Dr. Robert Mann, one of the busiest 85-year-olds in Culver City, and perhaps the most dapper, died on Sunday morning, months after suffering a fall, one of the few challenges in his lengthy and much-decorated life he was unable to conquer. He suffered a subdural hematoma in the fall.
A member of Temple Akiba for many years, funeral services for Dr. Mann will be conducted at 11 a.m. Wednesday at Hillside Memorial Park.
More active than many of his peers and most of his juniors in veterans affairs, he dedicated the heart of his life of service to honoring the memories and exploits of fellow veterans. Periodically, he came to City Hall as an energetic member of the Jewish War Veterans group, always resplendent in uniform, even six decades after leaving the service. If it wasn’t a holiday or to participate in a commendation, it was to apply for an open seat on a city commission.
Several years ago, after he lost a bid for a commission appointment, a journalist telephoned him to do a story about a valiant senior citizen who wanted to play a role at City Hall but was denied. He was emphatic in rejecting the idea. “It is time for me to move on,” he said, resolutely.
Although he essayed a distinguished career in psychology, teaching and counseling, he may have been most prominently known within his wide circle as a veteran of World War II.
“Proud and patriotic,” was the way former Mayor Paul Jacobs, Dr. Mann’s close friend, described him.
He earned four Purple Hearts and two bronze medals for bravery.
Along with numerous other unusual and treasured mementos of his five years in uniform, these were on display in a special and sacred room in Mr. Mann’s home that is known as a shrine.
He suffered five separate injuries in the war, and until near the end, he was not only willing but eager to reflect on his war experiences.
Besides his unbreakable link with veterans’ affairs, and with his extraordinary love of this country, there was Dr. Mann’s very appearance, an article of importance.
Every morning when he stepped off the porch of his longtime home on Segrell, not far from the intersection of Jefferson and South Sepulveda Boulevard, the combination of his meticulous attention to all matters concerning personal hygiene and his stick-straight military posture made Dr. Mann an object of attention and admiration.
A psychologist, he was a professor of industrial relations for many years at Loyola Marymount University. Most recently, he counseled at-risk youth for the Police Dept. of Culver City.
He was widowed 13 years ago when Harriet, his wife of more than 50 years, died,
He is survived by his son David, a professor of Constitutional Law at a university in South Carolina, and Irene Masters, the devoted constant companion of his final years.
