At 6:58 a.m. on October 25th, 1944, lookouts aboard USS Samuel B. Roberts spotted four Japanese battleships emerging 15 mi northwest as the destroyer escort steamed off Samar Island, Philippines. The Roberts displaced 1,745 tons with two 5-in guns and a crew of 224 sailors who had been together for exactly 5 months and 27 days since commissioning.

 Leading the enemy formation was Yamato, the largest battleship ever built, displacing 72,000 tons with nine 18.1inch guns that could fire shells weighing 3200 lb, 25 mi. Lieutenant Commander Robert Copeland picked up the intercom microphone and informed his crew of the situation. A large Japanese fleet had been contacted 15 mi away.

 Four battleships, eight cruisers, multiple destroyers, all heading directly toward the American task force. Copelan told them this would be a fight against overwhelming odds from which survival could not be expected. They would do what damage they could. The Japanese center force consisted of 23 warships, four battleships, six heavy cruisers, two light cruisers, 11 destroyers.

 Total tonnage 200,000 tons. Opposing them were six American escort carriers designed to fight submarines screened by three destroyers and four destroyer escorts, seven small ships. Total tonnage 25,000 tons. The Japanese outweighed them 8 to1. Admiral William Hollyy had taken every American battleship north overnight, chasing Japanese carriers.

 He left Taffy 3 alone off Samar. American intelligence reported the Japanese center force retreating after yesterday’s air attacks. They weren’t retreating. At 3:00 a.m., they had transited San Bernardino Straight undetected. Now they were here, closing at 30 knots. Escort carriers could make 18 knots maximum.

 They couldn’t outrun battleships. In the Pacific War, so far, 53 destroyer escorts had been commissioned. None had ever engaged enemy battleships. Doctrine called for screening convoys against submarines, not charging battleships. In the previous three months, Japanese naval forces had sunk four American escort carriers at the Battle of the Philippine Sea.

 Standard survival rate for carrier crews in surface actions was 40%. 1,200 sailors had died in those engagements. At 7:05 a.m., Admiral Clifton Sprag ordered his screen to attack. Three destroyers turned toward the enemy. Johnston, Hoell, Herman. Behind them came four destroyer escorts. Roberts was last in line. They had minutes before Japanese guns opened fire.

 Will this tiny ship survive charging Yamato? Please like to honor their courage and subscribe for more. Back to Roberts below decks. Chief Engineer Lieutenant Lloyd Trowbridge heard Copeland’s announcement over the intercom. Navy regulations limited the Roberts to 24 knots. Safety mechanisms prevented the boilers from exceeding design specifications.

 Trowbridge walked to the main control panel and started bypassing every safety system the Navy had installed. His crew watched. Nobody spoke. They understood. 24 knots would not be enough. At 7:16 a.m., Johnston opened fire first. Shells arked toward the Japanese fleet. The enemy returned fire immediately. 14-in shells from battleship Congo.

 Water columns erupted 200 f feet high. The destroyer disappeared into smoke. At 7:23 a.m., the Roberts turned toward the enemy. Copeland ordered flank speed. Trobridge’s modifications pushed the destroyer escort to 28 knots, 4 knots faster than design specifications. The ship vibrated. Metal groaned. Steam pressure gauges climbed into the red zone. Nobody cared. Speed was life.

 The Japanese fleet spread across 10 mi of ocean. Yamato steamed in the center. Heavy cruiser Chukuma led the right flank 8 mi ahead of the battleship. Cruiser Ton followed 2 mi behind Chukuma. To the left, cruisers Haguro and Chokai closed on the American carriers. Between them, destroyers formed a screening line.

 The Roberts had to penetrate that screen, reach torpedo range, fire, escape. Torpedo range was 5,000 yd, 2.8 mi. Roberts’s three Mark 15 torpedoes could travel that distance at 46 knots. But getting within 5,000 yd meant running through a gauntlet of shells from ships that could hit targets at 25,000 yd. The math was simple.

 For every mile the Roberts advanced, the Japanese could fire 5 m worth of shells at her. At 7:32 a.m., shells began falling around the destroyer escort. 8-in rounds from heavy cruiser Chukuma. Green die markers in the splashes helped Japanese spotters track their aim. One shell landed 50 yards off the port bow.

 Another struck 20 yards to starboard. Water columns towered over the ship’s mast. Copeland ordered hard left rudder, then hard right zigzag pattern. Keep the enemy guessing. Make their rangefinders work. Gun Captain Lieutenant William Burton stood in the forward 5-in gun mount. His crew had trained for 6 months, fired thousands of practice rounds, never against battleships.

 The forward gun could fire 15 rounds per minute with a trained crew. Burton had a trained crew. He also had 608 rounds of ammunition total, 304 per gun. At 15 rounds per minute, that gave him 20 minutes of continuous fire. If he didn’t conserve ammunition, the Roberts would run dry before the battle ended. Burton’s gun crew consisted of 10 men: loader, rammer, powderman, fuse setter, trainer, pointer, gun captain, three ammunition handlers. Average age 22.

Two had never been in combat before today. The other eight had fought submarine contacts. This was different. Submarines didn’t shoot back with 14-in guns. At 7:38 a.m., Copeland announced over the intercom they were closing for torpedo attack. The Roberts was 7,000 yd from Chuma. Still too far. Copeland needed to close another 2,000 yd.

 Two more minutes at 28 knots. Two more minutes of shells falling around his ship. One direct hit from an 8-in shell would penetrate the Robert’s thin hole plating, detonate inside, kill everyone in that compartment. The forward gun mount had 3/8 in steel plating designed to stop shrapnel, not 8-in shells. If a shell hit the mount directly, all 10 men inside would die instantly.

 At 7:40 a.m., the Roberts crossed 5,000 yd from Tacuma torpedo range. Copeland ordered the tubes fired. Three Mark1 15 torpedoes launched from the starboard side. White wakes traced across the water at 46 knots. Travel time to target approximately 2 minutes. The torpedoes ran hot, straight, and normal. The Roberts immediately reverse course, hard left rudder, full speed away from the enemy.

 Disappear into the smoke screen before the Japanese could track her. Chakuma’s lookout spotted the torpedo wakes. The cruiser turned hard to port. Emergency maneuver. Her rudder went to maximum angle. 8,000 tons of warship healed over. The first torpedo passed 50 yards ahead of her bow. The second missed the stern. The third ran underneath without detonating.

 Contact exploders on Mark 15 torpedoes had a 40% failure rate. The Roberts had just fired three duds, but Copeland had achieved something more valuable than a hit. Chakuma had turned away from the carriers, broken off her attack run. The heavy cruiser was now heading northwest away from Taffy 3.

 [music] She’d lost 5 minutes of pursuit time, 5 minutes the escort carriers could use to run south, 5 minutes closer to potential rescue from Admiral Hallyy’s fleet. At 7:45 a.m., the Roberts emerged from the smoke screen. Chakuma had completed her turn and resumed course toward the carriers. She was now 8,000 yd away, too far for another torpedo run.

 Copeland ordered Burton to open fire with the forward 5-in gun. The gun mount rotated toward the target, elevated to maximum range. Fired. The first shell left the barrel at 2,600 ft per second. Flight time 12 seconds. The shell landed 400 yd short. Burton adjusted elevation. Fired again. This round landed 200 yd short.

 Third shot, splashed near Chakuma’s bow. Fourth shot hit. The shell struck Chakuma’s forward superructure, penetrated, detonated inside. Smoke poured from the impact point. Burton’s crew settled into a rhythm. Load, ram, fire. Load, ram, fire. 15 rounds per minute. The gun barrel heated. Recoil mechanism cycled.

 Brass casings piled up inside the mount. After 5 minutes of continuous fire, Burton had expended 75 rounds, 5% of his total ammunition. He had hits on Chukuma. Couldn’t tell how much damage. The cruiser was still firing back, still closing on the carriers. At 7:52 a.m., Chukuma shifted her fire from the carriers to the Roberts.

 8-in shells began landing close, very close. One exploded 30 yard to port. Shrapnel peppered the Roberts’ hull. Another landed 20 yards to starboard. Blast wave rocked the ship. A third shell hit the water 10 yards off the bow. The splash drenched the forward gun mount. Sea water poured through the gunports. Burton’s crew kept firing.

Water slushed around their feet. The gun mechanism was designed to work wet. Had to be. Destroyers operated in all weather, all sea states. The crew had trained in simulated flooding. This wasn’t simulation. This was combat. And the Japanese were getting their range. At 8:03 a.m., Destroyer Johnston took a hit from battleship Congo.

 14-in shell, direct impact on her bridge. The explosion killed her executive officer and wounded her captain. Johnston’s speed dropped to 17 knots. Steering control shifted to aft steering. The destroyer continued firing. 3 mi to the north, destroyer Hoell engaged heavy cruiser Haguro. Hoel had already taken multiple hits.

 Her forward gun mount was destroyed. Number three engine room flooded. She was making 15 knots on one engine. The Roberts was still intact, still making 28 knots, still firing at Chuma, but ammunition was running low. After 18 minutes of continuous fire, Burton had expended 270 rounds from the forward gun, 90% of that mount’s ammunition.

 He had 34 rounds remaining. At the current rate of fire, that gave him 2 minutes and 16 seconds before the forward gun ran dry. At 8:07 a.m., Copeland ordered Burton to shift fire to a new target. Heavy cruiser Tone had closed to 7,000 yd. Closer than Chakuma, more dangerous. Tone mounted eight 8-in guns.

 She was firing at escort carrier Gambir Bay. Shells were landing near the carrier, getting closer with each salvo. Burton traversed his gun mount to the new bearing, elevated for 7,000 yd, fired. The shell arked toward Tone, landed short, adjusted, fired again, hit. The shell struck Tone’s number two turret, penetrated the armored face, detonated inside.

 The turret stopped rotating, stopped firing. Burton had just disabled one quarter of the cruiser’s main battery with a 5-in gun that wasn’t supposed to damage cruisers. At 8:10 a.m., Roberts’s forward gun fired its last round. 304 rounds expended. The barrel was scorching hot. Metal glowed dull red. The recoil mechanism was starting to fail.

 Springs compressed beyond design limits. Oil smoking in the recuperator. Burton’s crew had pushed the gun past every specification the Navy had established. Now they were done. The forward mount had no more ammunition. The aft gun mount under gunner’s mate Thirdclass Paul Henry Carr still had ammunition, 325 rounds. Carr was 20 years old from Chakakota, Oklahoma.

 He joined the Navy in May 1942. Trained as a gunner at Great Lakes, assigned to the Roberts in April, 6 months ago. This was his first surface action. His gun crew consisted of 10 men, average age 21. They’d been firing continuously since 7:45. 25 minutes. 324 rounds expended. One round remaining. At 8:15 a.m., the Roberts’ luck ran out.

 Three Japanese heavy cruisers had her bracketed. Chakuma to the north, Tone to the northeast. Haguro to the northwest. They were closing. 6,000 yds, 5,000, 4,000. The Roberts was running out of seaoom, running out of smoke, running out of time. and she was about to take her first hit. At 8:20 a.m., an 8-in shell from Chicuma struck the Roberts Amid ships port side.

 The shell penetrated the thin hole plating, traveled through the galley, exited the starboard side without detonating, punched a hole 3 ft wide. Seawater began flooding the lower decks. Damage control teams rushed to seal the breach. stuffed mattresses into the holes, shored up buckled bulkheads. The Roberts took on a 5° list to port.

Two minutes later, a second shell hit. This one detonated. The explosion tore through the crew’s birthing compartment, killed six men instantly. Ruptured steam lines. Superheated steam filled the passageway, scalded four more sailors. The Roberts’ speed dropped to 24 knots, then 20. One boiler was offline. Trobridge was fighting to keep the other running. At 8:25 a.m.

, Paul Carr’s aft gun mount lost electrical power. The power train that rotated the mount stopped. The hydraulic ram that loaded shells stopped. The firing mechanism went dead. The mount was now manually operated. Car’s crew had trained for this. Every destroyer escort crew trained for combat damage. They knew how to operate the gun without power.

 It just took longer. Manual operation required muscle. The trainer and pointer handc cranked the mount to aim at targets. The loader and rammer manually lifted each 54lb shell, rammed it into the brereech by hand. The gun captain manually triggered the firing pin. Rate of fire dropped from 15 rounds per minute to six, maybe seven if the crew was fast. Car’s crew was fast.

 They kept firing, cranked the mount toward tone, loaded a shell, rammed it home, fired. The recoil mechanism absorbed 8 tons of backward force. The mount shook. The deck plates bent. Load another shell. Ram fire. Six rounds per minute. The gun barrel was glowing red now. Heat radiated through the mount. Temperature inside reached 130°.

The crew was soaking wet. Sweat, sea water from near misses, steam from ruptured lines below decks. At 8:30 a.m., disaster struck the aft mount. A powder charge cooked off. Spontaneous ignition from the overheated brereech. The explosion tore through the gun mount, killed three men instantly, wounded seven others.

 Shrapnel shredded the interior. The blast threw Carr backward against the bulkhead. A jagged piece of steel caught him from neck to groin, ripped him open. He fell, landed on the deck. His intestines were exposed. He was dying. But Carr wasn’t finished. He looked at the ammunition rack. One shell remained. the last round in the magazine.

 He crawled toward it, grabbed it. 54 lb. He couldn’t lift it alone, couldn’t stand. He held the shell against his chest. Blood poured from the wound. He looked at the breach. Looked at his crew. They had to load this shell. Had to keep firing. Machinist mate, secondclass Chalmer Gohane found Carr holding the shell, begging to load it.

 Gohane took the shell from Carr’s hands, tried to help him away from the destroyed gunmount. Carr refused to move. He kept pointing at the breach, kept trying to make Gohan understand. Load the shell. Fire the gun. Keep fighting. Gohan set the shell down. Dragged Carr away from the mount. The gun was destroyed. The breach was shattered.

 The firing mechanism was gone. There was no way to fire that last shell. Carr didn’t understand. Or maybe he understood and didn’t care. He died 5 minutes later, still trying to get back to his gun. At 8:35 a.m., the Roberts took another hit. 14-in shell, either from Congo or Haruna, both battleships were firing at the destroyer escort.

 Now the massive shell struck the starboard side, penetrated the number two engine room, detonated inside. The explosion tore a hole 40 ft long and 10 ft wide in the hall. Seawater rushed in. The engine room flooded in 30 seconds. Eight men were killed instantly. The Roberts’ speed dropped to 10 knots.

 Then five then dead in the water. Copeland ordered all remaining crew topside. The ship was dying. No power, no staring. 3 ft of water in the lower decks. Fires burning in four compartments. The Roberts was settling by the stern. Going down. At 8:45 a.m., more shells hit. 6-in rounds from light cruiser Noshiro.

 8-in rounds from Haguro. The Japanese were pounding the helpless destroyer escort. Each hit killed more men, wounded more. The Roberts had become a stationary target. At 9:10 a.m., Copelan gave the order to abandon ship. 115 men were already dead or missing. The remaining 109 sailors began going over the side.

 They had three inflatable life rafts. Two had been destroyed by shellfire. One remained, designed to hold 16 men. They put the wounded in the raft. Everyone else went into the water. Three floater nets drifted nearby. Men clung to them, held on to anything that floated, pieces of debris, empty shell casings, wooden planks. At 9:35 a.m.

, the Roberts rolled to port. Her bow rose out of the water, pointed at the sky. The stern was already underwater. She hung there for 10 seconds, then slipped beneath the surface. Stern first, the bow followed. 306 ft of warship disappeared into the Philippine Sea. She sank in 600 fathoms 3600 ft deep, the deepest any American warship had been sunk in combat.

 109 men were in the water. Many were wounded, burns, shrapnel wounds, broken bones. All were covered in fuel oil. Thick black oil from the Roberts’ ruptured fuel tanks. The oil coated everything got in their eyes, their mouths, their lungs. Some men were vomiting. Others were unconscious. The water temperature was 84°, warm enough to survive.

 For a while, they had no food, no fresh water, no rescue in sight. The battle was still raging around them. Japanese warship Steam passed. None stopped to pick them up. At 9:45 a.m., Admiral Teo Karita ordered the Japanese center force to withdraw. His cruisers had taken heavy damage from the destroyers and aircraft. Chokai was dead in the water.

 Chukuma was on fire. Suzuya’s torpedoes had exploded from a near miss. Kumano’s bow had been blown off by a torpedo. Three heavy cruisers critically damaged. Karita believed he was fighting fleet carriers and heavy cruisers. His staff kept insisting they were engaging Admiral Hallyy’s third fleet. They were wrong.

 The escort carriers of Taffy 3 were Liberty ship holes with flight decks. The destroyers were tin cans with 5-in guns. But the confusion saved the American invasion fleet. The Japanese turned north, headed back towards San Bernardino Straight. The battle off Samar was over. Three American ships had been sunk. Destroyer escort Samuel B. Roberts, destroyers Johnston and Hell.

Escort carrier Gambia Bay had capsized under fire from Yamato’s 18-in guns. 1,277 American sailors were dead or missing, another 1,000 wounded. But the invasion fleet at Lee Gulf survived. MacArthur’s troops continued landing. Supplies continued flowing ashore. The Japanese had lost their last chance to stop the Philippine campaign.

 In the water off Samar, 109 survivors from the Roberts drifted. The battle had moved away north, then out of sight. Silence settled over the ocean. No engines, no gunfire, just waves lapping against life jackets. The men clustered around the single life raft and two floater nets. The wounded were in the raft.

 Everyone else held on to the edges or clung to the nets or just floated nearby in life jackets. They spread out over a/4 mile of ocean. Small groups, two men, five men, 10 trying to stay together, trying not to drift apart. The fuel oil was the worst part. It coated their skin, their hair, their faces.

 Thick black crude from the Robert’s ruptured fuel tanks. Getting it in your eyes caused temporary blindness, burning, stinging pain. Getting it in your mouth caused vomiting, wretching. Some men couldn’t stop vomiting. They grew weaker with each hour. Dehydrated. The sun rose higher. Temperature climbed above 90°.

 The men had no shade, no water, no food. The wounded were suffering. Burns were infected within hours in the tropical heat. Open wounds exposed to seaater, to fuel oil, to bacteria. At 2 p.m. on October 25th, sharks arrived, small ones at first, 6 ft long, blacktip reef sharks. They circled the survivors, bumped into men. Investigating, testing.

 One sailor removed his oil soap clothes to swim easier. Bad decision. The exposed white skin caught a shark’s attention. It nudged his leg harder. The man panicked, climbed back onto the floater net, cut his hands on the rough rope. Later, larger sharks appeared. 8 ft. 10 ft. Tiger sharks. bull sharks. They came closer, more aggressive, more interested.

 Survivors couldn’t confirm if sharks killed anyone, but two men disappeared during the first night, just gone. The others heard splashing, thrashing water, then silence. Nobody wanted to think about what that meant. Night brought cold, relative cold. The water temperature dropped to 78°. Not dangerous, but uncomfortable. After 12 hours immersed, men shivered.

Hypothermia set in for the wounded, their core temperatures dropping. Three more died during the first night. Wounds, shock, exposure. Their bodies were pushed away from the raft, drifted off into darkness, disappeared. October 26th brought more sun, more heat. Dehydration was critical now. Some men were hallucinating, seeing ships that weren’t there, seeing land on the horizon, seeing rescue planes.

 Others were unconscious, lips cracked and bleeding, tongues swollen. Five more died on the second day. Their bodies joined the others, drifting away into the Philippine Sea. Copeland kept his men together, kept them talking, kept them awake. Falling asleep meant death, meant slipping under the water, drowning. He organized the survivors into groups, assigned leaders, made them count off every hour.

 Anyone who didn’t respond got checked, shaken awake, kept in the group. 14 men died over 3 days, but 95 survived because Copeland refused to let them give up. At 7:45 a.m. on October 27th, a patrol craft spotted the survivors. PC 11119 was escorting five landing craft infantry north of Samar. The lookout saw something in the water.

 Wreckage bodies, then life jackets. The patrol craft approached cautiously. Japanese survivors were known to play dead. Attack rescuers. The PC stopped 50 yards away, called out, asked who won the World Series. An American voice yelled back, “St. Louis Cardinals.” The patrol craft moved in. Rescue took 4 hours. 95 men pulled from the water.

 50 hours after the Roberts sank, some couldn’t walk, couldn’t stand, had to be carried aboard. All were treated for dehydration, burns, wounds, infections, fuel oil poisoning. The most serious cases were transferred to hospital ship Comfort, sailed to Helandia. The rest went to Lee, then to San Francisco aboard transport Lurline.

They arrived December 4th, 3 weeks before Christmas. The battle off Samar became known as the greatest last stand in naval history. Seven small ships had turned back 23 warships, saved an entire invasion fleet, prevented a disaster that could have prolonged the Pacific War by months. Admiral Chester Nimttz called it the Navy’s finest hour.

Historian Samuel Elliot Morrison wrote that no engagement in naval history showed more gallantry. The Roberts received the presidential unit citation. Copeland received the Navy Cross. Paul Carr received the Silver Star postuously. In 1985, the Navy commissioned guided missile frigot USS Carr, named for the gunner who died holding his last shell.

In 1982, Frigot USS Copelan was commissioned, named for the captain who led his crew into impossible odds. In June 2022, explorer Victor Vesco found the Roberts, 22,621 ft down, 4.3 mi, the deepest shipwreck ever discovered, deeper than Titanic. The wreck sits upright, bow separated from stern by impact, but recognizable.

The Afghan mount where Carr died is still there, visible in the footage, silent, waiting. The last survivor, Adred Lenor, died March 20th, 2022, age 97, 3 months before they found his ship. That’s the story of the destroyer escort that fought like a battleship. The tiny ship that charged Yamato, the crew that refused to surrender even when survival was impossible.

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