Guadalcanal, November 1942. Another night of war. Aboveground, the air buzzed with mosquitoes and enemy ordnance. In foxholes, weary men in boots, fatigues and steel helmets shifted restlessly, counting the hours until dawn.

If a soldier on Guadalcanal wanted to stay in one piece, a hole in the ground was the safest place to spend the night. But nocturnal refuge had its price: disease-bearing Anopheles mosquitoes. For proof, one need only to have visited the hospital field tent. There, by flickering electric lanterns, medics tended delirious patients whose blood swarmed with the delicate rings, crescents and clusters we know as malaria.

This article was originally published with the title Men, Money and Malaria.

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