“Yeah, but most of them don’t end up in a wheelchair, do they, ma’am?” He smirked at me. “I figure my body is trying to tell me something — now it’s up to you to figure out what that is.”
I smiled at him, stood up, shook his hand, and held the door open for the wheelchair. “Actually, that’s up to you. I’m just here to watch it happen.”
Corporal Paulsen came to see me three times a week for the next six weeks in conjunction with his physical therapy appointments and with my long list of things to do before I left active duty in the Navy. I spent the first several meetings 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 ’cause he was stubborn and ornery — anyway, he shows up at my battalion right before we left for Iraq. I couldn’t believe it. He asked me what I’d been up to since graduation, and I said I’d joined the Marines. He said he’d joined the Navy. He was our corpsman. You know, don’t you, ma’am — 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 eyes appeared thousands of miles away as he spoke.
“One day, we were on patrol. I was on point, and behind me were the LT, 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 twenty-five 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 them anymore.”
He sighed deeply. Big tears lingered in his eyes. I reached out and placed one hand on top of his, breaking my own rule — again.
“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.
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 mom.”
“Tell me — if Mule had not gone around you, if he had waited for your signal, what would you have done next?”
“I would have moved my team out, around the corner.”
“How would you have moved out?”
“Ma’am?”
“What would you have done, physically, to move out?”
“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. I would have 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 at me. A slight smile crept onto his face.
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 many voices filled the air. I rounded the corner and froze in my tracks.
Corporal Paulsen was walking. He had exited the door of physical therapy with a walker, flanked by therapists, PT techs, and his mother. 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 for a while — but it doesn’t seem to anymore.”
“Sure looks that way to me.”
He would survive. His experience would always be with him, and he would survive in spite of it. Even, some days, because of it.
And so would I.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes, Corporal?”
He extended his hand. I stepped forward and shook it.
“Thank you.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
After all, I wore the uniform of a Medical Service Corps officer in the United States Navy. And during times of war, those of us in this uniform took care of our Marines. That statement went both ways.
It always has.
HEIDI KRAFT
Epilogue
On November 10, 2006 (the 231st birthday of the U.S. Marine Corps and what would have been Corporal Jason Dunham’s twenty-fifth birthday), President Bush announced that Corporal Dunham would be posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. On January 11, 2007, I had the distinct honor of attending the ceremony at the White House, as a guest of Corporal Dunham’s parents, when the president awarded the medal to his family.
It stands alone as the single proudest day of my life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
From the bottom of my heart, thank you . . .
To Mike, to Brian, and to Megan: for going on without me and for making me whole when I returned. All of this, everything I did and everything I ever will do, is for you.
To Bill and Bette Squier, my dad and mom: for the monumental sacrifice of love you made for your daughter and your grandchildren. Everything was immensely more bearable knowing you were there, loving them.
To my sister, Steph: for the greatest care packages ever sent; for your love and concern; and for the DVDs of my children — my lifeline, although I didn’t realize how much until I returned home.
To the entire extended family, both Squier and Kraft sides: for your unified show of support for Mike and me.
To Hunter, Nisha, and Captain Goldberg . . . friends, mentors, OIF I vets: for being the only ones, at the time, who understood.
To Margy, Kristen, Mary, Colette, Alli, Joni, Katja, Tanya, Paula, Kelly, Deb, Cindy, Karen, Bith, Heather, Martin, Cowboy, Kim, Rick, Stephanie, Lori, Christi, Jill, Mental, Stork, Diane, Beret, Gary, Buster, Deke, Whymee, the people of the Mental Health Department at NH Jax — my friends: for the letters, packages, e-mails, and prayers that kept me going.
To Lieutenant Colonel Otto Lehrack, USMC (ret.): for immediately knowing the
real me after reading, “The List,” for finding me, encouraging me, unrelentingly convincing me to write it all down; for helping the work come to life in such a real way; and most of all, for believing in me.
To Stu Miller, former Marine and agent extraordinaire: for your patience and guidance through a completely foreign process to me, and for crying with me the day it was announced that Corporal Dunham would be awarded the Medal of Honor.
To Liz Nagle, my wonderful editor: for your fantastic ideas and your uncanny ability to know how my writing will sound so much better; for your ability to laugh with me.
To Michael Phillips, Wall Street Journal reporter and author of A Gift of Valor: for so beautifully telling Jason Dunham’s story to the world, and for holding my hand during Deb’s speech at Quantico.
To Karen Guenther; Lieutenant General Chip Gregson, USMC (ret.); and everyone at the Injured Marine Semper Fi Fund: for your unfailing support of our country’s heroes.
To Captain Koffman, another OIF I vet: for checking up on us at Al Asad. It did matter to us, very much.
To Petty Officers (then) Gob, Patacsil, and Blythe: for taking care of us and all those Marines.
To Jen: for your friendship and laughter and the “Eye in the sky” song.
To Katie: for keeping us motivated, for your positive attitude, for holding John’s hand as he died.
To Paul: for listening, for caring, for being there, and for giving me a new appreciation of the Doors.
To Steve: for being the one who woke up that night I stumbled to your room at 0300 with heat exhaustion and palpitations, for letting me sleep on your floor, for adjusting my spine once a week for seven months, and for your infectious grin.
To Cat: for being the Marine we all looked to. We still do. Ooh-rah.
To Bill (aka “The Hammer”): for making me laugh, for sharing your music, for organizing Sopranos nights, and for calling me your Mini-Hammer and your friend.
To Karen: for your fabulous laugh, for your wonderful, supportive friendship in the desert and ever since. I am so proud of you.
To Jason: for your empathy, your unending support, and for being the best partner I could ever ask for. I very honestly do not know what I would have done if I had arrived in Iraq and not found you there. This book is for Rhys, too. Maybe someday they’ll all understand. Maybe someday we’ll understand.
And finally, to Deb, Dan, Justin, Kyle, and Katie Dunham: for inviting me into your lives and for the once-in-a-lifetime experience of being with you as Corporal Jason Dunham was awarded the Medal of Honor; for believing that he heard my voice when I begged him to keep fighting; for knowing in your hearts that he did.
“. . . the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.”
— President Abraham Lincoln, 1864
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Heidi Squier Kraft received her PhD in clinical psychology from the University of California, San Diego, School of Medicine in 1996. She joined the Navy during internship and served as both a flight and clinical psychologist. In February 2004, when her twin boy and girl were fifteen months old, she deployed to Iraq for seven months with a Marine Corps surgical company. She left active duty in 2005 after nine years in the Navy and now serves as the deputy coordinator for the U.S. Navy Combat Stress Control Program. She lives in San Diego with her husband and children.
* Marine Corps First Service Support Group, now known as First Marine Logistics Group.
* Medical evacuation fl ights.
* My designation as a flight psychologist in the Navy required that I log flight hours in military aircraft. I was privileged to log many of those hours in high-performance jets, primarily the F/A-18 Hornet, the vast majority with Marine Corps squadrons.
* CH-53E, a large cargo and personnel transport helicopter flown by the Marine Corps.
* Michael M. Phillips, The Gift of Valor: A War Story (New York: Broadway Books, 2005).
* Cat won that fight and became the uncontested female champion on the base.
* MREs were the combat rations sent to Iraq with the Marines. We ate them more often than not for a period of several weeks when food convoys were not getting to our base due to significant risk to the contractors who drove the trucks.
* Nickname for CH-46, a Marine Corps transport helicopter.
* Until that night, all of our surgery patients had been stabilized and medevaced to Baghdad.
* Combat Surgical Hospital, run by the Army.
* Letters to their next of kin, common items to give to someone else for safe-keeping during combat.
Rule Number Two Page 16
