Donald James Yarmy was working as a theater usher in New York City when the news came crackling over the radio. Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor. America was at war.

He was either 16 or 18 years old—sources disagree, and Donald may have lied about his age. What’s certain is this: he was a high school dropout with his whole life ahead of him, and he didn’t wait to be drafted.

“I want to defend my country,” he told his parents, who begged him not to go so young.

He went anyway.

Late in 1941, Donald Yarmy enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. He reported to the First Training Battalion in New River, North Carolina, where boot camp broke him down and rebuilt him as a Marine. Then he received his assignment: I Company, 3rd Battalion, 8th Marines—an infantry regiment in the 2nd Marine Division.

In May 1942, his unit shipped out to Samoa for jungle warfare training. They knew what was coming. Everyone knew. The first major Allied offensive against Japan in the Pacific Theater.

August 7, 1942. The Battle of Guadalcanal.

The 1st Marine Division stormed the beaches of Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands—America’s first amphibious landing of World War II. Military planners expected a quick operation. Instead, it became a six-month nightmare of jungle combat, disease, starvation, and brutal close-quarters fighting.

Private Donald Yarmy was there.

For weeks, he fought in oppressive heat and humidity that made every breath feel like drowning. The Japanese launched ferocious counterattacks. Artillery pounded Marine positions day and night. Disease spread through the ranks faster than bullets—malaria, dysentery, dengue fever turning soldiers into ghosts.

Then Donald contracted something worse.

Blackwater fever.

It’s a deadly complication of malaria where red blood cells rupture in the bloodstream, releasing hemoglobin directly into the blood and urine. The urine turns dark red or black—hence the name. Within days come chills, raging fever, jaundice, violent vomiting, rapid anemia, and often kidney failure.

In the 1940s, blackwater fever killed 90% of those who contracted it.

Donald Yarmy should have died on Guadalcanal. Thousands of better men did.

At some point during his hospitalization—delirious with fever, his urine black as oil, his body systematically failing—Donald did something he’d never done before.

He prayed.

On his Marine Corps enlistment form, in the section asking about religion, Donald had written “none.” He was an atheist who’d never believed in anything beyond what he could see and touch.

But now, face-to-face with death in a Navy hospital thousands of miles from home, he made a bargain with a God he’d never acknowledged.

“If you let me survive this,” he whispered through cracked lips, “I’ll believe.”

Against 90% odds, against medical expectation, against everything that should have killed him—Donald Yarmy survived blackwater fever.

He spent over a year recovering at a Navy hospital in Wellington, New Zealand. One of the longest hospital stays of any WWII serviceman who eventually returned to duty. Months of learning to walk again, to eat solid food again, to be something other than dying.

And when he finally recovered, true to his word, Donald Yarmy became a devout Catholic. He remained one for the rest of his life.

After his recovery, Corporal Yarmy returned to the United States and served as a Marine Drill Instructor, training new recruits with the same discipline and precision that had been drilled into him. He was an expert marksman, noted for his competence and dedication.

He was honorably discharged in 1945 when the war ended.

Then Donald Yarmy faced a different kind of battle: finding his place in peacetime America.

He worked as a commercial artist. A restaurant cashier. A theater usher again, back where he’d started. He’d married nightclub singer Adelaide Adams and they had daughters to support. Money was constantly tight. He needed steady income but couldn’t find his footing.

But Donald discovered he had a gift he hadn’t known about: he could make people laugh.

He started performing stand-up comedy and impressions at small clubs in Florida and Washington, D.C. To get called earlier at auditions—which were conducted alphabetically—he adopted his wife’s last name professionally.

Donald Yarmy became Don Adams.

In the early 1950s, he befriended comedian Bill Dana, who helped him revamp his persona and rewrite his material. Adams won on Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts in 1954, launching his television career.

Throughout the 1950s and early 1960s, he appeared on The Steve Allen Show, The Ed Sullivan Show, and various comedy programs. In 1961, he created a bumbling detective character named Byron Glick on The Bill Dana Show—a character that would become the foundation for his defining role.

In 1965, producer Mel Brooks and writer Buck Henry created Get Smart, a spy spoof parodying the James Bond craze. They needed someone to play Maxwell Smart, Agent 86 of CONTROL—a bumbling secret agent who somehow always saves the day despite his incompetence.

Don Adams got the role.

Get Smart premiered on NBC on September 18, 1965, and became an instant cultural phenomenon. Adams’s physical comedy, impeccable timing, and catchphrases made Maxwell Smart one of television’s most beloved characters.

“Sorry about that, Chief.”

“Would you believe…?”

“Missed it by THAT much.”

The show ran from 1965 to 1970—138 episodes—and Don Adams won three consecutive Emmy Awards for Outstanding Performance by an Actor in a Leading Role in a Comedy Series (1967, 1968, 1969).

But Get Smart was more than escapist comedy. It was brilliant satire, poking fun at Cold War paranoia, government bureaucracy, and spy thriller clichés. And at its heart was a Marine Corps veteran who understood duty, honor, and the absurdity of war.

Don Adams never forgot his service or his brothers in arms.

Throughout his career, he remained humble about his wartime experience. While the exact quote “I’m no hero—the real heroes are the ones who didn’t make it back” cannot be definitively verified, the sentiment aligns perfectly with everything known about his character.

He understood that while he’d survived blackwater fever and returned home to make people laugh, over 7,000 Americans were killed or wounded in the six-month Guadalcanal campaign. Thousands more died from disease in that jungle hell.

He was lucky. They weren’t. He never forgot that.

After Get Smart ended, Adams continued working. He voiced Inspector Gadget for the animated series (1983-1986), bringing his bumbling detective persona to a new generation. He appeared in various TV shows and movies, always maintaining his distinctive voice and comedic timing.

He married three times and had seven children: Carolyn, Christine, Cathy, Cecily, Stacey, Sean, and Beige.

Tragically, his daughter Cecily died of lung cancer in 2004, and his son Sean died of a brain tumor in 2006—both predeceasing their father. The man who’d survived war couldn’t protect his children from disease.

On September 25, 2005, at age 82, Don Adams died from a lung infection at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. He was buried at Hollywood Forever Cemetery among entertainment legends.

The journey from Private Donald Yarmy to Don Adams is one of the great American stories.

A teenager who lied about his age to defend his country. A combat veteran of Guadalcanal who should have died from blackwater fever but bargained with God and won. A drill instructor who trained Marines. A struggling comedian working odd jobs to support his family. And finally, a television icon who made millions laugh while carrying memories of jungle combat he rarely discussed.

Don Adams understood that comedy was his gift, but service at Guadalcanal had been his duty. And duty—even decades later—remained sacred.

The Greatest Generation earned that title through sacrifice. Some gave their lives on distant battlefields. Some gave their health to tropical diseases. All gave their youth to a war that had to be won.

Don Adams gave his too—and then spent the rest of his life making America smile.

When Maxwell Smart bumbled his way through CONTROL headquarters, stumbled over his own feet, and somehow saved the day despite his incompetence, millions of Americans laughed without knowing they were watching a Marine who’d faced death at Guadalcanal.

When Inspector Gadget deployed malfunctioning gadgets and solved crimes through sheer luck, children laughed without knowing the voice belonged to a veteran of one of WWII’s bloodiest campaigns.

That was Don Adams’s final service to his country: giving us joy without asking for recognition. Making us laugh without demanding we remember his sacrifice.

But we should remember.

We should remember Private Donald Yarmy lying in a hospital bed, his body failing, making a promise to God.

We should remember Corporal Yarmy training the next generation of Marines with precision and care.

We should remember the struggling comedian who never gave up despite hardship.

And we should remember Don Adams, who brought laughter to millions while carrying memories of brothers who never came home.

Rest in peace, Corporal Yarmy.

Thank you for your service. Thank you for the laughs. Thank you for showing us that heroes don’t always carry themselves like heroes—sometimes they make us smile instead.

Semper Fi.

And… missed it by THAT much.