CHAPTER THREE Mr. Kansas City

“If you want to live all your life, you can join the Army, but if you became a USO soldier, I’d go over the hill to ‘pass among them.’ I’ll not be disgraced by you joining that outfit. One Marine eight ball is worth 150 dogfaces—this is our opinion of them. I’d also steer clear of the Navy. They’ve got too many rules and regulations for my tastes—a deck is OK, but I’ll do my fightin’ on the beach. Now, if you ain’t got good sense and want to hog all the fightin’ with the ‘death or glory’ boys, well, you know where to come.”

—Don Evans’s advice to his younger brother

January 12, 1944, 0900 Hours

Parker Ranch, M Company Encampment

Ski and Knuppel ignored liberty day, a Marine’s one day off a week, which the enlisted men used to tend to personal tasks. Those who hadn’t washed during the prior day’s rain took a much-needed Navy bath using up to four helmets-full of cistern water. Some laundered their tattered uniforms—or stole somebody else’s clean one left drying on a tent pole.

With Kona a little too far away for a day of diversion in the city, enlisted men leisurely read letters from home or gazed at pictures of wives and girlfriends left behind. More than one wolfishly ogled tattered pinups of Hollywood starlets like Dolores Moran, Elaine Shepard, and Maureen O’Hara.

If no mail arrived, they made the most of their time off playing cards, drinking Scottish products or other types of joy juice, and listening to phonographs spin records. Buddy Williams’s “When the Candle Lights Are Gleaming” and Vernon Dalhart’s “Blue Ridge Mountain Home” provided a brief trip home. Many of even the hardest Marines found Deanna Durbin’s “Beneath the Lights of Home” a little hard to take.

Maureen O’Hara. Leatherneck Magazine, September 1943

Having enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of “shoe leather” hotcakes, bacon, and powdered eggs, Private First Class Don Evans and two of his buddies lingered in M Company’s mess tent. The trio sat quietly sorting packages, V-Mails, and letters into chronological order. Hal Moore, a wiry wrestler from Oklahoma, sat beside Evans; across the table from them, “Wild Bill” Emerick. A tough-looking club fighter out of Chicago, Emerick was the kind of guy who wouldn’t take lightly the opinion that his mother was ugly—the sort of guy you wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alley.

Don Evans (center) competes in the “Mr. Kansas City” contest. Courtesy of Steve Evans

Emerick sporadically guffawed, reading a book of jokes his wife Eleanor had sent. Once in a while he broke the silence with, “Listen to this one…” But Evans and Moore had already started to chuckle before he could tell the joke. Not in anticipation, but because of the way their buddy spoke out of the right side of his mouth—a consequence of taking one too many right hooks—“from King Lewinsky,” Emerick explained. “N’ dontcha know, I beat him to a pulp,” he’d boast. No one questioned his veracity.

Emerick’s bruising appearance contrasted with that of Don Evans. In high school, the blue-eyed, larger-than-life Evans had been the star of every Southeast Knights’ team and a heartthrob to the schoolgirls. He was built like a Greek god, with a naturally chiseled physique that had won him the “Mr. Kansas City” contest not once, but twice.

That title bore a certain irony now, when a clean-shaved face and neatly pressed clothes were about as far away as Kansas City.

Evans had turned down a football scholarship to the University of Kansas for the Marine Corps. Shortly after arriving at Boot Camp he wrote his parents, “The first twenty-one days is going to be hell if you can’t take it, and several of ’em can’t. Right now, we’re only boots and scum. If you don’t think too much and don’t take anything too seriously, you can have a good time. These drill sergeants can’t bother me, but I get a kick outta the other fellows’ misery.”

Evans’s first taste of war came on Guadalcanal, mopping up. An inaccurate description; there was nothing janitorial about it.

On an anti-sniper patrol Evans, Moore, and Emerick had come across four Marines lying wounded on a dirt road, writhing on the ground where they had fallen. Strafing machine gun bullets were kicking up puffs of dirt and debris around the injured, as a torturous taunt. It was a common ploy of the Japanese not to immediately kill the injured, but to use them as bait.

With no regard for themselves, the three rushed to the aid of their comrades. The rescue was successful, but Evans was shot in the chest. The bullet narrowly missed his heart, penetrated his lung and exited near his belt line. As a jeep raced Evans’s still body and the other wounded back to camp, his two buddies thought he was dead.

That night the skies released torrential rains while Japanese Zeros unleashed a storm of their own. Bombs and machine gun fire showed no respect for the field hospital where Evans had been taken.

The rainfall rapidly filled the dugout where Evans and other wounded were waiting for care. Their cries were unheard in the chaos. Mr. Kansas City managed to crawl from his stretcher and get help to save the others from drowning.

The following day Evans was evacuated by plane to a better-equipped Naval hospital in the New Hebrides. Less than two weeks later, he had made a miraculous recovery, but doctors told him that his fighting days were over. He was being sent home.

“Over?” the brash Jayhawk told the doctors, “I just got here.”

To avoid a premature trip Stateside, Evans dressed himself and went AWOL. Stowing away on a transport vessel bound for Guadalcanal, he returned to his astonished buddies three weeks after they had carted him from battle.

Evans consoled his worried parents from the brig where he was sent for going AWOL: “It was considerate of the government to send you that telegram, but unnecessary as I ain’t got no sores, goddammit. I gotta little red spot on my chest and lower back. I hope you folks didn’t worry about that, as it was of a slight nature. So, everyone can stop prayin’ for my quick recovery. It didn’t kill me, goddammit.”

He was also leniently fined five dollars a month in pay for a period of one month. During his time in the brig, the Corps gave Evans a Silver Star for his part in rescuing his fellow Marines and risking his life in the process.

Having served in the Corps together for almost two years and survived both Guadalcanal and Tarawa, Evans, Moore, and Emerick had formed an inseparable bond. The trio were as thick as thieves.

Mess men noisily clattered about, cleaning up after breakfast and preparing for lunch. Evans and Moore opened packages, read mail, and laughed each time Emerick chortled, “Here’s another one…”

Besides letters from his folks, a copious number of fragrant letters and V-Mails lay in front of Evans. Dottie’s smelled of lilacs and Elaine’s of rose-water. Kathleen, melodramatic and silly, had sealed hers with a kiss. And Judy, a sawed-off little redhead, had written to him twice in the same day.

After reading and then crumpling a puzzling V-Mail from his mom, Evans opened a lilac-scented envelope. “Dearest Donny,” the enclosed letter began,

I was so glad to hear from you once again. It’s been a good three months or more since your last letter, and I was awfully worried because I knew hell was popping over there, and you wouldn’t be happy unless you were in the middle of it.

At the present time I am in class, and the teacher just said that I might start taking notes at any time now to good advantage. Don’t think I’ll do that!

I haven’t heard from my brother Ross for more than three weeks. Mother got a letter on Christmas day from him but since then they haven’t heard, either. As far as we know he is still in Sicily, but they have been shipping a lot of the boys back to England in preparation for the new second front on the drive into Germany. Ross sent a Christmas box home that was quite interesting—twenty-two Italian chevrons, a wristwatch, a leather billfold from North Africa, some German cigars, a bullet, two blouses, and some lingerie. That’s all I can think of at the present.

During the Christmas vacation I called your mother, and she said that she hadn’t heard from you for some time. She had hopes that you were on your way home. So, naturally we had our hopes up too. But, no. You say it will be quite a spell before you’ll be home.

My gosh, do you realize that you’ve been gone almost two years? And that some people back here would like to see you again? Namely, me, if you need an example.

Time’s running short, best I should hurry. Haven’t taken a single note this hour but I have received some awfully nasty looks.

Evidently you haven’t been getting my mail because I know I have written several times since September 11. I guess you cover so much territory and jump around so much that you miss out on some of the mail.

With love, Dottie

Evans stared blankly at the page of bright blue cursive. Taking in a deep breath of the lilac-laced envelope, he exhaled mightily, and pondered the ceiling of the mess for a moment.

Looking at his mother’s crushed V-Mail, he regretted his actions and attempted to smooth the wrinkled paper. Then, picking up a pen and a blank piece of V-Mail, Evans responded, but not to Dottie.

Dear Mom,

You know what I was looking for when I joined the Marine Corps, well I’ve had several solid years of it, and I’ve enjoyed every one of them. This war came at the most opportune time, and now I’ve found my calling. The Corps offers everything I’ve been looking for, and I’ve become a first class fighting man.

I’ve lost a lot of buddies along the way, but Hal Moore, Emerick, and me came thru the assault on Tarawa unscathed. The Japs said it would take a million men one hundred years to grab that island, but we Marines did it in three bloody days.

Thank Dottie for her nice letter, but aren’t there any men back there at all? I’ve got too many women on the string that do too much wishful thinkin’. I’ll have to sign up for four more years overseas duty just to escape ’em all. So, please don’t tell any more gals to write me ’cause I won’t be able to answer. I’m writing to Jean, Dottie, Judy, Kathleen, and Jeanette back home, one in La Jolla to whom I am betrothed, and a fiancée in New Zealand—a Maori girl, but oh my!

This Marine Corps versus Japan fight has the earmarks of a long & delightfully violent scrap, and I’m not about to miss out on any of it. I thoroughly enjoy a good healthy war, and the Marine Corps is no place for a married man.

Here’s commentary on that lecture you gave me. I’m sure burned up over it and can’t figger it out at all.

If you think I’m the sweet, clean, sensitive, sheltered, Sunday school lad that you think I am, why somebody is awful deluded. I’ve been livin’, you know, and I’ve matured a little along the way. I’ve had about ten years of experience crammed into these last few years.

This war ain’t being fought in church, not in this part of the world, anyhow. This jungle fighting don’t follow the rules, and a pistol provides more comfort to me than a Bible. Your continual worrying and praying has got to come to an end.

And if you’re going to do a lot of wishful thinking, count me out. What little enjoyment I partake in along the road is up to me. I’ll enjoy life while I can. And as far as women go, those Maori gals are a lot cleaner than those in California. What do you want me to do, ask ’em for a medical certification before dating ’em?

Emerick says, “What my people don’t know won’t worry ’em, so I don’t tell ’em much.” I think he’s got the right idea. So much for that.

Well, so this letter don’t appear too austere, I’ll add a belated Happy New Year.

Love, Don

Having overstayed their welcome in the mess, the three gathered their mail and headed to their tent to listen to a record Moore’s little sister had sent, one of his favorites: Gene Autry’s “Red River Valley.”

“Dontcha know,” Emerick read out of his joke book, “he’s one of the three Polish cowboys, Gene Koo-yea, Gene Dobry, and Gene Autry.”