Ernest E. Evans' Medal of Honor at the Battle off Samar

Oct 31 , 2025

Ernest E. Evans' Medal of Honor at the Battle off Samar

Smoke chokes the sky. Shells scream overhead. The USS Evans burns, crippled, but off its shattered bridge, Commander Ernest E. Evans stands firm, eyes sharp, mantra steady: Fight to the last man and the last bullet. This ain't about glory. It's about stopping the enemy—for his men, his ship, and the price of freedom.

A Son of Iowa, Forged by Faith and Duty

Born June 13, 1908, in Pawnee City, Nebraska, but raised in Iowa, Ernest E. Evans grew up tough where the land was no-nonsense and faith ran deep. He carried a Midwestern grit; a steadfastness molded by years at the United States Naval Academy, class of 1930. To Evans, honor wasn’t a word—it was a command.

Warrior and gentleman. A man who believed in the codes beyond combat.

His godly compass wasn’t just idle comfort—it was a solemn covenant. The Bible shaped his worldview, patience under fire, courage at odds with mortal fear. As Scripture says:

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” — Joshua 1:9

Evans held that promise close. It was not about dying, but about how you fight before the final breath.

The Battle That Defined Him: Leyte Gulf, October 25, 1944

At the helm of USS Dewey (DD-349), Evans’ role was critical but overshadowed by what’s known as the Battle off Samar—a brutal subset of the larger Battle of Leyte Gulf, the largest naval engagement of World War II.

When Task Unit 77.4.3, known as "Taffy 3," took the hit, Evans, now commanding the destroyer escort USS John C. Butler, was ordered into action. The Japanese Center Force, a maelstrom of battleships and cruisers led by Vice Admiral Kurita, bore down with overwhelming firepower—15 battleships and cruisers against a handful of destroyers and escort carriers.

Evans faced near-suicidal odds.

He threw his ship directly into the enemy’s path, launching torpedoes into the hulls of giant battleships, peeling off their focus. He ordered aggressive, erratic maneuvers to confuse and disrupt the Japanese gunners, every action a calculated gamble to protect the carriers loading Marines for the Philippine invasion.

With the USS John C. Butler his shield, Evans repeatedly rammed the enemy and fired with relentless fury. He shouted orders over chaos, rallying a small group of heroes against a ferocious sea beast no one expected to survive. His ship was hit repeatedly.

A shell smashed into his position, but Evans refused to yield. As he fought, his left leg was nearly severed. He refused evacuation. Bleeding, still commanding, his voice steady, he insisted the fight continue.

Minutes later, John C. Butler was hit—repeatedly. The ship began to sink.

As the vessel went down, Evans was last seen on deck, still fighting for every inch, a lion to the end.

Medal of Honor: The Nation’s Highest Tribute

Posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor, Evans’ citation reads like a war sermon—tribute to grit welded with unshakable resolve:

“For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as commanding officer... in fighting against overwhelming odds... With skill and daring, he launched torpedo attacks and fire that threw the enemy force into disorder before he gallantly lost his life.” [1]

His leadership saved lives and blunted the Japanese advance. Fellow officers called him:

"One of the finest fighting officers of his generation." — Admiral Chester W. Nimitz [2]

Comrades remember Evans not only for valor but for the steel gentleness with which he carried the burden of command. He was a warrior, yes, but a shepherd among men in the abyss.

Legacy of Sacrifice and Redemption

Ernest E. Evans is more than a name on battle charts or a shining medal. He symbolizes the raw edge between chaos and order—the soldier’s burden to stand, even as all falls around him.

His story resonates beyond ships and battles. It is the story of every warrior who understands that sacrifice is sometimes unseen, often unheralded, but always necessary.

We remember Evans to hold fast to what real courage looks like: standing when broken, leading when despair threatens, and giving everything—down to your final breath—so others might live.

"He has given his all," we whisper, and that sacrifice beckons us to a higher purpose.

In the bitter crucible of war, Ernest E. Evans found his redemption not in survival, but in unwavering commitment to the men and mission entrusted to him.

His legacy reminds us: fight with honor, serve with soul, and when the darkness comes, be the light they follow.

Sources

1. Naval History and Heritage Command, Medal of Honor Citation for Ernest E. Evans 2. Nimitz, Chester W., Personal Correspondence and Official Evaluations, 1944