A little Vietnamese orphan, a tragic mortar attack and an act of
love and bravery combine to make this story. I don't know how much of it
is true—all, part of none—but it was told to me as fact. And it might
be all true—stranger things have happened in war. Besides, this story
makes my heart feel good, and if the truth be known, it still brings
tears to my eyes after all these years.
The mortar rounds had landed in the small village. Whatever their planned target had been is lost in the agony of the Vietnam war, but they had landed in a small orphanage run by an unnamed missionary group. The missionaries and one or two children had been killed outright and several children had been wounded, including one young girl, about eight years old. Since the missionaries were no longer able to tend to their young charges, people from the village helped as much as they could, but it was a couple of hours before medical help arrived in response to a runner who had been sent to a neighboring town that had radio contact with the American Forces.
The medical help was a young American Navy doctor, and an equally young Navy nurse, who arrived in a jeep with only their medical kits. A quick survey of the injured quickly established the young girl as the most critically injured and it was clear that without immediate action she would die from loss of blood and shock. A blood transfusion was imperative, but their limited supplies did not include plasma, so a matching blood type was required. A quick test showed that neither American had the correct blood type but several of the uninjured children did.
The Navy doctor spoke a little "pidgin" Vietnamese, and the Navy nurse spoke a little high school French, while the children spoke no English and some French. Using a combination of what little common language they could find, together with much impromptu sign language, they tried to explain to their frightened audience that unless they could replace some of their little friend's lost blood, she would certainly die. They then asked if any one would be willing to give some of their blood to help.
Their request was met with wide-eyed silence. Their little patient's life hung in the balance. Without the life-giving blood, she would surely die, yet they could only get the blood if one of these frightened children volunteered. After several long moments, a little hand slowly and waveringly went up, dropped back down, and went up again.
"Oh, thank you!" the nurse exclaimed in French. "What is your name?"
"Heng," came the mumbled reply.
Heng was quickly laid on a pallet, his arm swabbed with alcohol and the needle inserted in his vein. Through this ordeal Heng lay stiff, silent, and wide-eyed. After a moment, he let out a shuddering sob, quickly covering his face with his free hand.
"Is it hurting, Heng?" the doctor asked.
Heng shook his head silently, but after a few moments another sob escaped and once more he tried to cover up his crying. Again the doctor asked him if the needle in his arm was hurting him and again Heng shook his head. But now his occasional sob gave way to a steady silent crying, his eyes screwed tightly shut, his fist in his mouth trying to stifle his sobs.
The medical team was very concerned because the needle should not have been hurting their tiny patient, yet something was obviously very wrong. At this point, a Vietnamese nurse arrived to help. Seeing the little boy's distress, she spoke rapidly in Vietnamese, listened to his reply, and quickly answered him again in her soothing, reassuring voice, while stroking his forehead as she talked. After a moment, the tiny little patient stopped crying, opened his eyes, and looked questioningly at the Vietnamese nurse and when she nodded, a look of great relief spread over his face.
Looking up, the Vietnamese nurse said quietly to the Americans, "He thought he was dying. He misunderstood you. He thought you had asked him to give all his blood so the little girl could live."
"But why would he be willing to do that?" asked the Navy nurse.
The Vietnamese nurse repeated the question to the little boy who answered simply, "She's my friend."
Jesus said, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13).
—Col. John W. Mansur, Used by permission.
The mortar rounds had landed in the small village. Whatever their planned target had been is lost in the agony of the Vietnam war, but they had landed in a small orphanage run by an unnamed missionary group. The missionaries and one or two children had been killed outright and several children had been wounded, including one young girl, about eight years old. Since the missionaries were no longer able to tend to their young charges, people from the village helped as much as they could, but it was a couple of hours before medical help arrived in response to a runner who had been sent to a neighboring town that had radio contact with the American Forces.
The medical help was a young American Navy doctor, and an equally young Navy nurse, who arrived in a jeep with only their medical kits. A quick survey of the injured quickly established the young girl as the most critically injured and it was clear that without immediate action she would die from loss of blood and shock. A blood transfusion was imperative, but their limited supplies did not include plasma, so a matching blood type was required. A quick test showed that neither American had the correct blood type but several of the uninjured children did.
The Navy doctor spoke a little "pidgin" Vietnamese, and the Navy nurse spoke a little high school French, while the children spoke no English and some French. Using a combination of what little common language they could find, together with much impromptu sign language, they tried to explain to their frightened audience that unless they could replace some of their little friend's lost blood, she would certainly die. They then asked if any one would be willing to give some of their blood to help.
Their request was met with wide-eyed silence. Their little patient's life hung in the balance. Without the life-giving blood, she would surely die, yet they could only get the blood if one of these frightened children volunteered. After several long moments, a little hand slowly and waveringly went up, dropped back down, and went up again.
"Oh, thank you!" the nurse exclaimed in French. "What is your name?"
"Heng," came the mumbled reply.
Heng was quickly laid on a pallet, his arm swabbed with alcohol and the needle inserted in his vein. Through this ordeal Heng lay stiff, silent, and wide-eyed. After a moment, he let out a shuddering sob, quickly covering his face with his free hand.
"Is it hurting, Heng?" the doctor asked.
Heng shook his head silently, but after a few moments another sob escaped and once more he tried to cover up his crying. Again the doctor asked him if the needle in his arm was hurting him and again Heng shook his head. But now his occasional sob gave way to a steady silent crying, his eyes screwed tightly shut, his fist in his mouth trying to stifle his sobs.
The medical team was very concerned because the needle should not have been hurting their tiny patient, yet something was obviously very wrong. At this point, a Vietnamese nurse arrived to help. Seeing the little boy's distress, she spoke rapidly in Vietnamese, listened to his reply, and quickly answered him again in her soothing, reassuring voice, while stroking his forehead as she talked. After a moment, the tiny little patient stopped crying, opened his eyes, and looked questioningly at the Vietnamese nurse and when she nodded, a look of great relief spread over his face.
Looking up, the Vietnamese nurse said quietly to the Americans, "He thought he was dying. He misunderstood you. He thought you had asked him to give all his blood so the little girl could live."
"But why would he be willing to do that?" asked the Navy nurse.
The Vietnamese nurse repeated the question to the little boy who answered simply, "She's my friend."
Jesus said, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13).
—Col. John W. Mansur, Used by permission.
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