter at a time. The Allgoods: Vietnam Through the Eyes of Love shares these personal letters, weaving a timeless narrative of war, separation, and enduring devotion. Jo ...
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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, h…
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Send us a text After 47 letters exchanged between April 27 and May 30, 1971, this recap looks back on the first month of separation between Captains Dick and Sarah Allgood—newlyweds, both serving in the U.S. Air Force, and already holding onto something much bigger than distance. In this special episode, their daughter reflects on the powerful trut…
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Send us a text In this May 30, 1971 letter from Bien Hoa Air Base, Captain Dick Allgood writes to his pregnant wife Sarah, who’s serving as an Air Force nurse at Wilford Hall in San Antonio. He opens with flirtation, calling her “the best I ever had,” and confesses to reading a “sort of a sex book,” followed by a quarter to their private pot. But t…
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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…
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Send us a text This isn’t your typical Vietnam War letter. On May 29, 1971, my father—Captain Dick Allgood—wrote to my mother from Bien Hoa Air Base. She was thousands of miles away, working long hours as a military nurse at Wilford Hall in San Antonio and newly pregnant with me. And he was scared. Scared for her health, for the baby, for the pace …
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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 t…
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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 a…
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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 h…
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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 l…
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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 check…
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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 pr…
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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 t…
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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 …
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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 lo…
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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…
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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,…
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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 …
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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…
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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” than…
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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…
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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 eve…
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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 …
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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 — …
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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. …
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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 keep…
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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…
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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 emo…
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Send us a text In this letter from May 16, 1971, Dick Allgood—an HH-43 Pedro rescue pilot stationed in Vietnam—writes to his wife Sarah with pure joy after learning he’s going to be a father. He’s on alert, ready to fly into danger at a moment’s notice, but in the quiet moments he’s trying—repeatedly—to place a phone call across the ocean to reach …
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Send us a text Dick writes from Vietnam after a hectic day flying training missions with his Pedro unit—the HH-43 helicopter crews of the Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Squadron. He’s worn out, longing for rest, and desperate to connect with Sarah, having already spent hours trying to reach her by phone. Back home, Sarah is continuing her work as a …
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Send us a text In this unforgettable letter, Dick writes from Vietnam late at night, his heart overflowing with joy after finally learning the news he’s been hoping for—Sarah is pregnant. The call comes while he’s on duty with the Pedro unit, flying HH-43 helicopters for the Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Squadron. Overwhelmed with love and hope for…
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Send us a text On May 14, 1971, Dick writes from Vietnam with a letter that is equal parts playful, protective, and tender. He jokes about Sarah’s doctor getting a little too familiar with her “nice boobs,” expresses real concern about her health, and shares his growing emotional fatigue from being apart. Amid R&R planning and confusion over time z…
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Send us a text In this May 13, 1971 letter, Dick writes from Vietnam with a mixture of relief and longing after receiving a batch of letters from Sarah. He responds to her stories—some we haven’t yet read—which reminds me that a few letters might still be waiting in the stack or possibly lost to time. In typical Dick fashion, his words are unfilter…
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Send us a text It’s May 12, 1971, and Dick has just returned to Biên Hòa Air Base after completing jungle survival school in the Philippines. This letter marks a moment of transition: he’s no longer in training, but he hasn’t yet flown any Pedro rescue missions. For now, he’s back on base—and finally receiving Sarah’s letters, numbered 10 through 1…
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Send us a text It’s May 11, 1971, and Sarah’s letter arrives just after Mother’s Day weekend—a date that feels especially poignant as she quietly suspects she may be pregnant. She hasn’t received confirmation, and Dick still has no idea. None of her recent letters have reached him yet, including the one where she first shared that she missed her pe…
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Send us a text In this May 9th letter, Sarah writes late into the night after a long day of cleaning, sorting, and keeping herself busy in his absence. She’s exhausted but thoughtful—asking about stereo equipment for a friend, wondering if she should look into a surgical job closer to Vietnam, and confessing how deeply she misses him. As always, sh…
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Send us a text This is letter number 18, written by my mom, Sarah Allgood, to my dad, Dick, on May 10, 1971. The more I read these letters, the more I believe they saved them for a reason—not to be shared in the moment, but to be read long after they were gone. Maybe even by me. Because what they had wasn’t ordinary. It was rare. It was true. And I…
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Send us a text On May 9, 1971, Richard finally receives his first letter from Sarah — Number 11. While she’s written many times since he left, this is the only one that’s made it to him so far. Now back in Vietnam after jungle survival school, Richard shares updates from Saigon with his signature blend of humor and heart: a tour flight, a supper of…
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Send us a text It’s May 8, 1971, and Sarah is writing from the apartment she shared with Richard near Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio. Earlier that day, she unpacked a box of surprises he sent from Las Vegas before deploying to Vietnam—dishes, small treasures, and bits of their life together. A few things arrived broken, but her heart is ful…
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Send us a text In this letter from May 8, 1971, my dad writes from the patio of the Officers’ Club at Clark Air Force Base. He’s packed, ready, and counting down the hours until he returns to Bien Hoa and finally gets the year underway. Even in the quiet moments, you can feel how much he misses my mom. A tall, black-haired woman walks by, and somet…
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Send us a text In this letter from May 7, 1971, my mom, Sarah, is doing her best to stay strong while missing my dad. She had just received some surprises he sent before leaving the States—they arrived safely, and she’s slowly unpacking them. She even tries going to the Officers’ Club with friends, but not even live music could lift her spirits. Wh…
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Send us a text In this May 7, 1971 letter, Capt. Richard Allgood has just completed jungle survival school in the Philippines and is preparing to return to Bien Hoa. Though relieved to be done with the bugs and challenges of jungle life, he’s still in the dark—he hasn’t received any of Sarah’s letters yet due to constant moves. Neither he nor Sarah…
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Send us a text In this warm, humorous, and deeply tender letter from May 6, 1971, Sarah writes to Richard shortly after he completes jungle survival school in Vietnam. With no contact during his time away, the sound of his voice on a brief phone call fills her with overwhelming relief—“almost close to a climax,” she says. The letter blends everyday…
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Send us a text In this vulnerable and heartfelt letter dated May 4, 1971, Sarah Allgood writes from the stillness of 4 a.m., aching with worry and longing for her husband, Richard, who is deep in jungle survival school in Vietnam. With no word from him and no confirmation that her own letters have arrived, Sarah clings to the only connection she ha…
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Send us a text In this May 2, 1971 letter, Richard writes from yet another plane — this time en route to a survival school in the Philippine jungle. Though he reassures Sarah that his living quarters at Bien Hoa are comfortable, there’s a gentle ache between the lines. It’s their first weekend apart since he left, and her first letter still hasn’t …
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Send us a text On May 1st, 1971, just three nights into his deployment, my father writes from Vietnam with a heart full of longing and a mind already spinning with plans to get back home. He’s not yet in the thick of missions, but the distance is heavy—he’s already tried calling home for two hours, unsuccessfully. This letter captures the quiet, in…
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Send us a text April 30, 1971 — First Day, Last Flight In this letter from April 30, 1971, my father has just arrived at Bien Hoa after a long journey to Vietnam. It’s his first full day on base, and already he’s soaking in the surreal details: air-conditioned hooches, stereo systems, steak dinners, and a stuffed chickadee perched five inches from …
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Send us a text After a long, exhausting journey through Alaska, Japan, and the Philippines, Richard Allgood finally reaches Vietnam. In his first letter home, he shares the surprising comforts of his new base — but beneath every detail, his heart aches for Sarah. Every word carries the weight of distance, longing, and the fierce love that will sust…
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Send us a text In this first episode, I introduce you to the story behind this podcast— a true love story between two young Air Force veterans during the Vietnam war. Through their preserved letters, we’ll walk together through history, hope, and the enduring power of love. Support the show The Allgoods: Vietnam Through the Eyes of Love is a person…
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Send us a text On April 28, 1971, my father, Richard Allgood, began his journey from Texas to Vietnam. He said goodbye to my mother, Sarah, not yet knowing that she was pregnant with me — news that would arrive a month later in a letter that would change everything. Today, we pause to honor the courage it took to leave home and step into the unknow…
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