A Montgomery County Hero: The Unshakable Character of Jim Walton
Lieutenant Colonel James J. Walton
In our zeal to memorialize fallen American soldiers, naturally we glorify their greatness and ultimate sacrifice, forgiving and forgetting their human frailties. They deserve the honor and the grace. For a rare few, no grace is required. Their respect was earned over the course of a lifetime, on and off the battlefield, in uniform or jeans. Those who lived in Rockville's Flower Valley neighborhood in the 1970s and ‘80s were fortunate to know one of these remarkable people.
Before he was Lieutenant Colonel James J. Walton, a star West Point graduate, a master aviator, and an elite leader, he was simply Jimmy Walton, a friendly, athletic neighborhood kid from a big family. We ran in the same circles in a tight-knit community, attended grade school together, and forged a unique friendship at a quintessential point when our late-teen-lives were moving in opposite directions.
Jim Walton's military awards and decorations include the Bronze Star, Purple Heart, four Meritorious Service Medals, and a long list of more. He gave his life heroically at age 41 in Kandahar, Afghanistan. Jim didn't have to be there. His military career had already been extraordinary. After completing an assignment as camp commander of a training base in Kirkuk, Iraq in 2005–06, Jim returned to the Pentagon, where he could have spent the remainder of his career safely behind a desk. That wasn't Jim. In a West Point tribute, a fellow officer noted, “I remember Jim couldn’t wait to get out of that building.”
Jim deployed to Afghanistan at the end of 2007. He volunteered to lead a police mentor team in Kandahar because he believed that was where the most impact could be made. The fact that the police cadets were top targets and the work highly dangerous didn't deter him. Tragically, Jim and three of his soldiers were killed by an improvised explosive device on June 21, 2008, during a mentor team mission outside of Kandahar. Sgt. Andrew Seabrooks, 36, of Queens, New York; Sgt. Nelson D. Ramirez Rodriguez, 22, of Revere, Massachusetts; and Spc. Anthony L. Mangano, 36, of Greenlawn, New York, also gave their lives that day.
A Kid from Montgomery County
The remarkable moral leadership and courage Jim Walton displayed on the battlefield wasn't learned at West Point. It originated on a quiet Montgomery County street called Jasmine Drive. Young Jimmy was popular, smart, precocious yet wholesome. He excelled in the classroom and on the playing field. It wasn't all natural. He worked hard and it showed.
Jimmy joined the lifeguard team at Indian Spring Country Club during my second summer working with the teenage crew of malcontents, notorious for raiding the snack-bar's beer supply and throwing parties virtually every night of the summer. I might have been a ringleader.
We tried our absolute best to corrupt Jimmy. We cajoled him, we tricked him, and we dragged him along on our late-night shenanigans. Jimmy was entirely incorruptible yet never uncomfortable, never self-righteous. He could hang with anyone, and he didn't judge our chaotic lifestyle. He protected us. We were young, reckless, and stupid. Jimmy was the guy who took the car keys away, who broke up the squabbles, and who made sure the drunk girls didn't get preyed upon. He was the most decent guy in the room by a mile, with an internal compass nothing could shake.
The final time I saw Jim was in 1986, when we drove together to Pittsburgh for a friend’s wedding. By then, our lives had split into entirely different universes. Jim was a star cadet thriving under rigorous military discipline. I was a counterculture liberal arts student with long hair. He had learned to clean and maintain an M4 Carbine; I had mastered cleaning a bong.
Yet, sharing that car and a hotel room for two nights felt effortless. We had our common roots, and he was just so fundamentally good that the gap between a soldier and a long-haired college kid completely evaporated. We talked the whole way, laughed, and celebrated our friend before going our separate ways into adulthood.
We didn't stay in touch. I knew vaguely that he was rising through the ranks as an Army officer and deploying overseas. He built a massive, 19-year career in the Infantry and Aviation, serving in Germany, Honduras, Haiti, South Korea, and Iraq. He lived life with an incredible velocity, even helping set a world record in 2005 as part of an 85-person skydiving canopy formation.
It is a strange feeling, when a boy you grew up with is a decorated soldier staring back at you from his obituary picture. Jim was the first friend I had ever lost to combat.
In the last email Jim sent to his father, shared in a West Point tribute page, he wrote, “I just felt I needed to tell you, Dad, that I’m truly happy doing what I am doing. You told me to find something I am good at and stick to it. Well, I found it, leading soldiers, training foreign countries to protect themselves. I am happy. I just wanted to let you know.” Twenty-three years after protecting me and our friends, it's no surprise Jimmy was still doing it, just on a whole new level.
Today, a small memorial stands in front of the Flower Valley Bath and Racquet Club, where the Walton family swimmers dominated for a decade. Every year on Memorial Day, the neighborhood gathers there to remember Lieutenant Colonel James J. Walton. Nowadays, most people there never knew him; they gather to honor a soldier of immense rank and sacrifice, and that is enough. But for those of us who did, we are remembering Jimmy, the boy who didn't learn honor from a military manual. He brought it with him to West Point from a sleepy little neighborhood in Montgomery County, Maryland.
Photo: Montgomery Fix
Photo: Montgomery Fix
