Whatever
their planned target, the mortar rounds landed in an orphanage run by
a missionary group in the small vietnamese village. The missionaries
and one or two children were killed outright, and several more
children were wounded, including one young girl about eight years
old.
People
from the village requested medical help from a neigboring town that
had radio contact with the American forces. Finally, an American navy
doctor and nurse arrived in a jeep with only their medical kits.
They
established that the girl was the most critically injured. Without
quick action, she would die of shock and loss of blood.
A
transfusion was imperative, and a donor with a matching blood type
was required. A quick test showed that neither American had the
correct type, but several of the uninjured orphans did.
The
doctor spoke some pidgin Vietnamese, and the nurse a smattering of
high school French. Using that combination, together with much
impromptu sign language, they tried to explain to their young,
frightened audience that unless they could replace some of the girl's
lost blood, she would certainly die.
Then they asked if anyone would
be willing to give blood to help.
Their
request was met with wide-eyed silence. After several long moments, a
small hand slowly and waveringly went up, dropped back down and then
went up again.
“Oh,
thank you,” the nurse said in French. “What is your name?”
“Heng,”came
the reply.
Heng
was quickly laid on a pallet, his arm swabbed with alcohol, and a
needle inserted in his vein. Through this ordeal Heng lay stiff and
silent.
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, but after
a few moments another sob escaped, and once more he tried to cover up
crying.
Again the doctor asked him if the needle hurt, 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 to stifle his sobs.
The
medical team was concerned. Something was obviously very wrong. At
this point, a Vietnamese nurse arrived to help. Seeing the little
one's distress, she spoke to him rapidly in Vietnamese, listened to
his reply and answered him in a soothing voice.
After
a moment, the patient stopped crying and looked questioningly at the
Vietnamese nurse. When she nodded, a look of great relief spread over
his face.
Glancing
up, the 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.”
Col.
John W. Mansur
Excerpted
from The Missileer
