This week marks the 80th anniversary of President Harry Truman’s fateful decision to drop atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki (respectively, Aug. 6 and 9, 1945). To date, those two bombings represent the only instances in which nuclear weapons have been deployed in war. At least 150,000 Japanese perished — a majority of them civilians. But the bombings were successful in achieving their intended effect: Japan announced its formal surrender to the Allies six days after the second bombing, thus finally bringing the bloodiest conflict in human history to an end.

For decades, ethical opposition to Truman’s decision has mostly come from left-wing critics. That seems to be changing. Last year, Tucker Carlson claimed that nuclear weapons were created by “demonic” forces and asserted that the United States was “evil” for dropping the bomb on Japan. Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard also posted a highly peculiar video in June that, while falling short of apologizing for the bombs, did pointedly warn of “warmongers” who are bringing the world to the brink of “nuclear holocaust.”

This is misguided. Looking back eight decades later, Truman’s decision deserves not condemnation but a tragic and grudging gratitude. It was the right decision, and America must never apologize for Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Critics often portray Truman’s decision as an act of monstrous brutality — a flex of raw military might by a sadistic and trigger-happy superpower. But such characterizations, drenched in presentist moral narcissism, do a grave disservice to the reality on the ground and the countless lives Truman undoubtedly saved. They are also a grave disservice to the memory of all those killed by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941. Carlson and his fellow ultra-pacifists should visit Pearl Harbor and stand over the sunken USS Arizona, the final resting place of more than 900 sailors and marines. One can still see and smell the oil leaking from the ships, all these decades later; it is an extraordinary experience.

Shocking sensory intakes aside, the sober reality is that the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, no matter how morbid and macabre, were strategically and morally correct.

When Truman authorized the use of the atomic bombs, he faced a truly appalling alternative: a full-scale land invasion of Japan. Operation Downfall, the planned invasion of the Japanese home islands, had projected American and Japanese casualties potentially reaching as high as a million lives each. The Imperial Japanese, steeped in a kamikaze warrior ethos, had proven time and again — at Iwo Jima, Okinawa and elsewhere — that they would fight to the last man, woman and child. Schoolchildren were being trained to attack American troops with sharpened bamboo sticks. Fighting to the death was not mere speculation; it was core Imperial Japanese doctrine.

The under-discussed truth is that Imperial Japan was just as ruthless and barbaric as its Nazi German wartime ally. And the atomic bombs — absolutely horrific though they were — finally shocked Japan into surrender. They punctured Japan’s carefully curated myth of divine invincibility and left Tokyo’s bellicose leadership with no doubt that continued resistance could only mean utter annihilation.

More than 100,000 Americans had already been killed in the Pacific theater, and those who had survived were overjoyed by Truman’s decision: They knew they would live and return home to their wives and children.

Truman’s decision also affirmed a deeper American nationalistic sentiment: that from an American perspective, the safety and security of American lives must necessarily be prioritized over foreign lives. Truman did not see any moral virtue in sacrificing our soldiers on the altar of an abstract globalism or a relativistic humanitarianism. His first obligation as commander in chief was to protect American lives by securing a final, unconditional end to the war. In this, he succeeded — resoundingly.

Critics often claim Japan was already on the brink of surrender. They point to back-channel diplomacy and note the Soviet declaration of war the day prior to the bombing of Nagasaki. But Truman didn’t have the benefit of postwar memoirs or archival research. He had bloodied maps, hundreds of thousands of dead soldiers, grieving families, and military intelligence suggesting the Japanese military would never accept unconditional surrender without a shock so great it shattered their will to fight.

This, too, reflects a clarity that modern Western leaders often lack: the resolve to act decisively, to bear the weight of terrible decisions in pursuit of peace and justice. Truman’s choice was not only militarily sound but morally defensible. The bombings were not, as many armchair critics have argued over the decades, a cheap form of ethical utilitarianism; Truman’s decision to bomb was simply reflective of how real war-and-peace decisions must be made in the heat of the moment, when the stakes are the highest.

It is fashionable now to question the morality of Truman’s decision from the safety of the present. But it is an act of historical myopia to pretend that the atomic bombings were gratuitous or overly callous. They were not. They were the tragic price of a brutal victory and the necessary cost of hard-fought peace.

War, we know, is hell. Indeed, that is a very good reason to avoid starting wars in the first place. But once upon a time, Western societies understood that once a horrific war has been initiated, there can be no substitute for absolute victory. That lesson has long been forgotten. It is past time to learn it once again.

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