Ernest E. Evans' Last Charge at the Battle off Samar

Dec 22 , 2025

Ernest E. Evans' Last Charge at the Battle off Samar

The sky turned to fire that morning off Samar. Japanese warships loomed like giants over the tiny American escort carriers and their sparse escorts. A reckless gamble. An impossible fight. And there, in the eye of hell, Commander Ernest E. Evans took the wheel of USS Johnston — launched his ship full throttle, guns blazing, into the maw of certain death.

Roots of a Warrior

Ernest Edwin Evans came from a small Minnesota town, a son of the Upper Midwest with a steel spine forged by hard work and quiet faith. His Navy path was not gilded with privilege but carved through steadfast grit and a code older than war itself. Evans believed in duty as a sacred covenant — a shield for those who couldn't fight. Honor and sacrifice weren’t just words. They were blood and bone.

Before the war, Evans honed his skills in the Navy’s technical schools, rising through ranks on sheer merit. Not once did he waver from his Christian compass. In letters home, he often quoted Scripture — lean on the Lord when the storm closes in, when death hovers close.

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” — Joshua 1:9

This was a man who knew his place in the great theater of war. Not just a commander of steel, but a shepherd of men.

The Battle That Defined Him

October 25, 1944. The Battle off Samar. The light escort carriers of “Taffy 3” steamed into the Philippine Sea, tasked with covering the main strike force. What they faced instead were the battleships and cruisers of Vice Admiral Takeo Kurita’s Center Force — titans of the Imperial Japanese Navy, including the mighty Yamato.

Evans’s destroyer, the USS Johnston (DD-557), was outgunned and outnumbered tenfold. But Johnston charged without hesitation, firing torpedoes and guns at targets triple her size. He ordered aggressive maneuvers, weaving through cruisers and battleships to screen the carriers. His ship took hit after hit but stayed in the fight.

Evans’s leadership was fierce and direct. He shouted orders through the chaos, pressing the attack despite overwhelming odds. He knew the bigger ships’ guns could crush him with one salvo, but every moment spent distracted Kurita’s force meant lives saved for the entire escort group. His destroyer launched torpedoes that crippled the heavy cruiser Chōkai and disrupted the Japanese formation.

His grit inspired the men aboard — the Johnston’s log reads like a testament to defiance. The ship took fifteen direct hits. Fires erupted. Damage control parties fought to keep her afloat. Evans was seriously wounded but refused evacuation. He kept command until the keel cracked, and Johnston finally went down.

His last acts were bold: charging into the jaws of hell to protect the carriers — those floating lifelines of airpower that made the Pacific campaign possible. Johnston’s fight bought crucial time for the rest of Taffy 3 to withdraw and regroup.

Recognition and Reverence

Ernest E. Evans posthumously received the Medal of Honor — the Navy’s highest tribute to valor. His citation reads:

“For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty… Commander Evans boldly charged at an overwhelmingly superior force of battleships and cruisers to defend his escort carriers.”

His actions defined the philosophy of “Never Give Up.” Fellow officers and sailors remembered him as a commanding presence, unflinching under fire and embodying the warrior’s soul. Admiral Chester W. Nimitz called the sacrifice of Taffy 3 “one of the most heroic naval engagements in U.S. history.” Evans stood at the very center of it.

Legacy Etched in Steel and Spirit

The tale of Ernest E. Evans is not just a story of naval heroism or tactical brilliance. It is a living lesson in courage measured not by might but by the will to stand when defeat is certain. It is a story of sacrifice — the kind that reverberates through generations, echoing in every veteran’s silent night.

The scars he carried, in life and death, bear witness to the cost of freedom.

His sacrifice reminds us that leadership isn’t clean or convenient. It’s a storm, a test, and a calling. The line between destruction and salvation is often paper-thin. He chose to stand on that line — and never step back.

We do well to remember Evans not as a distant figure in history but as a brother in arms whose faith and fury kept the light alive that day at Samar.

“Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.” — John 15:13

Ernest E. Evans died at sea, but in that sacrifice, he found eternal purpose. In his final moments, he met the price of battle with a soul anchored in something greater than himself—faith, honor, and unyielding service. For every veteran who walks the line today, his story echoes: Stand firm. Hold fast. Fight for those who cannot.

The sea didn’t swallow him. It bore his legacy forward — a beacon in the darkest tides.

Sources

1. Naval History and Heritage Command, USS Johnston (DD-557) Action Report, Battle off Samar, 1944 2. U.S. Navy, Medal of Honor Citation: Ernest E. Evans 3. Samuel Eliot Morison, History of United States Naval Operations in World War II, Vol. 12: Leyte 4. Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, remarks on Battle off Samar, 1944 5. Bradford, James C., The Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors