“The Marine landings had caught the crack Japanese soldiers completely flat-footed. They were hardly prepared to defend their posts, let alone the island.”

By Carole Engle Avriett

SHORTLY BEFORE 3 a.m. on Aug. 7, 1942 — exactly eight months to the day after the bombing of Pearl Harbor — the United States Amphibious Task Force glided silently past the western edge of Guadalcanal. 

Codenamed Operation Watchtower, the invasion of the Japanese-occupied Solomon Islands was about to begin. Nearly two days of solid squalls and low-hanging clouds, near-perfect conditions for a clandestine approach had allowed the large convoy to go completely undetected.

Now turning eastward, the vessels carrying men, equipment, and supplies slipped into the upper waters of Sealark Channel which separated “the Canal” from Florida Island. 

Before long, these waters would be known the world over as Ironbottom Sound, so named for the untold dozens if not hundreds of Japanese and United States ships, planes, materiel— and men— that found an eternal resting place at the bottom of its cobalt-blue waters.

Once the convoy turned south, it split into two groups. The first, named Group X-RAY, contained Commanding General A.A. Vandegrift’s 1st Marine Division less one regiment in reserve. Their mission: to capture the unfinished airfield on Guadalcanal. The second group, named Group YOKE, had two prongs: the 1st Parachute Battalion would take the islets of Gavutu-Tanambogo, while the 1st Raiders in the lead would seize Tulagi supported by a unit from 5th Marines.

The diminutive island of Tulagi, across the channel from Guadalcanal and just off the shores of Florida Island, measured only 4,000 yards long and 1,000 yards wide. At its southernmost tip, the island narrowed to about 300 yards. Compared to the steep ridges at the northern end, the lovely, southern area was relatively low and hilly with beautiful vistas of ocean and nearby islands. Here, nearly all the island’s build-out was concentrated.

Though small in size, Tulagi served an important purpose. It had long been headquarters to the Solomon Islands Protectorate and a Royal Australian Navy seaplane base.

General Vandergrift knew this would probably be the toughest nut to crack during the initial attack. First, because of the particular Japanese troops stationed there—several hundred veteran Rikusentai of the 3rd Kure Special Naval Landing Force known for their fierce battle tactics. Secondly, because of the island topography itself: a near-vertical ridge in the northern portion, extremely rugged and high, running two-thirds of the way down the center of the island. The southern one-third area, located on smaller hills, would be easier to defend especially with the shallow gully separating the two areas.

For what might be a problematic operation, Vandegrift needed the best, combat-ready troops available to him. At this juncture in the war, that would be Edson’s Raiders, without question. Named for their 45-year-old colonel, Merritt A. Edson, Vandegrift called upon the outfit to lead the attack.

Raider Private Lee Minier, stood cradling his machine gun in his arms on the deck of the USS Colhoun. He and the other 1st Raiders had checked and rechecked their weapons, distributed live ammo, loaded belts. Officers had reviewed their assignments. Now, in the growing pre-dawn light, he could make out the hulking landscape of Guadalcanal off the starboard side.

Lee looked the part of a commando. His helmet had strips of canvas tied to it and camouflage paint darkened his face as it did the other Raiders. His perpetual calm through the battles ahead would be reassuring to those younger ones around him—at 24, he was a few years older than most of the other privates. These leadership qualities had been increasingly noted by many including officers on up the ladder. 

Like most South Pacific Islands, coral reefs ringed the perimeter of Tulagi just below the surface. At Beach Blue, the area chosen by Edson himself because of its secluded location—“land where they ain’t”— the coral reef was some one hundred yards from shore.

When Lee’s Higgins boat slammed into the reef, though expected, the packed-in group were all thrown forward violently. Several tumbled to their knees but quickly recovered. With haste, each Raider threw one leg over the side, then awkwardly plunged down into the tropical waters.

It was shoulder deep in places and many went under. Lee, taller than most, reached down and pulled the Raider next to him back up to the surface. The shorter man had completely disappeared beneath the waves under the weight of the communications equipment he hauled. No doubt, several would have drowned that morning except for others like Lee who did quick rescue work.

Once everyone stabilized in the deep water, they lugged their way toward shore. Though drenched and sputtering, they still looked the part.

A veteran sergeant who was there later said, “It was the 1st Marine Raider Battalion that led the assault on Tulagi, about 1,000 lean, sinewy, superbly-trained commando-type troops…armaments included rifles, pistols, machine guns, mortars, bayonets, knives. Hand grenades hung from pack straps where they curved under armpits, and the chests of some of the men were crisscrossed with bandoliers. We must have looked mean enough to scare the balls off a brass monkey.” 

As soon as Lee reached the narrow beaches, he dropped quickly down in the sand to set up a machine gun position. The guy next to him muttered, “What the hell is this—a practice run? Why aren’t they firing at us?”

“Good question,” muttered Lee in reply, still winded from the energy it had taken to reach shore.

The Marine landings had caught the crack Japanese soldiers completely flat-footed. They were hardly prepared to defend their posts, let alone the island. As a result, Edson’s Raiders had slipped in the backdoor of Tulagi with no casualties. But they would soon find they were up against several hundred Japanese veteran troops, themselves special forces, who would not give up the island or their lives without exacting a heavy price from their opponents.

As the afternoon of D-Day wore on, casualties mounted. Word passed quickly among the Raider Battalion of the growing awareness of Japanese marksmanship. Several Raiders were downed by shots squarely in the temple or forehead.

Lee was close at hand when a platoon sergeant in his own company, Easy Company, picked up the Browning machine gun from the hands of another gunner who had just been shot by a hidden sniper. The sergeant, Alexander Luke, 26, had been a Marine for eight years and had actually served in the 4th Marines in Shanghai with Edson back in 1937.

Luke’s machine gun skills were greatly admired. He would shoot controlled bursts rather than continuous firing. Lee had learned much from him.

As soon as Luke picked up the Browning from his fallen comrade, he fell forward too. The sniper had struck again, hitting Luke between the eyes.

The fighting was unlike anything Lee had ever experienced. He wanted to stop to check on his friend and mentor, but he knew that he had to keep pushing forward in order to survive. The early combat at the foot of Tulagi’s low hills was intense, with the Americans coming under fire from Japanese machine gunners and snipers dug into caves. The later strife was just as bad when the Raiders made it to the makeshift town, the open environment now creating a chaotic battlefront.

As dusk descended on Tulagi on Aug. 7, Edson informed his tired, weary Raiders to dig in for the night. The battalion had experienced mounting losses, especially among his officers. Two out of the five company commanders were badly wounded and out of action, while another had had a very close call with death. The troops were a bit rattled and needed a night to regroup.

The news of the loss of some of his best leadership hit Red Mike hard. He recognized the special qualities of the commanders he had lost. By the end of the war in the Pacific the three officers in question— Lew Walt,”Jumping Joe” Chambers, and Ken Bailey— would earn two Medals of Honor, two Navy Crosses, three Silver Stars and seven Purple Hearts.

Checked by all of the first day’s losses, Edson knew that the worst loomed ahead. He and Griffith both had thoroughly prepared the men, however, for what they could expect during the night from these enemy warriors they had fought all day. But the Raiders were ready for any surprises the Japanese could now spring on them.

As black night descended, the Raiders dug in and waited. They had trained for this more times than they could count. Lee thought of how often, whether at Quantico, American Samoa, or Noumea, the “Ole Man” had run them ragged all day only to make them traverse the same terrain at night. The dark changes everything, and Edson had trained his men to be able to navigate at night.

But the fighting didn’t start with Lee and his fellow Raiders trying to find their way through a night fraught with enemies. It began with something that Edson and his officers had warned the men about: the “night campaign.”

As the Raiders lay in their trenches, the Japanese began one of their most harrowing battle tactics. All at once, the Americans started to hear freakishly loud sounds everywhere: screaming, howling, unearthly screeches and groaning. They heard metal banging against metal and hands slapping weapons. Though he had been warned about the Japanese noise campaigns, Lee inadvertently recoiled. His eyes strained forward trying to pierce the darkness; he tightened his grip on the Browning machine gun. Every nerve and muscle in his body tensed.

Then, all of a sudden, the noise stopped as suddenly as it began. A serene quiet took over the island. None of the men around Lee said a word. Everyone waited. The nerve-racking “noise campaign” continued off and on for several hours.

Long after dark — around 10:30 p.m. — the noise started once more. This time the ghoulish howls were accompanied by a banzai attack. Japanese troops ran at full speed like shadowy ghosts through trees, dense brush and thick grass.

Lee and the others opened fire with their rifles and machine guns. Exploding grenades lit up the night sky. Suddenly, the attack came to an abrupt halt—or so the Raiders thought. Other than a random shot here and there, they heard nothing but eerie silence for what seemed like an eternity. The serene pause only lasted a moment. Just a few minutes later, the Japanese began their light-speed attacks again, running at the American lines bent over and low to the ground like jackals.

“Here they come,” yelled Lee to his assistant gunner as the assistant began feeding an ammo belt into the blasting weapon. The Japanese were screaming and howling in the flashes of fire, charging with drawn swords and raised knives. As one line of rushing soldiers fell, another group would take their place. Several Japanese soldiers tumbled down into some of the shallow fox holes, each time following with hand-to-hand combat against the Raiders. Two or three soldiers collapsed just in front and to the side of Lee’s gun mount.

This attack would turn out to be the strongest of five assaults that took place that night. At one point, the Rikusentai penetrated deep into the Raiders, temporarily dividing “A” and “C” companies. Several times, smaller groups of Japanese infiltrated the Raiders’ line in attempts to attack the Residency, Edson’s command post. Half a dozen combatants managed to hide underneath the building’s porch, killing three Marines before Raider grenades found their mark.

The Raiders managed to repulse each wave one way or another. Though the experience of a night attack was one of the most harrowing and disorienting American soldiers would face, Edson would dryly joke later that the attack on his command post in Tulagi was one of the few “exciting” moments of the Guadalcanal campaign.

As morning broke on Aug. 8, the scene sobered the Raiders. Bodies were strewn everywhere, some piled on top of one another. Lee could hardly believe what he was seeing. Then he saw Captain Lew Walt peering into a foxhole where Private First Class Eddie Ahrens lay quietly with his eyes closed. The 5’7″ private was covered in blood and was dying. A dead Japanese officer lay flung across his legs; a Japanese sergeant lay beside him. Crumpled around his foxhole were the bodies of 13 other enemy soldiers. Eddie had been hit twice in the chest by bullets and speared several times with bayonets. As Captain Walt gathered the young man into his arms, the private whispered, “Captain, they tried to come over me last night, but I don’t think they made it. Guess they didn’t know I was a Marine Raider.” Walt could only reply, “No, they didn’t, Eddie; they didn’t know.” 

The story of the brave, defiant young Raider spread quickly through the troops.

Lee and the other Raiders gathered their dead and wounded and quickly went back to work. Everyone knew that the Japanese would regroup in order to begin their final desperate defense in the rocky ravine at the southern tip. The Japanese would demand a heavy price for the taking. The Marine Raiders would be ready… the legend was beginning.

Carole Engle Avriett is the author of Marine Raiders: The True Story of the Legendary Battalions from which this article was excerpted. She was an editor with Southern Living Magazine for nearly 15 years recording real-life stories. She is the author of several books about military history.