Australia. The early 1950s.
A 14-year-old boy lies in a hospital bed. Surgeons have removed one of his lungs.
He will spend three months in that hospital. He will need about 100 stitches.
And to stay alive, he will need blood. More than a dozen units. Nearly two gallons, given by people he will never meet.
Decades later, he would still think about them.
"I don't know how many people it took to save my life. I never met them, didn't know them."
— James Harrison
From the day of his operation, he knew what he wanted to do. As soon as he was old enough, he would give blood back.
There was just one problem. He couldn't stand needles.
In 1954, he turned 18. He rolled up his sleeve anyway.
For the next ten years, he was just another regular donor. He worked as a clerk for the state railways. He married a woman named Barbara, who gave blood, too.
Nobody knew there was anything special about him.