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Three times a week for the next six weeks, Corporal Paulsen came to see me in conjunction with his physical therapy appointments. I spent the first several meetings just listening, hoping to gain his trust. And then one day, he told me.“A good friend of mine from when I was a kid—everyone called him Mule because he was stubborn and ornery—showed up at my battalion right before we left for Iraq. I could not believe it. He asked me what I’d been up to since graduation, and I said I had joined the Marines. He said he’d joined the Navy. He was our corpsman. You know, don’t you, how we feel about our docs?”
I nodded.
His eyes misted over, but he went on. “Mule and I were always together from that moment on. We were best friends. We carried each other’s letters when we went in country.”
He bowed his head. I knew we were getting somewhere. The usually effusive corporal now visibly struggled to find and express his thoughts.
I waited through a long silence.
At last, he looked up, but not at me. Glassy and unfocused, his gaze appeared thousands of miles away as he spoke.
“One day, we were on patrol. I was on point, and behind me were the lieutenant, Mule and another Marine. We approached a brick wall, where we waited while another fire team entered a building. They immediately took fire from bad guys on the roof who were shooting down at them. One of them was hit, and someone yelled, ‘Corpsman, up!’”
He inhaled deeply and seemed to hold his breath. I watched him.
“Mule came around the lieutenant and grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling me back and rounding the corner in front of me, not giving me a chance to cover him while he ran for the building. The guys on the roof lit him up. They shot him 45 times while I watched. When we finally carried his body to the helo, I could see daylight through him. He had this surprised look on his face. I closed his eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.”
The corporal sighed heavily. Big tears lingered in his eyes. I reached out and placed one hand on top of his, breaking one of my own rules of therapy. “I’m so sorry for the loss of your friend,” I whispered.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
We sat in silence together.
I did not speak another word and let him cry.
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