I just have to put more here about LCdr Ernest E. Evans.
To me, he is the epitome of the fighting spirit of the United States Navy:
During the
Oct. 27, 1943, commissioning ceremony of Johnston, Commanding Officer Evans made his mission clear to the Sailors assigned to the ship: “This is going to be a fighting ship. I intend to go in harm’s way, and anyone who doesn’t want to go along had better get off right now.” No one did.
As commanding officer,
Evans was the rare leader who “appreciated the hidden nature of things, the power of the unseen over the tangible,” according to those who served with Evans, as quoted in
The Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors, by James D. Hornfischer. He never exploded in anger and seldom upbraided a subordinate in front of others for poor performance. He gave his men the opportunity to fail, knowing they would learn and not fail him again.
His devotion to protecting the Marines fighting onshore went beyond providing them cover with the allotted amount of ammunition. He often ordered his ship in so close to shore it was hit with small arms fire. When Evans demanded more ammunition, he climbed into a wooden gig and motored over to the task group’s flagship to request it in person. And he got it.
At dawn on Oct. 25, 1944, a pilot flying patrol was surprised to see the Japanese Center Force steaming into Leyte Gulf. The remaining force of four Japanese battleships, eight cruisers, and at least 12 destroyers had reversed course under cover of darkness and transited through the unguarded San Bernardino Strait.
There was no question what decision Evans would make, despite having only two hours of fuel. “All hands to general quarters. Prepare to attack major portion of the Japanese fleet. All engines ahead flank. Commence making smoke and stand by for a torpedo attack. Left full rudder.” Every ship in Taffy 3’s screen performed with extreme heroism that day, but as the Gunnery Officer of Johnston, XXXX Hagen noted, “we were the first destroyer to make smoke, the first to start firing, the first to launch a torpedo attack. . . .”
Once the Johnston got to within the range of its 5-inch guns, under a hail of Japanese fire, she fired more than 200 rounds and 10 torpedoes at Japan’s heavy cruiser,
Kumano. Many shells and at least one torpedo hit, and the Kumano later sank.
But Japanese shells found their mark as well. Johnston was shattered, the damage and casualties were horrific, and Evan’s himself was seriously wounded.
Despite grave damage, greatly reduced speed and firepower, and no remaining torpedoes, Evans nevertheless chose to bring Johnston out of the refuge of a rain squall and commenced a second attack on the Japanese, supporting the Hoel, Heerman, and Samuel B. Roberts as they were valiantly sacrificing themselves to protect the escort carriers. In the ensuing melee, limping along on one boiler, Johnston fired nearly 30 rounds in 40 seconds into a 30,000-ton battleship.
Evans then noticed Japanese ships had targeted the escort carrier Gambier Bay (CVE 73). Hagen said his skipper “gave me the most courageous order I’ve heard: ‘Commence firing on that cruiser, draw her fire on us and away from Gambier Bay.’” Hagen continued, “We were now in a position where all the gallantry and guts in the world couldn’t save us, but we figured that help for the carrier must be on the way, and every minute’s delay might count.”
In The Last Stand of the Tin Can Sailors, Capt. Bob Copeland, the commanding officer of Samuel B. Roberts, describes the moment he watched Johnston limp by slowly, with her captain calling orders down the hatch where sailors were turning her rudder by hand. He was stripped to the waist and covered in blood with his left hand wrapped in a handkerchief. When he saw Copeland, he waved.
One by one, Johnston took on the Japanese destroyers, bluffing them into thinking she had torpedoes. After the first two turned away, the rest broke off to get out of Johnston’s gun range to launch torpedoes. All missed.
The charge ended Johnston’s improbable two-and-a-half-hour battle. Surrounded by enemy ships and dead in the water with no boilers or power, Evans made the call at 9:45 a.m. to abandon ship. Twenty-five minutes later, the destroyer rolled over and began to sink. One survivor said a Japanese destroyer captain saluted the ship as she went down.