"I have thirty minutes", he said.
I continued to hold his hand.
"I'll stay with you", I told him as I held his hand.
After a time he looked at me and said, "Sometimes I think I should have gone with the others on Guadalcanal".
His words broke my heart. I know from his testimonial he gave me a few months back, that his service during the Battle of Guadalcanal as a medic, and later, as a prisoner of war, was a terrible time, etched in his memory over a lifetime of struggles and joys - both the good and the bad. I believed nothing could have been worse than those weeks during World War II. But I was wrong. His dying, facing him at this moment, was his only struggle, fresh and painful, while his years in the South Pacific had faded in comparison.
"I'm sorry", was all I could say, but I stayed and held his hand.
After thirty minutes had passed he repeated, "I have thirty minutes".
I stayed for another thirty minutes, and another. I waited until his wife arrived for her daily visit to him at the VA hospital.
"I couldn't leave him alone", I told her. He thinks he is going to die soon".
He lived for a few more days. he died on a Sunday and, as far as I know, he was alone. His wife arrived a short time later. I hoped that some nurse or attendant had been with him. I don't know, but I don't feel that anyone should leave this life without someone by their side, someone holding their hand, someone listening to their final words.
My consolation is that his story, his words of his years of service, will live on. They will be in my next book, VOICES OF VETERANS, which will include stories from WWII through the present conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan.
His words will be a testimonial to his life and to the service of all of our veterans.
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