This is a true story, which happened during the Vietnam War.
The bombs had landed in the small Vietnamese village. 
Whatever their planned target had been was lost, but they landed in the courtyard of a small school where two adults cared for children who had lost their parents.
The two adults and two children were killed, and several children were wounded, including one young girl, about 8 years old, who had suffered wounds to her legs. Since the adults were dead, people from the village helped the children as much as they could, but it was a couple of hours before medical help arrived.
The medical help came from a young American navy doctor and an equally young navy nurse. A quick examination of the young girl showed she was the most badly injured, and it was clear that without immediate help, she would die from shock and loss of blood.
She needed blood, but the medical team was outdoors, far away from any hospital or clinic. There was no refrigerator from which they could get stored blood. The only supply of blood would be from a person whose blood type matched the girl's. The villagers, who didn't trust the Americans any more than they trusted their own government, had run away when the two Americans arrived. A quick blood test showed that neither American had the correct blood type. Several of the unhurt children did.
The doctor spoke a little bit of Vietnamese, and the nurse spoke a little French. The children spoke no English but some French. Using a mixture of what little common language they could find, they tried to explain to the frightened children that unless they could give a half liter blood to the girl, she would certainly die. Then they asked if anyone would be willing to give blood to help.
Their request was met with silence. After several long moments, a little hand slowly went up, dropped back down, and a moment later went up again.
"Oh, thank you," the nurse said in French. "What is your name?"
"Heng," came the reply.
Heng was quickly laid down on a bench in the shade, and his arm washed with soap and water. Then the needle was put into his arm. Through this experience, Heng lay still and silent.
After a moment, he let out a 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 came out, and again he tried to cover up his crying. Again the doctor asked him if the needle in his arm was hurting, and again Heng shook his head.
But now had begun a steady, silent crying, his eyes tightly shut, his fist in his mouth trying to stop his sobs. Large, salty tears rolled down his cheeks.
The medical team was now very worried, because the needle should not have been hurting their tiny patient. At this point, a Vietnamese nurse arrived to help. She spoke rapidly to the boy in Vietnamese. Moving over to stroke his head as she talked, the nurse spoke in a voice that was gentle and comforting. A look of great relief spread over the boy's face.
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 American nurse.
The Vietnamese nurse repeated the question to the little boy, who answered simply, "She's my friend."
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