–
by Larry Moss
–
Growing up in an affluent, predominantly Jewish suburb of Chicago, I didn’t acquire many skills that prepared me to be a soldier in Vietnam. I had never once gone camping, hiking, fishing or hunting. I knew nothing about guns, knives, tents, maps… anything related to survival. Hell, I never even went to overnight camp. My youth consisted of riding my bike, trading baseball cards, playing baseball and ice skating in the winter. As I got older, I also incorporated playing golf, pool, and poker into my repertoire. By the time I reached my twenties, I pretty much lacked all the skills that go along with being an outdoorsman. However, I did know how to play the piano – but I never would have guessed that my musical talent would help me survive the war in Vietnam.
After high school, I had diddled around in college for a couple of years but wasn’t really much of a student. I spent my first semester at Northern Illinois University in Dekalb, Illinois, about an hour and a half due west of Chicago. I hated it. It was very small then and I thought it was dreadful.
I stopped going to class fairly early in the first semester. Instead, I spent my days shooting pool and playing poker and pinochle at the Student Center. A school break came up and I went to Florida with some friends, and I decided not to return to school. Instead, I worked for a while at my old high school summer job setting up party tents and parking cars for weddings, debutante balls and other gala affairs held at wealthy people’s homes in the northern suburbs.
But soon tired of schlepping heavy 4’x8’ dance floor panels, I decided to give college another shot. I enrolled at Roosevelt University in downtown Chicago. I started off by taking a few regular academic courses and found myself doing very poorly in no time. Old, bad habits were creeping up again. Most nights, instead of studying, reading, and doing my homework I practiced my putting with one of those automatic ball return devices. My putting stroke improved, but when I received my report card I was notified that I was on academic probation and unless I raised my grades the coming semester, I would be out.
Instantly, I had the answer. I signed up for Piano 101, Music Theory, Saxophone, Music Appreciation and English. By the end of the semester, I had raised my grade point average considerably and was off probation. This yo-yo routine continued for another year and, by then, I had had enough. No more school for me. I was ready to find a job and go to work.
This was a very precarious decision to make. After all, it was 1967 and there was a war going on in Southeast Asia. A war that was escalating every day, which meant more and more young men were being drafted. Everybody my age was scared as hell and there was much talk about how to avoid ending up in Vietnam. Some thought about leaving the country. Others pleaded with their doctors to provide them with bogus medical deferment letters, and many joined the reserves. Most of my friends, though, were committed to staying in college, planning to go to grad school or law school or divinity school or the Yeshiva—whatever it took to keep their 2-S deferment and stay out of the draft. Who could blame them really? What we were seeing every night on the news was terrifying. It was the first war that was televised this way and it was very hard to watch. Everyone was petrified of being one of those guys who came home in a flag-draped coffin.
I decided to take my chances and get a job. I found the broadcasting field interesting and was lucky enough to land a job at CBS Radio, WBBM-AM in Chicago. I was hired as an assistant continuity editor, handling and scheduling the radio ads. I enjoyed working in radio and was fortunate to work with a variety of interesting, smart, funny people. But with the war escalating like crazy, I was called in for an Army physical exam. I thought, well, this is it. I’m young, healthy and I’m about to get drafted. Vietnam here I come. I couldn’t believe it when I was told that at the ripe old age of twenty-one, I had high blood pressure. As a result, I was given a 1-Y classification, which served as a temporary, health-related draft deferment. This meant I could stay out of school and return to work. For now.
But the war raged on and as the death toll continued to rise, more and more healthy young men were needed. A few months later I was summoned back for another physical, and, to no one’s surprise, my high blood pressure was no longer an issue. Not even a consideration. I don’t think the doctor even looked at the gauge. I could have had a stroke right then and there and they would have accepted me.
Sure enough, I soon received my induction letter and was officially sworn into the U.S. Army on March 27, 1968 at the Chicago & Northwestern Railroad Station in Chicago. My first stop was Ft. Leonard Wood in Missouri for basic training, a real hellhole for sure, and then onto Ft. Gordon in Augusta, Georgia for airborne infantry training – for some inexplicable reason, I had volunteered to be a paratrooper.
It was nothing short of physically grueling. This second phase of training made basic look like a two-month vacation. After enduring eight weeks of endless infantry training, marching and running around singing “I want to be an airborne ranger, live the life of guts and danger.” I decided to “unvolunteer” from airborne, a decision I’ve never regretted. But it did mean that instead of going to jump school, I was headed straight to Vietnam.
I arrived on September 16th, 1968. I had just turned twenty-two one week earlier which, believe it or not, made me one of the “older” guys. Having been highly trained as an infantryman with a specialty in heavy weapons, I was assigned to the Americal Division in I Corps. Specifically, D Company, 5/46th, 198th Light Infantry Brigade as a mortarman. Our home base was LZ (landing zone) Gator in Chu Lai just south of Danang.
Within days of joining my unit, I found myself in active ground combat with Viet Cong forces just south of Chu Lai. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was absolutely terrifying. Who prepares for shooting at another human being? Or being shot at. I didn’t like guns at all, but I sure as hell knew how to use my M-16 rifle and I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot to kill when necessary. Combat is crazy, loud, and frightening beyond your wildest imagination. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I think it’s safe to say that anyone who has fought in a war is never quite the same person again. Slogging through rice paddies, climbing mountains, or hacking your way through a jungle with a machete with sixty pounds on your back was brutal—especially when it was a hundred degrees and unbelievably humid. There was also the ever-present fear of putting one foot in front of the other on a trail and wondering if your next step would be your last. Triggering a mine or a booby trap could easily kill you or cost you a leg or two.
We took turns walking “point” and it was for me maybe the scariest war experience of all. As point man, you led your platoon, squad, or company. You went first. You were charged with spotting the punji pits, the bouncing betty grenades and other booby traps and mines that would kill or maim you and your fellow troops. Frequently rotating the point person was necessary due to the stress it caused and the responsibility it carried.
I also really dreaded guard duty on makeshift perimeters in the black of night. Especially when it was raining. You couldn’t see or hear a damn thing. There I was, sitting on my steel helmet to keep my butt dry and praying to make it through the night. Couldn’t even light up a smoke for fear of giving away my position. My heart pounding louder than the tell-tale heart in Poe’s story. I swore the VC could hear it. The mind plays tricks on you, too. You start hearing things and seeing things that don’t exist. You are in a heightened state of sensory confusion. You can’t wait for your hour-long shift to end so you can go wake up your replacement. Then, remarkably, you lie down on the ground and go right to sleep. I did my job. I hope he does his. Now everyone’s safety is in someone else’s hands. I gotta get some rest.
Day after day of rocket, mortar and ground fire, debilitating heat and exhaustion really took its toll. Time slowly marched on and, finally, I had crossed the half-way mark of my year-long tour of duty in Vietnam. I could start counting down now. I was hardly “short”—meaning you had just a little time left in country—I wasn’t even a two-digit midget yet. I still had roughly 150 days left. A very, very long time.
One day, after about seven months in country, we were on standdown back at LZ Gator and I heard an announcement on Armed Forces Vietnam Radio (think Robin Williams in Good Morning, Vietnam) about something called Command Military Touring Shows. The Army’s Special Services Entertainment Branch was looking for GIs who played musical instruments. The whole idea was to put together a variety of bands and send them out to various LZs and bases to play for the troops. It was a real morale booster for them to hear some American music played by guys just like them. I was incredibly excited about the prospect of getting out of the field and into one of these bands, and with my Company Commander’s blessing, I was flown to Saigon to audition.
A month after auditioning, I got the news that I had been selected to join a band, and I boarded a plane back to Saigon to meet my new bandmates. Turned out, we were going to be a jazz band. Perfect! We chose a bunch of jazz standards and practiced a lot. We ended up putting together a very tight show and decided to call ourselves “The Six Pack O’ Jazz.” The band consisted of electric piano, electric bass, electric guitar, drums, alto sax and a singer. We were a diverse group and hailed from Chicago, Washington, D.C., New Orleans, Miami and Asbury Park, New Jersey.
Using cargo planes, helicopters, and trucks, we were sent all over the country, performing one or two shows a day. We went as far north as the DMZ and as far south as Vung Tau. We also found ourselves playing gigs at small fire bases and outposts that stretched from the Cambodian border to the South China Sea – places where it was way too unsafe to send a USO group. After all, if Bob Hope or Ann-Margaret were to be killed or injured there would be an awful lot of explaining to do. But we were merely regular GIs on temporary duty. We were expendable. And, as you might imagine, a number of our shows were cut short by incoming mortars or rockets. But it still felt far safer than daily ground combat, and the Six Pack O’ Jazz made it through just fine.
The abrupt change from infantry to entertainer was hard to reconcile. And I felt a bit guilty. Being a part of that touring show was unquestionably one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. It felt so good to do something to lift the spirits of my fellow soldiers and selfishly it kept me out of harm’s way for a couple of months.
I knew this for sure when I heard LZ Gator, my home base, had been overrun, with a number of Viet Cong inside the perimeter. Several guys from my unit had been killed by ground fire and satchel charges. By being in the band away from Gator, I literally dodged a bullet. Finding this out had a profound effect on me. It made me realize just how lucky I was and made it perfectly clear to me how being able to play the piano allowed me to finish out my year-long tour of duty and get home safely.
Now, nearly fifty-five years later, I remain eternally grateful for the piano lessons my parents suggested I take as a child. I’m pretty sure they are the reason I am alive today. Thank you, Mom and Dad.
–
–
–
Larry Moss was born and raised in Chicago. Among the last of the Mad Men generation, he worked at major advertising agencies in Chicago and San Francisco as a copywriter and Creative Director. Upon his retirement in 2006 he returned in earnest to his first love— playing jazz piano. He has released five CDs and recently published a musical memoir. Today, he maintains a steady gig at a popular local restaurant near his home in Mill Valley, California.
–
–
–