Robert Ellershaw enlisted in the Navy in 1942 at the age of 19, eager to join the war effort and fulfill his patriotic duty. He entered as an Electrician's Mate 3rd Class. After basic training, he spent the first year in New York City, assigned to the Port Directors, where he built and repaired the radios installed in convoys. Frustrated with that civilian-like assignment, and anxious for action, he applied for sea duty. He spent the next 2 and 1/2 years on the USS Straub, a Destroyer Escort 181, that logged 105,500 sea miles in both the Atlantic and Pacific Theaters. The Straub was part of a "Killer Group," made up of a baby carrier and three or four destroyer escorts. After the war ended, the final stretch of his duty was spent on weather watches in the Pacific, as America was bringing home its troops. After his discharge, in 1946, Robert worked as a Chief Electrician for Strathmore Paper Company, married, and raised a family in Southwick, Massachusetts.

A Beacon in the Dark

On the evening of June 15, 1944, Robert Ellershaw, a 21-year-old Electrician's Mate, was below deck on the USS Straub, a destroyer escort, that hadn't seen much action lately. The few submarine patrols and at-sea search and rescue missions hadn't yielded the kind of excitement Robert had envisioned when he enlisted in the Navy and put in for sea-duty. His enlistment had been born of the same patriotic duty that had spurred so many of his generation to serve in World War II. His confidence in his country and his ship had never wavered. He was invincible. They could sink any ship in the Navy, but they would never sink the Straub.

This night, the Straub was somewhere off the coast of Oran, Algeria, and a German submarine "kill" was imminent. When the first depth charges were fired, Bob, and his best friend George Lomax, were one deck down, in their "damage control station" awaiting word. Within minutes, the hulk of the German U-boat, surrounded by its own debris and a few dozen survivors, bobbed to the surface. On the Straub, the seriousness of the work far outweighed the natural celebratory exuberance of a battle well done. There was no backslapping, and no cheering pierced the silent night.

Within minutes, the Straub's water-tight hatches opened, and Bob and George climbed topside to help with the rescue efforts. Bright lights lit up the dark waters far below, where the anxious German sailors tossed about in confusion and then began to swim towards the Straub. Theirs was an odd predicament. They had survived the explosion; now, their choice was capture or drowning. The badly-damaged submarine struggled on the surface for five or six minutes and then quickly sank.

As Bob and George prepared to lower cargo nets for the stranded sailors to climb, the man on watch spotted the wake of the first torpedo just off the portside. The Destroyer Escort 181 was under attack. A second German sub, undetected in the first sighting, had fired at the Straub, which, in the midst of its rescue efforts, was dead in the water. There was no doubt the second sub knew of the Straub's rescue efforts. There are two unwritten safety standards of wartime operation: ships at sea never stop running, and they never use lights at night. The Straub had "broken" both of those standards, putting itself at risk. Surely, the reason for this -- the rescue -- was obvious.

In a flurry of activity, the panicky crew pushed the Straub into full speed operation and turned away from the men still thrashing in the water. What happened to those survivors closest to the ship and its propellers as it turned was unavoidable. LTCR Coie, Captain of the Straub, could not further endanger either his ship or his men; luckily, he managed to outrun the second sub.

It is a testimony to the integrity of men at war, to their investment in Samaritan law, that six hours later, her safety somewhat less doubtful, the Straub returned to the site of the U-boat sinking and again attempted a rescue. This time, without beacons, working silently and in almost virtual darkness to avoid being spotted, the Straub managed to pull the survivors from the Atlantic. This time, even more shocked and desperate, three or four Germans at a time managed to scramble up the netting and onto the deck of the ship, where they were immediately stripped and checked for weapons. Soon, twenty-three men were assembled, most of them subdued and grateful, relieved that, for them, it was over. Duty aboard a German U-boat was rough, and they were out of it now.

Only one man, arrogant to the bone, protested his rescue. "I demand whiskey, and I demand your Captain," he said in crisply-delivered English. Bob Ellershaw held this Captain's beautiful German watch in his hand, and for a moment he debated whether or not to return it. It would have made a worthy souvenir. Shortly, however, he delivered the U-boat Captain, fully-uniformed, wearing his watch, to the bridge of the USS Straub.

Twenty-nine years later, the Straub, herself, serving as a practice target, was sunk in the Atlantic.