Sgt. Robert Mann, United States Army, circa 1944, whom friends regarded as the military ideal, the Ultimate Soldier, was buried this morning at Hillside Memorial Park.

A compact model of energy for 85-year-olds, he died last Sunday morning, the residue of his latest fall during the summer.

He was the proudest military man any of his friends ever knew, and he went out in the style that they said he loved best.

Aging men in the uniform of Dr. Mann’s final affiliation, Post 617 of the Jewish War Veterans, and members of the Culver City Police Dept., where he volunteered counseling at-risk youth for many years, dotted the chapel that was filled to capacity for Rabbi Zachary Shapiro’s service.

An honor guard from the Jewish War Veterans stood sentinel over his flag-draped coffin. Family photos from an earlier day were displayed above the casket, reminders that in the deepest pockets of his heart, he may never have fully separated from the military.

He served 330 days in active combat, said his friend, the former Mayor Paul Jacobs, and for his compounded wounds, he earned five Purple Hearts along with three Bronze stars. By training a psychologist who thoroughly enjoyed counseling, formally and otherwise, Dr. Mann attained his Ph.D at the age of 52. He was a member of the Loyola Marymount University faculty for many years.

Everybody had a collection of Robert Mann-related war stories to tell, and the military theme that scrupulously threads through his earlier and later days may be the main legacy of this widely active citizen.

“Some might describe Robert as macho,” said Rabbi Shapiro. “But he had a skill with people that few could emulate .”

Next week, the rabbi noted, the world will observe the 70th anniversary of Kristallnacht, The Night of the Broken Glass, the last large homeland rampage launched by Nazis against the Jews of Germany. “I can’t help but think that if it were not for Robert, and others like him, the defeat of Hitler and the liberation of the Jewish People might not have happened,” Rabbi Shapiro said. “We mourn his loss, we celebrate his triumph.”

For sheer poignancy, a less visible side of Dr. Mann came to the fore at his farewell.

A widower since his wife Harriet died in 1995, he was a permanently restless type, said friends, who refused to abide loneliness. This capacity led to relationships that normally might not have occurred.

And so it was persons who seemed to almost randomly pass through his life in later years who described some of the sharpest pangs of pain.

Telegraphing a Message

Dr. Mann always was looking for someone to befriend, they said. When the person on the receiving end also was searching, a magnificent match often was made.

From the family of Dr. Mann’s constant companion of his last years, Irene Master, came Maxwell Master. He said that because both of his grandfathers died when he was young, he was on a quest for an “adopted grandfather.” Happily, he intersected with Dr. Mann who came to regard him as an “adopted grandson.” Mr. Master said there was a familiar outcome to all of their face-to-face sessions. “You never left without a story or excellent advice,” he said.

The stories and highly charged feelings related by neighbors Susannah Benton and Richard Agata also struck a chord with the crowd because their appearance in Dr. Mann’s life was entirely accidental, yet ran so deep.

Ms. Benton, a young mother just returning home with her third child, met Dr. Mann when he merely waved to welcome her. From that seedling, a friendship grew tall. The grandfatherly neighbor, who had lived in the same home since the 1950s, asked if he could hold the baby. Sobbing and halting, Ms. Benton barely was able to navigate through a description of his final fall that proved fatal.

Mr. Agata was almost aghast that he and Dr. Mann ever met. He was less than presentable, at the time, he thought.

On the first day, Mr. Agata was working outside. Shirtless and smelly, in his own words, with a shock of uncommonly lengthy hair, he was surprised that Dr. Mann gestured to meet him.

Himself a Jew, Mr. Agata said he knew his neighbor shared his heritage because of the mezuzah (a small, rolled-up Torah scroll) at his doorway entrance . Once inside Dr. Mann’s home, they discussed their common Judaism for the first and last time, but more importantly forged an enduring bond of friendship that did not flicker out until this week.