The Unforgiving Minute: A Soldier's Education

by Craig M. Mullaney Narrated by Todd McLaren

Overview

Craig M. Mullaney's education had been relentlessly preparing him for this moment. The four years he spent at West Point and the harrowing test of Ranger School readied him for a career in the Army. His subsequent experience as a Rhodes scholar at Oxford couldn't have been further from the Army and his working-class roots, and yet the unorthodox education he received there would be surprisingly relevant as a combat leader. Years later, after that unforgettable experience in Afghanistan, he would return to the United States to teach history to future Navy and Marine Corps officers at the Naval Academy. He had been in their position once, and he had put his education to the test. How would he use his own life-changing experience to prepare them?



The Unforgiving Minute is the extraordinary story of one soldier's singular education. From a hilarious plebe's-eye view of the author's West Point experience to the demanding leadership crucible of Ranger School's swamps and mountains, to a two-year whirlwind of scintillating debate, pub crawls, and romance at Oxford, Mullaney's winding path to the battlegrounds of Afghanistan was unique and remarkable. Despite all his preparation, the hardest questions remained. When the call came to lead his platoon into battle and earn his soldiers' salutes, would he be ready? Was his education sufficient for the unforgiving minutes he'd face? A fascinating account of an Army captain's unusual path through some of the most legendary seats of learning straight into a brutal fight with Al Qaeda in Afghanistan, The Unforgiving Minute is, above all, an unforgettable portrait of a young soldier grappling with the weight of his hard-earned knowledge while coming to grips with becoming a man.

Editorial Reviews

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"Were you ready?" a young cadet asks Mullaney, a history teacher at the Naval Academy. Is any soldier prepared for the unforgiving minutes they'll face in combat? July 1, 1996, was stamped on Mullaney's military records with an authoritative finality, the date of his entrance to West Point and the beginning of his education as a soldier. West Point grad, Army Ranger, and Rhodes scholar -- years later, his training and preparation land him in Afghanistan. Was the sum of his experience and education sufficient to face the life-changing test before him?

Mullaney was born and raised in Rhode Island, the son of working-class parents, and his story is the extraordinary account of an amazing journey. Eager for the physical and mental challenges of West Point, his plebe's-eye view is at once hilarious and harrowing. The rigors of Army Ranger School readied him for a military career, and the louche pub crawls and intellectual tests at Oxford provided a two-year respite. Deployed to Afghanistan, Mullaney and his platoon face a deadly firefight with Al-Qaeda fighters in which one of his men is killed, forcing Mullaney to question his years of dogged and relentless preparation.

Now, as he watches his younger brother chart a similar course, he recounts his life path, examining his own unforgiving minutes. In the process, Mullaney tells a remarkable story. (Spring 2009 Selection)

Janet Maslin

…[a] brisk, candid memoir…The Unforgiving Minute finds both suspense and pathos in the events that took place under its author's command. Its fierce climactic battle is recreated in searing detail. But what gives this memoir its impact isn't the external events that it describes. It's the inner journey of a man who is at first eager to learn as much as he can from service and scholarship. Later on he learns from his mistakes.
—The New York Times

Chris Bray

In this extraordinary book, Mullaney has taken the trouble to look very closely, and has had the courage to discover the limits to his own understanding. Readers will be fascinated to look over his shoulder.
—The Washington Post

Booklist

Young Captain Mullaney's admirable, literate autobiography, that of a veteran of combat in Afghanistan, adds much to knowledge of the modern army and makes a valuable contribution to the ongoing debate over what a "warrior" is these days. Mullaney wryly recounts his years at West Point and as a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford, then writes eloquently of infantry combat and the persistent burden of guilt for not bringing all his men home even as he makes his account a tribute to his fellow warriors. He concludes with sidelights on his teaching post at the U.S. Naval Academy and the moving story of his younger brother's graduation from West Point and subsequent passage into the ranks of the warriors himself. Almost impossible to put down for anyone interested in the modern U.S. Army or in modern warfare in general.

Kirkus Reviews

Keenly intelligent war memoir whose central question is, "What is a man?"'First-time author Mullaney, a West Point graduate, Rhodes Scholar and veteran of combat in Afghanistan, searches for the answer while investigating a second question: What kind of man is a soldier? At West Point and in the Army, soldier and man are one and the same. Mullaney's intelligence and sensitivity are too fine-tuned for such a simple conflation. Nevertheless, war and the training he underwent to prepare for it provided the instruments with which he takes the measure of his own manhood. The oldest of four children in a working-class Irish-American family from rural Rhode Island, Mullaney was already mature beyond his years as the memoir begins with his 1996 departure for West Point, where he drove himself to excel in both sport and scholarship. The book is divided in three parts of unequal length: Student, Soldier and Veteran. In the first and longest section, Mullaney contrasts his Spartan education at West Point and Army Ranger School at Fort Benning, Ga., with the more Athenian style of scholarship at Oxford, where he read history and world literature, polished his rough edges and met Meena, the Tamil-American doctor-in-training who became his wife. As a soldier in Afghanistan, all of Mullaney's education was put to the test. He took pride in a humanitarian mission he led near Gardez to vaccinate members of the Kuchi tribe and treat their animals to a veterinary checkup. But when his company moved to Shkin, near the border with Pakistan and on the front of the war against al-Qaeda, the death of one of his soldiers made him agonize over his responsibility and doubt his ultimate commitment to the mission. Asa veteran, attending his brother's West Point graduation, Mullaney says, "there was so much I wanted to say to him...[but] I realized how little I could convey . . . the rest Gary would have to learn for himself."A philosophically ambitious account of coming to adulthood, only slightly marred by occasional bursts of sentimentality and sententiousness. Agent: E.J. McCarthy/E.J. McCarthy Agency

From the Publisher

[The Unforgiving Minute] is one man's story, warmly and credibly told, and its focus is on the idealism that he brought to military service. In Captain Mullaney's mind there is no contradiction between loyally following orders and intelligently wondering what purpose those orders serve. . . . The Unforgiving Minute finds both suspense and pathos in the events that took place under its author's command. Its fierce climactic battle is recreated in searing detail. But what gives this memoir its impact isn't the external events that it describes. It's the inner journey of a man who is at first eager to learn as much as he can from service and scholarship. Later on he learns from his mistakes." —The New York Times

“The Unforgiving Minute is a wonderful, beautifully written story of the education and development of a young soldier-scholar, the coming of age of an infantry officer, and the exercise of a small unit leader's responsibilities in a tough, complex, and frustrating situation in Afghanistan. It captures particularly eloquently and movingly the relationships among those who walk point for our nation as part of that most elite of fraternities, the brotherhood of the close fight.” —General David Petraeus, Commander, U.S. Central Command

“Craig Mullaney's memoir is a thoughtful, introspective work reminiscent of the great British memoirs of World War I. A thousand years from now, historians wanting to know about life in America after 9/11 would do well to look at this book. Equally important, it is an enjoyable and honest book. Read it.” —Thomas E. Ricks, author of New York Times bestseller FIASCO: The American Military Adventure in Iraq and senior military correspondent, The Washington Post

“[Craig Mullaney] ultimately delivers far more than the boy-to-man story that he promised. . . . In this extraordinary book, Mullaney has taken the trouble to look very closely, and has had the courage to discover the limits to his own understanding. Readers will be fascinated to look over his shoulder.” —Washington Post Book World

“Craig Mullaney has lived every kind of American life—he has been a working-man's son, a prize scholar, a soldier—and what's come out of it is a classic memoir about what it means to be American. By marching so many terrains, he has covered the subjects central to every life: courage, pain, loyalty, honor, friendship, love and the tests any good life faces, year by year, minute by minute. He has also produced a page-turner, a brutally honest account of West Point life, the innocence-abandoned experiences of an American abroad at Oxford, and ultimately an indelible story of life and death on the battlefield. In words his squadmates might recognize, I recommend The Unforgiving Minute without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion." —David Lipsky, contributing editor to Rolling Stone Magazine and author of the New York Times bestseller Absolutely American

“The Unforgiving Minute is one of the most compelling memoirs yet to emerge from America's 9/11 era. Craig Mullaney has given us an unusually honest, funny, accessible, and vivid account of a soldier's coming of age. This is more than a soldier's story; it is a work of literature." —Steve Coll, author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning Ghost Wars and The Bin Ladens

“Former Army Capt. Craig Mullaney admits up front that, emotionally, he takes after his expressive Irish mother, who is 'incapable of stemming a tear.' Mullaney is less candid and perhaps unaware of his talent for evoking emotion in others. . . . But The Unforgiving Minute is far from heavy and never maudlin. Mullaney's sense of humor is obvious. . . . It is Mullaney's clear-eyed, warm- hearted candor that elicits empathy. . . . This self-effacing frankness makes his coming-of-age-in-uniform memoir a charmer. . . . Stunning [and] pertinent." —The Army Times

"The Unforgiving Minute is the ultimate's soldier's book-universal in its raw emotion and its understanding of the larger issues of life and death. Mullaney, a master storyteller, plunges the depths of self-doubt, endurance, and courage. The result: a riveting, suspenseful human story, beautifully told. This is a book written under fire-a lyrical, spellbinding tale of war, love, and courage. The Unforgiving Minute is the Three Cups of Tea of soldiering.” —Ahmed Rashid, author of the New York Times bestseller Taliban and Descent into Chaos

“The Unforgiving Minute is a gripping account of a young military officer's quest to prepare for the unknowns of leadership under fire, and his eventual testing in Afghanistan. With unflinching candor, Mullaney depicts his evolution from idealistic teenager to reflective veteran who retains his conviction and patriotism once his innocence is lost. His emotional, often funny memoir takes us to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, through the rigors of Army Ranger school, then on to drunken debates and romance at Oxford, where he had a Rhodes Scholarship. . . . The book [is] a departure from traditionally dry military memoirs—it reads like a work of literature. . . . Mullaney's evolution through his intellectual and emotional journey grips on every page; his writing contains a modesty that becomes more endearing as his achievements mount. This is a classic coming-of-age memoir and a valuable insight into post-Sept. 11 conflict.” —Bloomberg.com

“Mullaney writes a great story—a true privilege to read. Entertaining, balanced, and graceful, The Unforgiving Minute is a powerful narrative of purpose, responsibility, courage, and personal growth. Every young man and woman in America should read this book, and aspire to his standard of public service.” —General Wesley Clark, USA (Ret.)

“The Unforgiving Minute is a classic memoir of war and personal development. Craig Mullaney has provided a far greater service to his nation by penning a riveting memoir that should be mandatory reading by every junior officer who dons the military uniform.” —ARMY Magazine

"I recommend The Unforgiving Minute because it is superb and important. . . . Read the book and you know the caliber of the men and women leading our troops and the troops themselves. More importantly, Craig shows the price of service to country and the cost of sacrifices so few individuals endure in our name.” —The Huffington Post

“Craig Mullaney has written a poignant and evocative book about the great hurdles in coming of age: love, death, belief, and betrayal. Learning from his experience can help us face our own unforgiving minutes. I couldn't stop reading.” —Nathaniel Fick, author of the New York Times bestseller One Bullet Away

“Insightful . . . This book should be read, certainly, by everyone who has a loved one who is serving in the military, has served or might one day serve. But it also should be required reading for all Americans. . . . His is a remarkable journey, recounted with unflinching honesty, thoughtful reflection, occasional humor and hard-won wisdom. . . . An unusual book that combines grittily realistic accounts of war with highly educated reflection and introspection. . . . If enough people read [The Unforgiving Minute], then perhaps we as a country would not have such a profound lack of understanding of the volunteer troops we send to fight our wars, and of the sacrifices that they and their families make.” —Winston-Salem Journal

“One of the most thoughtful and honest accounts ever written by a young Army officer confronting all the tests of life—education, love, self-knowledge, combat, and the fates of war.” —Bob Woodward

JULY 2009 - AudioFile

In simple but intelligent language, an Army officer shares his physical and mentally maturing experiences at West Point and Army Ranger school. Listeners can decide if those lessons in obedience, discipline, and conformity prepared him for leadership as a platoon leader in Afghanistan. Todd McLaren adapts his narration to the situations Mullaney describes. He assumes a raspy, gruff voice for orders from the Lieutenant's superiors and a somber one for occasional introspective moments. McLaren's subtle treatment avoids exaggeration while preserving the emotional moods the author intended for his memories of romance, combat, and death. McLaren capitalizes on the author's military brevity in describing war and captures his softer side as Shakespeareian poetry punctuates his recollections of courting his wife during postgraduate study at Oxford. J.A.H. © AudioFile 2009, Portland, Maine

Product Details

BN ID:	2940171297176
Publisher:	Tantor Audio
Publication date:	04/20/2009
Edition description:	Unabridged
Sales rank:	1,093,005

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

Reception Day

In case of Sudden and Temporary Immersion,
the Important Thing is to keep the Head Above Water.
A. A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

"Get off my bus!" screamed the cadet in charge. "You're not moving fast enough. Move it. Move it. Move it!" We stampeded from the bus like a startled herd of wildebeest, clutching our small gym bags with white-knuckled grips. As we poured into the hot July sunlight, chiseled senior cadet cadre aligned our crooked ranks.

"Left, face."

Forty eighteen-year-olds turned at different speeds toward another white-starched cadet cadre. We must have looked ridiculous-a ragtag collection of shorts, untucked T-shirts, and long hair.

"Drop your bags."

They landed on the pavement with a thud.

"You will now begin the administrative portion of your processing. Follow all instructions both quickly and quietly. During this process you will pass water fountains. You are authorized and encouraged to use them. Do you understand?"

I nodded my head with the others.

"Pick up your bags."

July 1, 1996 was stamped on my military record like a wine's vintage-my "date of initial entry into military service." As my high school classmates alternated between summer jobs, afternoons at the beach, and summer reading lists, I headed off to West Point, New York. R-Day, short for "Reception Day," was the first day of a six-week period of basic training. There was absolutely nothing hospitable about this first day of military indoctrination, beginning with an exercise in severing family bonds. After standing in a straggling line of twelve hundred would-be freshmen and their parents, I was herded into the basketball arena with another thirty "cadet candidates." I had ninety seconds to say good-bye to my parents.

After obeying my first military order, I marched up the stairs and through a set of double doors. Even before the door shut behind me, it became clear what my first year at West Point was going to be like.

"What are you looking at, candidate?" shouted a five-foot-five cadet. The volume of his voice was inconsistent with his height.

"Nothing."

"Aren't you going to call me sir?"

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Are you at the Naval Academy?"

"Sir, no, sir."

"Then stop making sir sandwiches, candidate. It's 'yes, sir' or 'no, sir.'" He lowered his voice to a vicious whisper. "What's your name, candidate?"

"Craig, sir."

"Is that your first name?" His eyes widened.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you think I care what your first name is? Do you think I want to be your friend?"

"No, sir."

"Just get out of my hallway. Move over to that table and fill out your tag."

"Yes, sir."

I hurried over and wrote my last name in big bold letters. The tag had a dozen boxes to check off as we were "processed" from civilians into military recruits. I hung it around my neck as instructed and boarded the school bus. I sat down on the crowded bus but was too cowed by my scolding to strike up any conversation. What am I doing here?

"Step up to my line. Do not step on my line. Do not step over my line. Step up to my line." A cadet glared at me under the black brim of a white service cap and swung his hand in front of his face, signaling that I should advance precisely to the line of demarcation pasted on the pavement in green tape. This was the first lesson in literal obedience.

He was the "Cadet in the Red Sash"-the first cadre member I needed to report to in order to join my company. I stood before him in a ludicrous uniform of newly issued cadet gym shorts, knee-high black socks, and Oxford low-quarter dress shoes. My head had been shorn of its five-inch locks, revealing a topography of old scars and virgin white scalp.

"Re-port," he bellowed at me from a distance of eighteen inches.

"New Cadet Mullaney reports to the…the…"

"Are you stuttering while you report?" His hot breath dried the sweat on my face.

"Yes, sir."

"Did I give you permission to stutter?"

"No, sir."

I began again: "New Cadet Mullaney…"

"Stop. What did you do wrong?" My newly bald scalp burned under the midday sun.

"Sir, I don't know."

"I don't know. I don't know," he repeated. "Is 'I don't know' one of your four responses?"

"No, sir."

"What are your four responses?" he asked, testing whether I remembered another cadet's instructions on answering questions.

"Yes, sir. No, Sir. No excuse, sir. Sir, I do not understand."

"That's right, New Cadet. Why did you stutter? Did you not have sufficient time to practice?"

"I forgot, sir." I could almost see smoke billow out of his ears.

" 'I forgot' is not one of your four responses. Try again."

"No excuse, sir," I responded correctly. I must have replied "No excuse, sir" a thousand times that first year, hammering into my head an acknowledgment of personal responsibility that eventually became second nature.

"Try again, New Cadet."

"Sir, New Cadet --"

"Aren't you going to ask to make a correction?"

"Yes, sir. Sir, may I make a correction?"

"Yes."

"Sir, New Cadet Mullaney reports to the Cadet in the Red Sash for the first time as ordered."

"Are you going to salute when you report?"

"Yes, sir. Sir, may I make a correction?"

"Make it."

I raised my fingertips to my eyebrow as I saluted and repeated my report.

"New Cadet, that is the sorriest salute I have seen today." I couldn't believe how many mistakes I was making. I am better than this, I told myself.

The red-sashed, barrel-chested cadet manipulated my arm into a better approximation of a West Point salute: fingers closed and extended in a straight line to my elbow, arm parallel to the ground, palm canted toward my eyes.

"Move out, New Cadet. I haven't got all day."

A line extended behind me, other sheep waiting for the slaughter. I picked up my laundry bag of new clothing items, ran up six flights of stairs, and walked briskly down the hall toward the room indicated on my tag. Inside the room were a coat closet, several dresser drawers, three bare desks and bookshelves, and three mattresses on metal frames. The linoleum floor, dull and drab, smelled of Lysol. For that matter, everything in the barracks smelled of Lysol. Outside the window a green parade field stretched to a copse of trees and a steep drop to the Hudson River, a half mile across. It wouldn't be such a long swim, I thought. Before I could introduce myself to my roommates, two knocks at the door preceded the entrance of a cadre member.

"Call the room to attention, dammit." I looked at his name tag. "You," he pointed at my chest, "the one eye-balling me."

"Room, atten-hut." We sprang to attention.

"You sound like a goddam Marine." He looked down at the tag still hanging around my neck. "Mullaney, do you think this is the goddam Marine Corps? There is no 'hut' in the Army."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm Cadet Bellinger, as Mullaney here found out by investigation, and I am your squad leader. I am not your friend, your counselor, or your coach. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," we answered in unison.

"Say it like soldiers, goddam it."

"

Yes, sir." "Much better," he said, satisfied for the moment. "I want you down there" -- he pointed from the window down to the concrete pavement between our barracks and the parade field -- "in five minutes. You will be wearing the uniform I am in right now. Do you see how I am wearing my uniform?"

"Yes, sir."

He strode out the door and slammed the door behind him as we dove into our bags and assembled our uniforms in a flurry of brass buckles, black nylon socks, and gray trousers so abrasive that hair didn't grow on my thighs for the next four years.

We stood in a row under the shade of an elm tree in front of MacArthur Barracks. This was what the Army meant by a formation: any number of soldiers standing at attention and prepared for training, marching, or, more typically, waiting. We were being formed. The ten of us, sweating into new leather low-quarter shoes, would cohere over time into a more competent squad. I would soon learn the Rule of Four, a trick for remembering this strange new hierarchy. Sergeants with at least four years of experience lead squads in the Army. Four squads comprised a platoon, the smallest unit in the Army commanded by a commissioned officer. The focus of military training at West Point was to prepare the new lieutenants it graduated for just this role, to be platoon leaders. With seasoning, officers commanded at higher levels. Four platoons made a company, with around 150 soldiers and sergeants, which was led by a company commander, a captain. For most officers this was the highest level at which they would command before finishing their service. For officers who chose a career in the Army and earned promotions to colonel, they competed to command battalions (four companies) and brigades (four battalions). Only generals got the opportunity to lead entire divisions, such as the famed 82nd Airborne or 10th Mountain.

West Point was organized like a brigade. Cadets played the roles of sergeants and officers in order to give every cadet the opportunity to hone his or her leadership abilities. As new cadets, we were the privates. Our purpose was to follow, to obey, and to be formed in the image of our leaders. We had begun our transformation, reduced to a common denominator, at the barbershop. Now, dressed identically, it was time for us to learn how to walk again.

"I have two hours to teach you how to march like soldiers. Marching is what we do here. Every day. To breakfast. To lunch. After school. On Saturday mornings. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," he continued. "Right, face."

We turned to the right to form a column. Bellinger looked down at the ground in dismay, "We'll have to work on that. All right now, keeping your fists tight and your arms straight at your side, move your left arm forward and step forward with your right foot."

We moved forward with a lurch, frozen in mid-stride.

"Excellent. Now move your right arm and left foot."

Bellinger led us through twenty iterations of this choreographed awkward motion. I had always assumed marching was not much different from walking. I had never worried, for instance, about a bouncy step or gave much thought to swinging my arms exactly nine inches forward and six to the rear. I wondered how many cadre were laughing at us as we robo-walked across the Apron, looking like Monty Python's Ministry of Silly Walks.

"Not bad for starters. Let's add a beat." Bellinger began chanting: "Dum-dum-DUM-DUM-DUM, dum-dum-DUM-DUM-DUM."

Within fifty feet we were completely out of rhythm.

"Focus on the man in front of you. Do what he does."

This worked better, but I still walked like a marionette doll with no control over my own limbs. In the distance a bass drum beat a steady thump, perhaps alerted that over a thousand novices were trying to will their natural strides into an unfamiliar gait. The tallest had to walk at funeral pace and the shortest legs overreached comically. Around and around we marched-column left, march, column left, march, mark time, march, forward, march, dum-dum-DUM-DUM-DUM.

The sun began to sink behind the barracks as our newly constituted platoon streamed onto the parade field. Our families, having completed their own daylong indoctrination into military parenting, awaited us with cameras and binoculars. Our black shoes, peppered with fresh grass clippings, rooted us as firmly to the ground as the guidon flags planted in front of each company. We snapped to attention as the cadet commander introduced our class to the Superintendent, Lieutenant General Daniel Christman, Class of 1965. In an address that was meant more for our families than us, he recounted the accomplishments of the nearly two hundred West Point classes that had preceded us. With hard work and perseverance, we too might join this Long Gray Line of distinguished alumni. The crowd applauded, and we raised our right hands at the command of our cadre. After swearing an oath to support the Constitution and obey the legal orders of superior officers, the band played the national anthem. A hum from our ranks grew louder as we sang along. In front of us, beyond the crowd, the American flag beat against the wind whipping between Storm King Mountain and Breakneck Ridge, down the Hudson River, and up the bluff where we stood -- anxious, exhausted, and terrified. At the moment, joining the Long Gray Line seemed less important than surviving the first day.

With identical uniforms and shaved heads, we were virtually indistinguishable from one another. The transformation was a testament to the efficiency of military indoctrination. As the parade concluded, we marched past proud and nervous parents. At the command of eyes right, I searched for my own parents in vain. We turned our backs to the stands as the wind whistled past Trophy Point's cannons and drove us forward. We headed toward arched passageways marked with the names of hallowed battlefields. LEYTE GULF. CORREGIDOR. NORMANDY. The letters faded into shadow. The ranks of white in front of me merged into gray stone, and a hail of terrifying commands grew louder with each perfectly measured step. The barracks, backlit by the setting sun, jutted out like boulders carved from the hill beyond. At the crest of the hill, two hundred feet above our uniforms of white and gray, stood the chapel -- a mass of granite blocks soaring to a crenellated bell tower. It was impossible to imagine West Point built of anything other than granite and steel.

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