The Veteran Next Door

Marine honor guard removes flag from Jean's casket.

    Jean was his first name. Not Gene. Not Eugene.
    As a boy, he probably got razzed for having a name with a feminine connotation. If so, the razzing toughened him up for World War II. He enlisted in the U.S. Marines.
    Gene fought at the Battle of Iwo Jima. His drove a bulldozer back and forth from the beach to the front lines. The dozer played a crucial role. It carried ammunition. When I last spoke to Jean, he mentioned the pings of Japanese bullets striking the blade.
    He was present at the Battle of Okinawa, another bloody affair.
    He fought on an island called Tinian. There, he took out a Japanese machine gun nest. He paid a price. When he dived into the nest, a Japanese soldier raised his bayonet. Jean fell upon it. The bayonet sliced into him.
    Near the end of that war, Jean fought in China. The Japanese Army captured him. Later they released him in an unorthodox fashion. They stripped him down to his underwear and dropped him off alone in a desert.
     Jean lived across the street from me. Over the years, he had been a long time friend of my parents. On many occasions, he had lent them assistance with odd jobs around the house.
    Two weeks ago, I attend Jean’s funeral. Before driving to the service, I opened a cabinet, removed a bowl, and poured oatmeal into it.
    Jean built that cabinet.

Later, a man views a picture of Jean in his Marine uniform.