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TwitThisIn Spite of Pain
Two days later we met again.“That was pretty intense last time,” he started.
“Yes.”
“I haven’t told anyone that story. It felt good to tell you.”
“Have you thought any more about what it might mean?”
“Like what?”
“Well, I was thinking about you and Mule. And I was wondering, What feelings do you have now about his death? Other than grief at the loss of your friend?”
“Anger, I guess.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I’m pissed off that he didn’t let me cover him. I’m pissed off at the bad guys for killing him. Mostly, I’m pissed off that there was nothing I could do.”
I nodded. “Anything else?”
“Guilt.”
“Why guilt?”
“It should have been me.”
I waited.
“I mean, I was point. I should have gone first.”
“And if you had gone first?”
“Mule would be alive. He’d be the one delivering my letter to my dad.”
“Tell me, if Mule had not gone around you—if he’d waited for your signal—what would you have done?”
“I would have moved my team out, around the corner,” he said.
“How would you have moved out?”
“Ma’am?”
“What would you have done physically, to move out?” I asked.
“Well, it’s called a creep, kind of like a walk-run, which we do when we’re moving around with weapons. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen it …”
“Sure. And this walk-run: What exactly does it involve? What is the logical progression of the parts of your body in order to creep?”
“I would have just stepped forward, ma’am—taken two or three steps forward, and they would have killed me.”
“Right. Two or three steps forward. How?”
“With my feet.”
“Exactly.”
He looked at his motionless legs and then back at me. Suddenly, he smiled.
Four days later, I cut through the pharmacy on my way to the psychiatric ward. As I approached the hospital’s main passageway, the raucous cheer of voices filled the air.
I rounded the corner and froze.
Corporal Paulsen was walking. He had exited the door of physical therapy with a walker, flanked by therapists, physical therapy techs and his father. Just before he saw me, he had released his hands from the handles and taken a step unassisted.
I drew in my breath.
He grinned widely. “Hey, ma’am! Look at me.”
“Look at you, Marine! You are a sight for sore eyes.” I felt my smile spread across my entire face.
“I guess my wheelchair had a purpose. But it doesn’t seem to anymore.”
“Sure looks that way to me.”
The corporal would survive. His experience would always be with him, and he would survive in spite of it.
Even, some days, because of it.
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