In August 1942, on an obscure island in the Solomon Islands inhabited by 15,000 Melanesians and about fifty Europeans (mostly missionaries), the United States launched its first offensive of the Pacific War. It was probably the only time in the war that Japan and the United States met on more or less equal terms, and the outcome remained in doubt for several months. Both sides eventually recognized that Guadalcanal might well be the decisive campaign of the war and poured reinforcements into the South Pacific theater. Though they fought doggedly, in the end the Japanese could not match superior American airpower, firepower on the ground, and logistical support. In early February 1943, the Imperial Navy evacuated the tattered, malnourished remnants of a once-proud Japanese ground force. Although years of fighting remained in the Pacific, the strategic postures of Japan and the United States had shifted irreversibly. The Japanese, not the Americans, were on the defensive. Guadalcanal was the turning point in the Pacific War.1

Few battles in American history stir the emotions like Guadalcanal. Mention of it conjures up images of beleaguered Marines in hideous jungle conditions desperately defending what for a few months was the most precious real estate in the Pacific, of rotting corpses, of emaciated Japanese soldiers attempting to blunt American firepower with little more than courage and determination, of deadly Japanese Long Lance torpedoes sending many American warships and crews to their graves in the shark-infested waters of Iron Bottom Sound, and of underpowered American P-400s and sturdy F4F Wildcat fighters scrambling from Henderson Field to meet daily attacks from Mitsubishi-built Betty bombers and Zero fighter-escorts. The epic air, sea, and land campaign—"triphibious" in Churchillspeak—still serves as a source of inspiration, horror, instruction, scholarly debate, box-office receipts, and authors' royalties.

Guadalcanal had it all. Horrific combat in the air, on the seas, and especially on the ground. Colorful heroes, ignominious failures, and ordinary men on both sides who died far from home. Guadalcanal was a test of the strategic instincts of the best and the brightest of both Japan and the United States. It was a test of will and, some would argue, of national character. Above all, it was a test of the ability of each combatant to conduct operations hundreds of miles away from main bases in some of the most hostile physical conditions on the planet. It soon became a prolonged campaign of attrition, where the ability to provide food, medical supplies, war materiel, and more troops would be decisive.

To appreciate the drama and significance of Guadalcanal, we must do our best to bracket our knowledge of how the war in the Pacific turned out. To be sure, the battle of Midway in June was a dramatic victory for the United States, and the loss of four Japanese aircraft carriers compared to the single American flattop, Yorktown, was a major reversal for the Imperial Navy. But in and of itself, Midway was not decisive. The Imperial Fleet, though weakened, was still formidable; the Japanese army had not yet tasted defeat; and the Rising Sun still flew over much of the Central and South Pacific.

During the first six months of 1942, the Japanese had pushed deeper into the South Pacific, seizing Rabaul in the Bismarck Archipelago, Lae and Salamua in New Guinea, and Tulagi in the Solomon Islands. This was an effort to consolidate earlier gains as well as to establish a network of bases that could support air and sea operations against Allied counterattack. In what must have seemed like a relatively routine decision at the time, the Japanese naval brass in mid-June 1942 authorized the construction of an airbase on the island of Guadalcanal, about 25 miles across the Sealark Channel from a seaplane base already established at Tulagi. A functioning air base at Guadalcanal not only would enhance the Japanese defensive perimeter in the South Pacific, it would threaten vital sea lanes to Australia. Throughout June and July 1942 advance units and construction forces began to clear land and build an air strip on the site of a coconut plantation.

The activity on Guadalcanal did not go unnoticed. Air reconnaissance, analysis of Japanese radio traffic, and the reports of civilian coastwatchers organized by the Australian navy all confirmed that an airfield was being developed on Guadalcanal. American naval planners, who wanted to capitalize on the momentum of Midway, were already devising a more aggressive effort in the South Pacific than prewar plans had envisaged. The new intelligence about Japanese activity in the Solomons convinced the planners to invade Guadalcanal as soon as possible.

Soon after his arrival on July 25 at the major Japanese base at Truk on his way to Rabaul to assume command of the newly organized Outer South Seas Force, Vice Admiral Gunichi Mikawa quizzed naval staffers about the prospects of an Allied attack on Guadalcanal. He was reassured that this could not happen. The staffers were, of course, very wrong. And Mikawa would not have long to wait for his fears to be realized. B-17s from the island of Espíritu Santo began regular bombing raids on July 31, and increased radio activity suggested to Japanese intelligence that the Americans were planning something against Guadalcanal. With stunning speed, American planners had pulled together Operation "Watchtower," and a flotilla of transports containing the 1st Marine Division steamed from New Zealand undetected. A strong naval escort that included three of the four American aircraft carriers in the Pacific offered protection.

The Japanese on Guadalcanal were dumbfounded to see a large Allied fleet offshore on the morning of August 7. At first, the landings at Lunga Point went so smoothly that the Marines reported the whole operation seemed like a "peace-time drill." The troops moved inland unopposed through a coconut plantation, but their advance slowed as cautious Marines encountered the Guadalcanal jungle for the first time. It would prove to be almost as formidable an opponent as the Japanese. Forced to navigate by compass through thick jungle and across a winding stream, the Leathernecks were soon behind schedule. Other units moved slowly along the beach from the landing zone in disorganized fashion. Back at the beachhead the scene was one of chaos. Supplies piled up on the beach, which became so littered that follow-on landing craft could not off-load their cargoes. The Marine shore party was too small to accommodate the volume of traffic streaming from the transports. This was the first American amphibious assault of the war in the Pacific, and the efficiency of subsequent operations was not present. Nevertheless, on the second day of the operation, the Marines captured the deserted airstrip. The Japanese offered almost no resistance save for ineffective air attacks on the American transports.2 Any celebration, however, was definitely premature.

In the early morning hours of August 9, the U.S. Navy suffered one of its most galling defeats ever. Using effective nighttime tactics that took advantage of vastly superior Japanese long-range torpedoes, Admiral Mikawa led a strike force of cruisers and destroyers against a stronger Allied naval force near Savo Island off the northwest tip of Guadalcanal. When it was all over, the Allies had lost four heavy cruisers (three American, one Australian) and a destroyer. Fearing counterattack from carrier-based American aircraft, the Japanese commander retreated, losing only one destroyer on the way back to Rabaul.

As humiliating as the defeat of Savo Island was, it could have been much worse. American transports still offloading necessary supplies were a more important strategic target than the naval units that protected them. In some respects Savo Island resembled Pearl Harbor: both were great tactical victories that missed larger strategic objectives. Still, Savo Island and the prospect of Japanese air attacks spooked Admiral Frank Fletcher, who ordered his precious carriers to retire. His controversial decision had enormous repercussions. Without the cover of American carrier-based aviation, the transports were vulnerable to Japanese air attack. The senior officer for the expeditionary force, Rear Admiral Richmond Kelly Turner, decided to keep the transports off Guadalcanal throughout the daylight hours of August 9 without air cover. That night they retreated to New Caledonia, their holds still carrying both men and cargo needed ashore. "The marines," as historian Richard B. Frank notes, "were now alone."3

Marine commander Major General Alexander Archer Vandegrift was in a tough position. He had virtually no air cover. Only a fraction of the necessary supplies had been offloaded before the transports departed. About 1,800 troops hadn't made it ashore either. He would have to hold on until the ships and planes returned. Fortunately for the Marines, the early days of the campaign were relatively uneventful. Both sides engaged in some limited reinforcement activity using destroyers pressed into service as transports. The Americans landed a small force trained to set up an advanced air base along with some aviation fuel and spare parts. Getting the captured airstrip ready for flight operations was critical.

We have only sketchy details of the first real engagement with Japanese troops. Lt. Col. Frank Goettge, a Marine intelligence officer who wanted to follow up on a report that a group of Japanese to the west of American lines might be prepared to surrender, was leading a patrol of about 25 men. Goettge's patrol was ambushed sometime during the night of August 12-13. Only three Marines escaped, one of whom claimed that the Japanese attackers used swords and bayonets to butcher wounded Americans. At sunrise on August 19, the Marines held off a reckless charge near the Matanikau River, inflicting disproportionate casualties on the Japanese. Although these first encounters were relatively small-scale operations, they were revealing. Early on, stories spread throughout the American ranks of Japanese treachery and brutality. The Marines were prepared to respond accordingly. The Japanese, for their part, were convinced that the Americans were soft and could not stand up to the fierce determination of the Imperial troops. Their flair for "tactically dramatic" assaults—seemingly bordering on the suicidal—stemmed from their dismissive assessment of the American fighting spirit.4

Back at Imperial General Headquarters in Tokyo, army and navy planners deliberated on their next move. Guadalcanal must be retaken, although the New Guinea campaign and the assault on Port Moresby remained their strategic priority. Furthermore, because they believed the American force stranded at Guadalcanal was relatively small and could easily be overrun, the Japanese initially diverted only modest forces from the New Guinea operation to Guadalcanal. They assigned the task of recapturing the now operable airfield to Colonel Kiyonao Ichiki, whose actions as a company commander in China in 1937 precipitated the famous Marco Polo Bridge Incident.

On August 19, six Japanese destroyers landed Ichiki's detachment of approximately 1,000 men about twenty miles from Lunga Point. Two days later the impetuous Ichiki attacked the Marine perimeter at Alligator Creek (inaccurately known as the Battle of the [nearby] Tenaru River). The Japanese never came close to the airfield. As was the case a few days earlier at Matanikau River, the Japanese forces were mauled as they advanced in the open against superior firepower. With almost 800 of his troops lying dead on the shores of Alligator Creek, Ichiki committed suicide. The Japanese Army was not used to such defeats. Neither were the Americans. The waste of soldiers' lives amazed the Marines. And they were disgusted when wounded Japanese used hand grenades to blow themselves up rather than surrender when Marines approached.

On August 16, a powerful Japanese fleet had left Truk for Guadalcanal. At this point in the war, Japan had more naval assets in the South Pacific than did the United States. Loaded with troops and equipment, the Japanese transports that steamed toward Vandegrift's Marines could count on escort and cover from four carriers, one escort carrier, four battleships, 16 cruisers, and 30 destroyers. To confront this powerful armada, the USN had only three carriers, one battleship, seven cruisers, and 18 destroyers in South Pacific waters.

Contact between the two fleets occurred on August 24, but the resulting Battle of the Eastern Solomons was inconclusive. The Japanese lost an escort carrier, a destroyer, and a transport, while the American fleet carrier Enterprise had to retire to Pearl Harbor for repairs. Both sides, especially the Japanese, seemed more concerned about losing carriers than gaining a decisive victory.5 The important thing to note, however, is that the Japanese convoy turned back.

For the remainder of August and early September, the Japanese conducted a daytime air war against Guadalcanal-based American airpower, all the while using destroyers to make the high-speed run at night down "the Slot" (the channel running between the islands in the Solomon chain) to deposit men and supplies. These "Tokyo Express" runs would often continue down the Guadalcanal coast to bombard Henderson Field (named after Major Lofton Henderson, the first Marine aviator killed in the Battle of Midway) and surrounding American positions. This led to what Richard Frank has called "a curious tactical situation" in which the Americans enjoyed overall command of the skies and seas around Guadalcanal in the daylight, while the Japanese controlled the waters at night.

With the benefit of hindsight, the historian can claim that the Japanese approach favored the Americans, even though their hold on Guadalcanal was still precarious. The amazing capacity of Stateside shipyards and aircraft plants would certainly call into question any Japanese effort to fight a campaign of attrition in the Pacific (though recent studies such as Tim Maga's America Attacks Japan: The Invasion that Never Was show how integral attrition was to Japan's thinking down to the very end). But it is important to resist playing the hindsight card and to recall the grand strategic context of September 1942. Hitler's armies threatened Stalingrad, and Rommel's Afrika Corps was outside Alexandria, Egypt. The Joint Chiefs of Staff had made Operation Torch in North Africa America's top strategic priority. Consequently, the Guadalcanal campaign had to compete for resources. Yet even in these global circumstances, the JCS (especially Admiral Ernest King) had a keener understanding of the strategic importance of Guadalcanal than the Japanese high command. If the Marines could hold on and keep Henderson Field open, eventually help would come.

By September, the Tokyo Express had landed enough new troops to enable the Japanese to mount an attack on Marine lines. They chose the southern defensive perimeter of the airfield. The assault was marred by poor coordination between the various units, which lost cohesion in the thick jungle terrain. On the evening of September 12-13, the Japanese struck American positions along Edson's Ridge, named in honor of the Marine commander whose forces—augmented by paratroopers—held their ground in savage and often confused closehand combat. Edson's troops inflicted heavy casualties on the Japanese, who endured unbelievable hardship as they retreated through the jungle to base camps with almost no food or medical supplies. The Battle of Edson's Ridge probably was the pivotal battle in this pivotal campaign in the Pacific War. Had the Japanese secured the highlands to the south of Henderson Field, they could have severely disrupted, if not prevented, flight operations. And Edson's Ridge was important in another respect: it helped convince the Japanese that to beat the Americans they would have to make Guadalcanal the centerpiece of their Pacific strategy.

To make good on the resolve to elevate Guadalcanal's strategic status, none other than Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto developed a grand plan. In October, the Combined Fleet would support a large, high-speed convoy which would land sufficient troops and supplies to retake Guadalcanal. Japanese battleships would position themselves offshore prior to the landings and bombard Henderson Field, making it unusable for Marine aviators. With air superiority the Japanese could interdict and then retake the island.

As Yamamoto prepared the knock-out blow, Japanese planes based at Rabaul kept up the pressure with daily bombing raids. The two sides also sparred in several ground actions near the Matanikau River. (One of these skirmishes provided John Hersey with the material for his combat report, Into the Valley.)

Yamamoto's operation began with a very loud bang on the evening of October 13-14. Two battleships lobbed about 1,000 shells at Henderson Field in what the Americans called "the Bombardment." It was a terrifying event for those on the receiving end, and it succeeded in temporarily knocking out the main airstrip, as well as destroying most of the aircraft and aviation fuel. But a smaller airstrip and a couple of dozen fighters managed to survive. From all accounts this was perhaps the most desperate time of the entire campaign for the Americans. Their ability to command the skies was questionable; the USN was much weaker than Yamamoto's Combined Fleet; and a large Japanese convoy was en route.

On October 14-15, the Japanese offloaded about 4,500 troops and two-thirds of their supplies before American air attacks forced the transports to retire, sinking three of them. Heroic action by the handful of planes still flying out of Henderson Field combined with newly arrived reinforcements and air strikes from the carrier Hornet made life miserable for the Japanese ashore. Yamamoto countered with an air strike from two of his carriers on the morning of October 17, but American cryptanalysts detected the attack in advance, and Wildcat fighters fought off the attackers, who inflicted only limited damage. Nevertheless, the Leathernecks braced themselves for a major Japanese ground assault on positions surrounding Henderson Field.

Yamamoto's plan called for a swift Japanese ground assault, building on the "shock and awe" impact of the Bombardment. But the assault did not occur until the evening of October 24-25. In typical Japanese tactical fashion, simplicity was sacrificed for multi-pronged attacks. In theory, coordinated assaults made sense, but in the jungles of Guadalcanal maintaining the cohesion of even small units was extremely difficult. Complicated maneuver requiring the coordination of large units was virtually impossible. From the start, the operation was a mess. Advance patrols got lost, and the main units groped blindly in dense jungles with very little semblance of order. The Japanese finally attacked a defensive line commanded by Marine Lt. Col. Lewis "Chesty" Puller. Supported by substantial artillery fire, Puller's men mowed down the Japanese, who once again underestimated both the devastating impact of American firepower and the enormous challenge of the Guadalcanal terrain.

While the Japanese effort to dislodge the Marines collapsed in disarray, the two navies met again. The USN had just appointed a new commander for the South Pacific, one of the most memorable senior naval officers of World War II: Vice Admiral William F. "Bull" Halsey. The appointment of Halsey, who exuded confidence and an aggressive spirit, was a shot in the arm for American forces. At the Battle of the Santa Cruz Islands, the USN lost the carrier Hornet and a significant number of planes but succeeded in turning back a stronger Japanese naval force, decimating its aircraft and aircrew strength. Three of four Japanese carriers engaged in the battle had to retire to home waters for repairs. The Japanese found it harder to replace these losses than the Americans did to deploy another aircraft carrier. All the while, the battle of attrition in the air raged. During October the Japanese lost 131 planes at a cost of 103 American aircraft. Time was running out on Guadalcanal for the Rising Sun.

In mid-November, the Japanese attempted one last major effort to turn the tide in the South Pacific. This time, they assembled a convoy carrying 30,000 troops to land on Guadalcanal and overwhelm the Americans. But a naval covering force ran into American units on November 13, and a tough, close-range night action ensued. In this first phase of the naval Battle of Guadalcanal, both sides lost a few warships (including the American cruiser Juneau and the aging Japanese battleship Hiei). From the larger strategic perspective, the most important aspect of this engagement was the abortive return of the Japanese convoy to port. But the battle is remembered more for the tragic saga of the Juneau's survivors, who drifted on rafts in shark-infested waters for days. Their plight has become one of the most sobering stories of the war. Of the 683 sailors serving on the Juneau, only 14 survived. This was the largest proportional loss of life of any American warship of cruiser size or larger during the entire war. Among the losses were the five Sullivan brothers from Waterloo, Iowa, who had requested—against normal navy practice—to serve together on the same warship.

The Japanese convoy took to sea again the next night. This time Halsey had two battleships waiting in ambush at Iron Bottom Sound. The ensuing engagement off Savo Island on the evening of November 14-15 was an American victory. Not only did the Japanese lose the battleship Kirishima, a destroyer, and several transports, but they were only able to land about 2,000 troops along with just a few days' supply of food and ammunition. Compounding the difficulty for the Japanese, the naval action served to cover the successful landing that same evening of about 5,500 Americans with tons of supplies.

The relative ability of each side to reinforce and supply the troops on Guadalcanal was the single most significant factor in the campaign. Sustained military operations on the island required a steady stream of food, ammunition, medical supplies, and more men to replace those lost in combat and to disease. Despite several successful naval encounters, the Imperial Navy proved incapable of providing the necessary logistical support. The naval Battle of Tassafaronga on November 30 is a perfect example. In attempting to reinforce their troops again, a covering force of Japanese destroyers inflicted another humiliating defeat on the USN, battering several cruisers. But that result was of secondary strategic importance: what really mattered was that critical supplies never reached the desperate Japanese forces on Guadalcanal. Meanwhile the American supply train was becoming more efficient with each passing week. Troops and supplies poured into Guadalcanal. By December, when the Army took over operations from the Marines, the American force totaled 50,000 men.

From a military perspective, the remainder of the campaign was anticlimactic, though by no means uneventful. Life for the Japanese troops on Guadalcanal became wretched. Many died of starvation, and many more were so weakened by malaria and malnutrition that they could not fight. The Japanese high command, recognizing it had lost the campaign, smuggled a fresh force onto the island to serve as a rearguard to allow the survivors the opportunity to retreat to the northwest corner of Guadalcanal for risky evacuation by sea. Meanwhile U.S. troops steadily—albeit perhaps too cautiously, given the pathetic condition of their opponents—pushed the Japanese back, annihilating pockets of resistance. In early February 1943, the Japanese skillfully executed evacuations of nearly 13,000 from Cape Esperance. But this was not a Pacific Dunkirk. The Japanese were not retreating in order to return to offensive operations sometime in the future. They would never again adopt a strategically offensive stance in the Pacific War. Organized resistance on Guadalcanal ended on February 9, though the last known Japanese straggler surrendered in October 1947.

Historian Eric Bergerud maintains that Guadalcanal was a catastrophe for the Japanese. Approximately 25,000 Japanese soldiers—by one estimate, two-thirds of all the Japanese who served on Guadalcanal—died. The total exceeds 30,000 when Japanese sailor and airmen fatalities are included. The Japanese lost 24 warships and almost 700 aircraft. Allied losses were also high: 25 Allied warships (one Australian cruiser, the rest American) were sunk, including two fleet carriers, and over 600 aircraft were shot down or destroyed. The United States suffered approximately 7,000 fatalities in the campaign. But, as Bergerud reminds us, the ratio of these losses does not adequately measure Guadalcanal's significance. Prior to the campaign, Tokyo assumed that American soldiers would not stand up to Japanese infantry. Guadalcanal proved that the Americans could match the Japanese in courage and resolve, while exceeding them in firepower and besting them in logistics. Guadalcanal also had an enormous impact on Japanese strategy and operations in the South Pacific. Efforts to retake Guadalcanal came at the expense of the Japanese drive on Port Morseby in New Guinea, which collapsed in the face of counterattacks by Australian and American forces. The Japanese hold on the South Pacific, which looked so strong in the summer of 1942, crumbled one year later. Guadalcanal changed everything.

Almost everyone who writes about the ground combat in the Pacific War, especially at Guadalcanal, comments on how brutal and unrestrained the fighting was. Bergerud, for example, describes the South Pacific battlefield as an intensely savage place where no quarter was given. The Pacific War, he writes, was "the most vicious light-infantry war ever fought by industrial nations."6

Accounting for the combat savagery is by far the most controversial and troubling issue of the Guadalcanal campaign for military historians. Both sides developed a visceral hatred of each other. In one of the most influential accounts of the problem, John Dower attributed the carnage of the Pacific War to racial hatred. The Japanese cultivated stereotypes of Americans as unclean, materialistic demons, whereas American magazines and cartoons crudely presented the Japanese as bespectacled, buck-toothed simians. Racial hatred and dehumanization of the enemy, Dower concludes, led to a merciless war.7

Craig Cameron has refined Dower's thesis, offering a stronger link between racism and regular battlefield behavior. Cameron is concerned with the images that Marines had of themselves and the "Japanese Other" that shaped their actions in combat. It is a rich, often disturbing argument. The Marines saw themselves as the "warrior representatives" of American national character, and they landed at Guadalcanal prepared for "a clash of warring samurai." As the fighting raged on, however, the Marines developed a view of their Japanese opponents that differed sharply from their view of themselves. In American eyes, the Japanese fought with "almost demoniacal fanaticism" and contempt for life. And they could be counted upon to resort to treachery and cunning. Given this approach to combat, the notion that the Japanese were fellow warriors evaporated, as did much of the Americans' restraint with Japanese prisoners and wounded as the Guadalcanal campaign unfolded.8

Bergerud has responded thoughtfully to the Dower-Cameron argument. He concludes that ingrained racism and a faulty appreciation for "the Other," although undoubtedly present, are inadequate explanations, no matter how appealing they might be to the prevailing sensibilities of the academy. He argues that the Marines' hatred of the Japanese—which, by the way, was unlike the passions articulated by American sailors and airmen in the campaign—arose out of firsthand experience with the Japanese battle-ethos of death.

According to Bergerud, the only explanation for this visceral hatred and lack of restraint on the battlefield is fear mingled with a lust for revenge. Early on, the Marines perceived that the Japanese were uniquely cruel fighters who preferred death to surrender, even when there was no clear military purpose involved. The fate of Goettge's patrol and Ichiki's suicidal attack at the Tenaru confirmed this. Every encounter with the Japanese generated an intense sense of danger and fear. Since the Japanese would do anything to kill Americans, the Marines took no chances. The "savage physical environment" of Guadalcanal only intensified the fear. Visibility was often limited to a few yards in a jungle filled with strange and threatening sounds. Without dismissing the ferocity of American combat practices, Bergerud points the finger at the Japanese military government for indoctrinating soldiers "to find meaning in oblivion, and to accept the frightening idea that spiritual purification comes through purposeful death."9

The past—especially its military dimension—is a vast storehouse for those who would rummage its contents to find lessons for the present moment. Predictably, Guadalcanal gets trotted out a lot these days. Those who believe that war inevitably unleashes unspeakable evil can find plenty of evidence in the Guadalcanal campaign to support their case. Others who derive inspiration from acts of bravery and sacrifice in war look to Guadalcanal's rich supply of source material. No wonder we are still drawn to Guadalcanal. Something very significant happened there—something that altered the course of the Pacific War, and that continues both to inspire and to repulse us.

Donald A. Yerxa is editor of Historically Speaking and a professor of history at Eastern Nazarene College.

1. This paragraph—indeed, the bulk of this essay—is largely based on two superb books: Richard B. Frank, Guadalcanal: The Definitive Account of the Landmark Battle (Penguin, 1990); and Eric Bergerud, Touched with Fire: The Land War in the South Pacific (Penguin, 1996).

The literature on Guadalcanal may exceed that of any other single campaign in World War II. Some of the best military writers have been attracted to Guadalcanal, including Richard Tregaskis, whose Guadalcanal Diary became a best seller as soon as it was published in 1943 and remains a model of war reporting, and the dean of mid-20th century naval historians Samuel Eliot Morison. For the reader with other interests in life, a modest list is recommended. Ronald H. Spector's Eagle Against the Sun: The American War with Japan (Vintage, 1984) remains the best single-volume treatment of the War in the Pacific. Bergerud's Touched with Fire is unsurpassed in its ability to convey what the Guadalcanal campaign was like for both sides. Bergerud properly treats Guadalcanal alongside parallel operations in New Guinea. And while historians usually place the adjective definitive in sneer quotes, it is hard to imagine a better operational history of the Guadalcanal campaign from both sides than Frank's book. His narrative keeps an eye on the grand strategic context while masterfully integrating the complex air-land-sea components of this campaign.

2. The Japanese offered fairly stiff resistance against a parallel attack on nearby Tulagi, but they were soon subdued.

3. Frank, Guadalcanal, p. 120.

4. Ibid, p. 133.

5. Overall, the Americans were more willing to risk carriers than the Japanese, even though they had fewer available at this time. The reasons go beyond superior shipbuilding capacity. Strategically speaking, the United States, unlike Japan, was a maritime-oriented seapower, whereas Japan, despite its magnificent navy, remained at core a land power. The bulk of Japan's military resources in 1942 and throughout the war were devoted to the ground war in China. Throughout modern history, as naval historian Clark Reynolds argues in several important books, land powers are typically more reluctant to commit their naval forces in all-out battle, knowing that they lack the resources to replace lost ships.

6. Bergerud, Touched with Fire, p. 271.

7. John Dower, War Without Mercy: Race & Power in the Pacific War (Pantheon, 1986).

8. Craig Cameron, American Samurai: Myth, Imagination, and the Conduct of Battle in the First Marine Division, 1941-1951 (Cambridge Univ. Press, 1994), pp. 30-48, 89-129.

9. Bergerud, Touched with Fire, p. 403-25.

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