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 neighboring 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 highschool 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 swab bed 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 his crying. Again the doctor asked him if the needle hurt, and again Heng shook his head.
But now his occasional sobs 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 boy, who answered simply, “She’s my friend.
GREater love has no man than this--that he will lay down his life for a friend.
By John W. Mansur
No GREater Love 爱莫大焉
我是在越南时听到这个故事的,而且它是被当作真事告诉我的.虽然我无法确认它是否属实,但我却知道,在战争中,比这更离奇的事情都发生过.
一次美军的例常炮击,击中了坐落在一个越南小村庄里的一所孤儿院,这是由一个传教团体创办的.那儿的众多传教士和一两个孤儿在炮击中立刻丧命，还有更多的孩子受伤，其中包括一个八岁的小女孩。
村里的人们请求附近一个小镇给予医疗救助，而该镇同美军部队之间有无线电联系。最后，一名美国海军的军医同他的护士带着他们的药箱乘一辆吉普车到达了该村。他们确诊这个小女孩的伤势最严重，若不立刻采取措施，她就会死于休克和失血。
必须立即为她输血，而且要求找到一个血型同她相匹配的献血者。经过快速的化验，这两个美国人的血型都与小女孩不匹配，幸而有好几名未受伤的孤儿的血型都符合要求。
这位军医能讲几句洋泾浜的越南语，护士也能讲几句半生不熟的法语。二位将他们仅有的语言技能加到一起，再加上一些即兴的手势语，努力地向这些被吓坏了的孩子们解释--除非他们能够献出一些血，来补充这个小女孩失掉的血，否则她一定会死去。然后他们问孩子们，有谁愿意献血来救活这个孩子。
他们得到的回答却是孩子们睁大的眼睛和沉默。过了好久好久，才有一只小手慢慢吞吞地，犹犹豫豫地举起来，接着又放下去，接着再一次举起来。
“哦，谢谢你，”护士用法语说，“你叫什么名字？”
“恒”孩子答道。
恒被很快地放到一张简陋的小床上，护士用酒精擦洗了他的胳膊之后，便将一根针头插进了他的静脉。在这个严酷的考验中，恒一直僵硬地躺着，默不作声。
过了一会儿，他发出了一声战栗的抽泣，并且很快地用他的另外一只手掩住自己的脸。
“痛吗，恒？”医生问道。恒摇了摇头。可是，没过多久，他又抽泣了一声。而且他又一次竭力地掩盖自己的哭泣。于是医生再一次问他针头是否扎痛了他。然而，恒却再一次摇了摇头。
可是，这时他的断断续续的抽泣已经无法克制，变成了一种持续的、无声的哭泣。他紧闭着双目，把小拳头塞进嘴里，以控制自己的抽泣。
医生和护士感到十分不安，显然有什么出了错。这时，终于有一位越南的护士来解围了。当她看见孩子的痛苦状态时，她很急切地用越南语对他说了几句话，在听了孩子的回答之后，她又用抚慰的声音解答了孩子的困惑。
过了一会儿，小男孩停止了哭泣，然后疑惑地看着这位越南护士。当护士点头时，一种巨大的释然才在孩子的脸上慢慢地展开。
越南护士抬起头来，看了一眼两个美国人，轻声地告诉他们：“他刚才以为自己要死了。他误解了你们的意思。他以为你们要他把自己所有的血都抽出来才能救活那个小女孩呢。”
“可是那样为什么他还愿意献血呢？”海军护士问道。
越南护士又向这个男孩重复了这个问题。男孩简单地答道：“因为她是我朋友。”
没有一个人有这么伟大的爱--肯为一个朋友献出自己的生命。
(陈乐 译)
