The Highest Ambition

The Highest Ambition

Based on a true story.

Contains battle scenes

On Saturday, January 28, 1967, Bonnie Evans had finished the weekly housecleaning and lit up a cigarette to go with her cup of coffee. Since the weather was so nice, the young woman sat in the wooden swing on the porch of her house in Covina, California, enjoying a record-setting sixty-degree temperature. The weatherman was calling it “the January Thaw.”

She idly toed the floor to set the swing going while she watched for the postman, hoping for a letter from her husband.

A car displaying an army decal glided to the side of the curb in front of the house. Two army officers exited the car and started up the walk. At the sound of the car doors, she stood, letting the coffee cup drop to the porch floor, splashing her house shoes. She grabbed the chain on the suspended swing, still rocking slightly back and forth. The color drained from her face.

“No, no! Please, no,” she moaned, closing her eyes as they stopped at the steps to the porch.

“Mrs. Evans? Are you Mrs. Donald Evans?”

Gritting her teeth, she slowly opened her eyes and trembled. “Yes,” she choked.

The officers took off their hats. “May we come up?”

“Yes.” She licked her lips and folded her left hand around the necklace about her throat, while the chain she gripped in her right hand cut into her fingers.

The older man reached out to her as if to steady her. “Mrs. Evans, I regret we have some bad news for you. Would you like to sit down?”

She coughed, strangling on a half sob. “No, I prefer to stand, thank you.”

“Mrs. Evans, we are so sorry to tell you that your husband, Donald Ward Evans, died in a fierce battle in Vietnam yesterday. He died heroically, attending and rescuing men who were gravely wounded in the firefight.”

She wobbled and fell backward onto the swing. The two men jumped to her side. She strangled the scream in her throat and fought for breath.

“Ma’am,” the younger officer addressed her. Do you have anyone here with you?”

She shook her head.

“Is there anyone you would like to call? We will stay with you until someone comes.”

Ice spread from her chest to her feet. She shivered. “I—I need to call Don’s parents. They don’t live far.”

“May I bring you the telephone?”

“Please. The living room—a table next to the kitchen.”

Donald’s father answered the phone. “Oh God!” He screamed after a moment and fell into a nearby chair, waving to his wife.

She came running into the living room, drying her hands on her apron. “What--?”

“We have to go to Bonnie’s right now. Don’s been killed,” he said, and broke into sobs as he handed the phone to her.

Now it was eighteen months later, and Donald Senior sat restlessly in a formally decorated antechamber holding a photograph of his son celebrating his tenth birthday. He wasn’t sure why he had brought the picture to Washington, but it had always been one of his favorites. Donnie’s hands were over his head, showing off the Superman cape he’d just gotten. The ecstatic smile on his face said it all. He’d also received the latest 3-D comic book and the Supermen of America’s patch. Like many boys his age, he idolized the superhero action figure, collecting every comic book and watching every television show.

He remained a Superman fan long after that birthday. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, Donnie always answered, “Superman!”

“You do know that Superman is just a comic book person, right?” His father asked.

“Sure,” he replied, flexing his muscles. “I know that, but I want to be a hero like him, helping people, rescuing them when they need it."

“Is that your ambition?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, his blue eyes shining.

“That’s a good ambition to have, son. You hold on to that.”

In the years following, whenever someone asked Donnie about his future, he would always answer, “I'm going to be Superman.” It was the family joke and a claim that kept his fellow students amused.. He wore his Superman cape every Halloween, rescuing it from the trash when his mother tried to throw it out. She would sigh and shake her head. Every year, it got a little shabbier.

Don was a popular student, made good grades, and kept active in sports, especially as a cross-country runner. His high school team won state championships. He also loved car racing and spent time at a nearby popular racetrack. A handsome blond with tanned skin and plenty of showy muscles, Don had his share of girlfriends until he met Bonnie. They fell in love and dated regularly during their last year of high school.

Donald Senior sighed and looked over at his son’s wife, who sat quietly chewing her fingernails. He and Elsie had been happy when, after several years of dating, the two had tied the knot. They drove to Las Vegas the first weekend in December 1964 and had their brief honeymoon there. Now, dressed in a professional-looking navy blue suit, Bonne looked pale despite the rouge and makeup. Elsie was holding her daughter-in-law’s hand.

Donald reread the formal letter that had come several weeks ago from the Office of the Secretary of the Army. It said, among other things: After a lengthy and thorough investigation, President Johnson has recommended that US Army Specialist Fourth Class Donald Ward Evans, Jr., receive the Medal of Honor posthumously. The ceremony will be held on June 4, 1968, with the Secretary of the Army, Stanley R. Resor, making the formal presentation.

They had arrived in Washington three days before and used the time to do some touring. This morning, an army car had picked them up at the hotel and brought them to the command center of the military operations of the nation. Donald had never seen the Pentagon before, and the size overwhelmed him. They walked down marble halls until they reached carpet and stopped briefly at a handsome desk. The woman behind the desk smiled and led them to this room. After a few minutes, a young man in an army uniform brought in coffee and croissants. Elsie poured some of the coffee, but Bonnie shook her head. Donald didn’t want any either.

Restless, Donald stood up and paced over to a large bookcase. They had only been sitting about ten minutes, but it seemed like longer. He examined the large room, an antechamber to the Secretary’s office. Elegant in a masculine theme, it impressed visitors with luxury. Wingback chairs with plump brocade cushions complemented the thick navy blue carpet. Two small, rounded tables sat between the chairs and held a silver coffee pot, water, china, and refreshments. Loaded bookshelves covered two walls, while another wall displayed plaques and photographs of Secretary Resor with Presidents Johnson and Nixon and other government leaders. Soft music played from a hidden sound box, but didn’t help Donald’s nerves. He began to sweat a little and clawed at his tie, which seemed to get tighter every minute.

His thoughts went back to 1965. The war in Vietnam had heated up, along with the nation’s reaction to it. President Johnson had reinstated the draft, which had been little used since the end of World War II. The nation rebelled, condemning the declaration of a war that was sending young men to an Asian country that many did not even know existed. Draftees tore up their cards. Huge protests all over the country turned into riots. Large groups of young citizens fled to Canada to avoid the draft.

During that turbulent time, Donald and Bonnie went to see his parents. “I’m going to enlist in the army.” He told them.

“What?” his father shouted. “You don’t want to do that, now of all times. For God’s sake, you know you’ll go straight to Vietnam! The war has ballooned, and they’re sending everyone there.”

“Dad, you know they’ve revived the draft. It’s just a matter of time before I get called. Everyone is talking about it. A lot of my friends don’t want to go and are talking about going to Canada to live. I won’t do that. I can’t do that. As a citizen of this country, I have a duty to serve and protect it.”

“I don’t see how you can protect it while fighting an unknown enemy in another country. I don’t like the idea. It’s not right.”

“Maybe not, but it’s happening. I talked to a recruiter. Rather than wait for the draft, if I go in now, I stand a good chance of getting a better choice of MOS. And after I’m discharged, I can get money for a college education.

Elsie spoke up. “What about you, Bonnie? Do you agree with this decision? You haven’t even been married a year!”

Bonnie chewed her lip. “Of course, I don’t like it, Mother Evans, but Don’s right. We know he will be sent there sooner or later. At least this way, he gets to make some choices. It does make more sense.” A tear slipped down her cheek.

“Damn it all.” Donald Senior said, slamming his fist on the table. “You've just started your life together. You shouldn’t have to make a choice like this!”

Anger, frustration, and fear made no difference. Donald Junior took the Vocational Aptitude Battery of tests and was able to choose an MOS as a combat medic. Bonnie accompanied him and watched as he signed the papers.

His mother cried, and his father yelled. “You couldn’t have chosen a more dangerous assignment. Bonnie, couldn’t you talk some sense into your husband?”

She smiled sadly. “You know that isn’t possible. He’s his father’s son.”

“It’s what I want to do, Dad. I’ve never changed my mind about wanting to help my fellow man. The military needs medics bad, and I think I will be good at it.”

Donald Senior raised his hand in protest, then dropped it in despair.

His son made one last plea for understanding. “Taking this step will help me prepare for medical school. I will get the experience that will increase my chances of getting accepted. Besides that, I will have opportunities to do some real good, make my life count for something. Look, I’ll be leaving for training soon. Let’s don’t quarrel anymore.”

Early in autumn the following year, Donnie came home after completing his medical training at Fort Sam Houston. He had two weeks' leave before shipping out to Vietnam on September 22, 1966, leaving his weeping wife and anxious parents behind.

He wrote regularly, often sending photos and joking about the accommodation and gear. In October, he wrote, ...they gave us ammo and I carry morphine, so you know we’re here. Another time he commented...our pup tent is about as dry as dry during a rain on the ocean. We live half like animals and half like people. During the last ten days, I’ve slept in the wet.*

Bonnie laughed as much as she cried at his descriptions of the surroundings and adventures that he included in his letters.

Until those two Army officers visited her on a certain Saturday.

The door opened to the formal inner office, bringing Donald back to the present. A young officer stepped out. “Secretary Resor will see you now.” He said to the three in the antechamber. As they entered the room, the Secretary came around his desk to greet them. “I have both the honor and the burden to present the Medal of Honor to you for the ultimate sacrifice you and your loved one made for our country,” he said. “President Johnson sends his deepest regrets that he is unable to present the award himself, but is with you in spirit. The ceremony is held in the Pentagon’s Hall of Heroes, which contains the names and pictures of all our Medal of Honor recipients. Donald's picture will be added. Afterwards, we will attend a reception and meet some men who served with your son and were with him when he died.” He chatted for a few more moments before leading them down a long passage to the Hall of Heroes.

The rest of the day was a blur of sights, sounds, and emotions. Donald, Elsie, and Bonnie heard the full citation of Donnie’s actions for the first time. Don’s commanding officer had briefed them not long after they were notified of his death and related how Donnie had returned time after time through enemy fire in an open field to treat and rescue soldiers who were not even part of his battalion. Despite multiple injuries from grenade shrapnel and loss of blood, he refused medical attention to move yet another wounded man to the safety of the lines and took a mortal bullet during that maneuver.

Even after learning the details two years before, hearing it read as the official citation for the medal and seeing the bright blue ribbon and the star-shaped medal within a wooden frame brought vivid images. As Donald listened, he thought of the photo of that ten-year-old boy again. He could picture his son flying across the one-hundred-yard field, a red cape fluttering behind him. He imagined him as he gently lifted an injured man and hugged the body against his chest while dashing yet again through heavy fire. He could hear the shouts and screams, the wack-wack of guns firing and deafening explosions of a hundred grenades. Through the haze of smoke-filled air, he saw the agony of pain on his son’s face and flinched, feeling each piece of shrapnel ripping into his own body. He heard Donnie’s ragged breath as he staggered under the weight of each man he carried.

Don’t grieve for me, Dad; I’m doing what I want to do. The sound of Donnie’s voice rang through his mind.

Pain and healing accompanied the family at the reception. Many of the men there had served with Donnie, and some were alive because of his actions. Everyone he talked to had a story to tell about “Doc.” The warmth, love, and shared grief of the crowd covered and sustained Donnie’s family.

Conspicuous gallantry…at the risk of his own life. That’s what the citation had said.

The mourning father inhaled a shuddering breath as he watched Bonnie’s brave smile while she took the flag of honor from the Secretary of the Army. She cradled it in her arms and bent her head over it, keeping the smile as she wept softly. He squeezed his wife’s hand.

“Being a hero is a good ambition,” he had told his son so many years ago. “Hold on to it.”

Donnie had done just that.

https://www.cmohs.org

https://health.mil/news/DVIDS-articles/25/09/08