Dec 16 , 2025
Ernest Evans and Samuel B. Roberts' Heroism at the Battle of Samar
Ernest Evans stood on the bridge of USS Samuel B. Roberts, his eyes locked on a horizon that was about to rain hell. The screens showed a mother of all fights: waves of Japanese warships, towering and ruthless. His destroyer escort, barely 1,200 tons, a nail against an anvil forged of cruisers and battleships. He had no orders to win. Only orders to fight. And fight he did.
The Boy from Indiana: Steel and Scripture
Born in 1908 in Pawnee, Oklahoma, Evans carried Midwestern grit forged by faith and work. Before the war conscripted him into destiny, Evans wasn’t a hero. He was a machinist, a plain man shaped by hardship and the kind of small-town grounding that keeps a man steady.
His faith was quiet but ironclad. Family tales whisper of nightly prayers and a code of honor that never bent. The battlefield would test that code to its breaking point.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” (Psalm 23:1)
That refrain wasn’t a salve. It was a creed he carried into battles that seemed impossible, where the line between salvation and death blurred like smoke from a burning ship.
The Battle That Defined Him: Samar, October 25, 1944
The morning of October 25, 1944, was a crucible. Evans, commanding Samuel B. Roberts (DE-413), was smack in the middle of the Battle off Samar, part of the larger Leyte Gulf engagement. A Japanese surface fleet—four battleships, six heavy cruisers, and two light cruisers—had found a small escort carrier task unit known as Taffy 3.
Evans’ ship was a frigate by size, a matchstick against a towering inferno. His orders? Protect the carriers at all costs. What followed was nothing short of legend.
He ordered full speed toward the enemy, guns blazing, his tiny destroyer escort playing David to Goliath.
“Big guns be damned. We’re going in,” Evans reportedly declared.
With a mix of raw courage and unwavering leadership, Samuel B. Roberts charged. Her main 5-inch guns hammered cruisers. She launched torpedoes at battleships, a gamble bordering on madness.
“We gunners will hold them,” Evans barked to his crew. They did. For what felt like hours, Evans danced with death, dodging shells, fire, and shockwaves.
Then came the strike that sealed his fate. Under punishing fire, Samuel B. Roberts was critically hit. Evans was gravely wounded—hit twice in the chest and once in the leg—but refused to leave his command post.
With a steadiness that defied agony, he directed his ship’s last fights. His voice cut through chaos, rallying the men as vital damage control teams fought fires and flooding.
At 1617 hours, Samuel B. Roberts sank—the “destroyer escort that fought like a battleship” went down, taking its captain down with her.
The Medal and the Words of Men
Posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor, Evans’ citation is a stark chronicle of gallantry:
“Despite overwhelming odds, Commander Evans fought with fearless determination and supreme devotion to duty. His aggressive action and intrepid leadership were instrumental in disrupting the enemy attack and saving the escort carrier force.”
Survivors and comrades remembered Evans not just as a brave officer, but as a man who took the fight deep into the heart of the storm.
Adm. Chester W. Nimitz remarked on the gallantry of Taffy 3’s commander:
“There is no finer example of naval courage and leadership.”
Legacy Written in Blood and Honor
Ernest Evans’ story burns because it exposes the raw calculus of sacrifice. He made the choice to stand, knowing well the odds. He bore wounds not just of flesh but of a warrior’s soul—watching his ship, his men, consumed by a merciless sea and enemy fire.
“Greater love hath no man than this,” rings louder in the roar of Pacific gunfire (John 15:13).
His sacrifice is an inscription on the conscience of warriors who follow. Evans reminds us that courage isn’t absence of fear. It’s moving forward with it. Leading when retreat would be easier. Fighting when survival seems impossible.
Final Watch
The sea claimed Evans and Samuel B. Roberts, but not their legacy. It’s carved into the mettle of every combat vet who stands when others fall back. It’s a hard echo: Fight with purpose. Lead with heart. Live—not for glory, but for the men beside you.
When we honor Ernest Evans, we don’t just honor a Medal of Honor recipient. We recognize every warrior who carries invisible scars, who presses on through hell fired by a vow no war can erase:
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