Maj. Jim Mauldin, a U.S. Army special forces officer of mammoth size and prodigious strength, stood in my office doorway, blocking all light. He wanted something from me, his battalion commander. Jim spoke in a southern Virginia drawl with an unhurried cadence that matched his temperament. He got right to the point: “Sir, I would like permission for Master Sgt. Mark Coleman to go to Fort Benning and conduct a parachute jump with his son, who is in airborne school.” This otherwise benign request came at a terrible time. It was late fall of 2009. Our special forces battalion was preparing to deploy to southern Afghanistan. History would later record 2010 as the deadliest year for U.S. and coalition forces of the two-decade-long conflict.
Master Sgt. Coleman was a special forces operational detachment-alpha operations sergeant. Colloquially called “A-teams,” Coleman was the senior non-commissioned officer who, paired with a captain, led the team. Coleman was one of the finest soldiers in the battalion. If Coleman went to Fort Benning to jump with his son, he would miss a critical pre-mission training event. I was being asked to approve this absence.
“No,” I replied, more in reflexive reaction than in thoughtful response. “Jim, my job is to prepare us for combat. The distractors, absences, and taskers are crushing us. His team is young. We need Coleman in training for that week.” Mauldin was silent. He inhaled to respond, considered a moment, then retreated without protest.
Behind my desk, I pressed on, the stern and rightful protector of our training time. My duty was to prepare more than 300 soldiers of all ranks and experience levels to fight and survive in a war against a determined enemy. As commander, I was constantly repelling threats to our training time. This required clenched fists and shrewd decisions. I was the man for the job.
Two days later, Mauldin reappeared in my office doorway. He had a shiftiness about him, an indicator that we were going to be handling a difficult topic. “Sir, I strongly recommend you allow Mark Coleman to go jump with his son. He will pay his own way, he will be gone just 96 hours, and you have my assurance this will not affect his team’s readiness.” While straightforward, I understood Mauldin’s words differently: I reject your earlier decision, commander. This was bold. This was confrontational.
I sighed. I resented approving anything that chipped away at our training readiness. But Mauldin had just laid down a blue poker chip. He was a terrific company commander. He was levelheaded and analytical. When such a leader knowingly crosses into an area of respectful disobedience, that is a signal: It is time to pause and reconsider the decision. “Okay, but he pays his own way,” I said, adding a meaningless qualifier that gave the impression that I had just won a negotiation. Mauldin smiled and withdrew without a word. This towering man knew when to quietly collect his winnings and get up from the table.
Weeks later, on the eve of our deployment to Afghanistan, I ran into Coleman. “Master Sgt. Coleman, did you get to jump with your son?” I asked. A smile broke across his face and joy flashed in his eyes. “I did, sir! It was fantastic. An unbelievable moment with my son. Thanks for letting me go to Fort Benning.” Our conversation was brief, but the impact lingered with me. I was the father of three boys. To conduct a parachute jump with one’s son was a rare union of family and our chosen profession. In one exhilarating moment, this father and son hurled themselves from an aircraft flying 140 miles per hour at 2,000 feet above ground, experienced the punishing shock of a deployed canopy, and floated freely in the sky. Mark Coleman and his son would, together, enjoy a fleeting moment of floating rapture before the hard ground served up a jarring stop. A handshake and a hug would seal their union into the airborne guild. Coleman’s proud smile on that day before our deployment sent a bolt of joy into my heart, followed by a sliver of horror: I had almost ruined this. In fact, I had ruined it until Maj. Mauldin pressed the issue. I took stock of the emotion, exhaled, and strode off.
On May 2, 2010, Master Sgt. Mark Coleman, 40 years old, was killed in action by an improvised explosive device in Arghandab, Afghanistan. He died instantly.
Coleman’s team responded to a call from a nearby U.S. infantry patrol that became ensnared in a field of buried improvised explosive devices. These devices were booby-trapped with hidden, “anti-handling” mechanisms where the circuitry is configured to detonate the explosive charge in any number of ways: downward pressure, tugged or cut wires, or the slightest of nudges. Mark Coleman did not survive his cursory investigation of this homemade minefield.
Mark Coleman’s A-team was executing a unique, risky mission on their eight-month tour. U.S. special forces teams embedded in Afghan villages, living among the locals to raise and reinforce the country’s fledgling security forces. The team was fully and intentionally exposed to the enemy. They were full-time residents, inseparable from their local hosts. Together, they signaled to the enemy: We are here, and we own the neighborhood.
When Mark Coleman was killed, he was a green beret at the top of his game. Coleman’s mission demanded some alchemy of guile, audacity, restraint, muscle, diplomacy, and instinct. He was a master of weaponry, a crafter of tactics, a counselor to men, a canny strategist confined to a contested valley. He was a patient chess player one minute, a twitchy kickboxer the next. He was a combat leader. The most experienced member of the team, Coleman was developing future leaders while simultaneously navigating a dreadfully complex operational environment. Until each of his team members honed the skills and senses needed to operate confidently, he was the indispensable one. As Coleman was the father to his own son, he was a father figure to his team.
The last time I saw Mark Coleman, he and his A-team were securing a helicopter landing zone for the departure of Gen. Stanley McChrystal, the top military commander of coalition forces in Afghanistan. McCrystal wanted to observe “village stability operations” in action, so he visited Coleman and his men in the Arghandab valley northwest of Kandahar. Controlling the valley and its village clusters was crucial to securing Kandahar, the Taliban stronghold.
McChrystal’s visit took place in April 2010 when the Arghandab’s prolific pomegranate orchards were in full bloom. After briefly meeting and talking with Coleman and his team, the general prepared to return to U.S. military headquarters in Kabul. Coleman’s mixed U.S.-Afghan force swarmed the landing zone on Chinese-made motorcycles, spitting up dust, guns tightly slung over backs, belted ammunition visible under dun-colored scarves, goggles fastened over battered helmets, and tattooed forearms exposed to the desert sun. It was a scene right out of Mad Max. The ground trembled under the thrum of inbound U.S. helicopters.
As I prepared to load the waiting aircraft, I turned to Coleman. “Mark, no one really knows what ‘right’ looks like out here, but you are close to it. Whatever the enemy has in store for you, remember this command trusts you.” Coleman cracked a smile: “Sir, we feel that. We appreciate that trust.” As the helicopters peeled away, I looked down into the mud-caked villages crisscrossed with foot paths and hand-dug irrigation canals. Solving sticky problems in punishing environments is exactly what green berets do and who they are. Coleman was in his element. He exhibited an unmistakable contentment in that twisted way known to combat soldiers: The senses are ablaze as never before at the prospect of taking a life or losing one’s own.
On this Memorial Day, let us always remember U.S. Army Master Sgt. Mark Coleman, other fallen teammates, and all the servicemembers who have been killed in action in the service of the nation. May their lights remain bright in our hearts and be impressed upon our memories.
Let us also thank the living. Maj. Jim Mauldin exhibited the courage that day in my office doorway that does not earn ribbons or secure promotions. His small act of resistance made possible the finest memory a father and son could want — a final memory, as it turned out. Thank you, Lt. Col. (ret.) Jim Mauldin, for helping this officer learn that a clenched fist can, with a little help, become an open hand.
Brian Petit, a retired U.S. Army colonel, teaches and consults on strategy, planning, special operations, and resistance. He commanded the 2nd Battalion, 1st Special Forces Group (Airborne) in 2008–2010. He is an adjunct for the Joint Special Operations University.
Image: U.S. Army
Jesus Christ is King
Comments are closed.