Jane had been living with Grandma for as long as he remembered. Mother had been around just for the first days of his life. Officially, a fever took her. Grandma always said when he was born, he broke the mold—judging the photos around the house and her own description of her daughter, it was completely impossible that a simple, tiny flu could have killed such an impressively healthy woman. Grandma also didn't think the sickness had something to do with Jane being kicked out of school because he was a 'dummy' and a 'troublemaker'. He just had no patience to read books and learn algebra. He had other kinds of talents. And if he was a dummy indeed, what did it matter? The world was filled with complete idiots who got to be senators, lawyers and even presidents.

He was too young to remember about Mother but at least he got to meet her. Father had never been there. Grandma once said Mother was making a mistake marrying that man, that John Doe coming from out of nowhere, with no job, no references, no relatives and surely no money, and swore she would never allow him to set foot in her house. Mother perhaps wasn't pretty or very lady-like, but there was one thing she had indeed: nerve, and generously, and replied with the promise never to see her again. She only came back when she felt she was leaving this world, about to have her first and only son. Guessing she wouldn't live to do it herself, she instructed Grandma to call him Jean. It was that John Doe's wish, apparently. After a father, a brother—who knew. But Grandma Polly sure had never gone to school, barely know how to spell her own name, and ended up writing 'Jane' in the papers. She was so proud that she didn't allow any correction, no one could convince her, and therefore Jean stayed as Jane.

Along with a womb ready to burst, she brought everything she had of her husband. Probably that made Grandma change her opinion about her son-in-law. Along with a few clothes, his daughter brought photos, a uniform with three holes in its chest no one wanted to sew, and a posthumous award. Perhaps the house was a little bare, vulgar, but the medal next to the picture of a man with a beard and that uniform made it look for them like the cave of treasures.

Because Jane was not the son of some lowlife, some man who never did anything remarkable but a hero.

Those who died for their country had their names written in gold in the book of eternity.

"Your father was a hero, Jane." Grandma said whenever she had the chance. He had to be disciplined and obedient because his father had died so he could have a peaceful life, go to school, have food on the plate, a roof over his head. Not eating the beans she served him was like defecating in his memory. And so Jane, whenever confronted by something he didn't like or found very difficult, told himself that Father had been through hell and spilled his blood for him and America, and that gave him unlimited strength.

Jane loved to hear Grandma's stories about his father, but he liked taking his own conclusions more. Grandma said Father died in Nicaragua. What the heck did he lose in Nicaragua to abandon his pregnant wife, was something Jane didn't understand at first, until Grandma's response helped it click for him:

"We are Americans, son. We fight for justice wherever humanity is in danger."

That impressed Jane's little brain like nothing else would, and fed his imagination and devotion to his late father.

Sure, Father could have stayed at home, work the land, just mind his own business, but there was chaos beyond the border, injustice, evil, and he chose justice over commodity. His blood made America stronger. Mother was awfully proud of him and when he was killed, she venerated the uniform he died in and the medal the President himself gave him. It was his by right, and he knew that it didn't matter if one day he starved: he would never sell it. That was the recognition to his father's courage and would honor it as such as long as he lived.

The other way he could honor his memory was becoming like him. Since they thought he was too 'stupid' to be at school, he ended up dropping it. He didn't need to know that 8 plus 8 equals 20 anyway—smart people belong to offices; heroes go to the battlefield. Instead, he devoted himself to study military strategies and history, how to use a weapon and turn himself into a deadly one. Since unfortunately there were no wars to fight, he got in trouble with the other kids, older and older as he got more aggressive and strong, until he got in fist fights with grown men for the smallest reason.

Grandma watched him grow up so sure of himself, so strong, and couldn't be any prouder.

"Your father would be proud." She said.

The moment to prove his worth came the morning of December 7, when Grandma brought worrying news from church, about the Japanese destroying Pearl Harbor, killing thousands with their bombs and kamikaze planes.

"AH, THOSE SCOUNDRELS!" Jane shouted, walking in circles around the house shaking his arms, his teeth gritted, his face red with rage.

He had faith in the President and he was not disappointed: the United States declared war. That meant, he finally had the chance to put himself at the service of his country, do something really useful, meet the battlefield. He had heard about what the Axis was doing in Europe and it made his blood boil. He wanted to restore peace and punish the evil and now finally he had the chance.

"I thought you had to be eighteen to enlist, dear." Grandma noted. "You are fourteen."

"But I look older than my age, don't I?" Jane smirked.

"You sure do." Grandma nodded, a smile on her face too.

Of course, she didn't stop him as he packed his few belongings, his savings. She only watched him without saying a word, after that tiny warning, until Jane was done and finally faced her.

"Well, Grandma. It's time I leave. I'll be back full of medals or inside a box—either way, I will give those Japs and nazis a good one. The first one will be for you."

She smiled. The little boy was now a little man. Perhaps still a little short and inexperienced, but the battlefield would change it all. Jane was right: it would kill him or shape him; and she didn't worry because she knew Jane could do the most amazing things. He would get out of this alive.

"I cooked food for you, so you're not hungry on your way to Germany." She said to him, giving him a bag full of lunch boxes.

"I will miss your stew, Grandma." He said, and they joined in a hug.

"Do you want to take your father's medal? I'm sure it will open many doors to you, and give you good luck."

Jane glanced for a second at the medal hanging from the picture. He then shook his head.

"No. I don't want to lose it. Also, it's time I earn my own."

And so, determined, his will fueled by the portrait of that simpleton turned into a hero called John Doe, Jane left the house, off to war.

Whatever the outcome was, he hoped Father watched from up high and was proud of his son.