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ABOUT THE SERIES: Plato wrote that "only the dead have seen the end of war." The decision to go to war is the most important a civilized society ever makes. For a nation to win a war, its citizens must support and believe in the cause, and they must understand the consequences, casualties and costs of the decision to go to war. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are being waged thousands of miles from Merced County and the San Joaquin Valley. Yet, because no man, and no community, is an island, the effects from those wars ripple through Merced and Mercedians in ways they may not even feel.
This 13-part series, "The War Comes To Merced," tries to identify and explain some of those ripple effects on real people in our community. The stories are nonpartisan and apolitical -- their only motive is to inform. With accurate information, citizens can understand what the current wars mean for them. We hope this series brings you the information you need to make your judgments about these wars.War may be hell, but contact -- getting shot at -- is a 12-letter word that can't be repeated in a family newspaper.
That, at least, is how several Merced veterans who escaped combat's clutches recall vivid memories of near-death experiences that have lingered throughout their lives.
While opinions about whether America should be fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq are as diverse as the Merced men themselves, local veterans from World War II, Korea and Vietnam channel an unmatched empathy for their 21st century comrades-in-arms. They care because they share the same harrowing experiences they themselves weathered two or three generations ago.
In the warrior's code, they've got one another's "6" -- their backs.
Union Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman uttered the famous "War is hell" mantra back in 1864 during the Civil War. Since then, any war involving the United States has done little to soften the savage reality of combat. It forever changes those caught in its web.
Memory experts theorize that human recall of past events varies. Circumstances and events are best remembered if they are exciting. That's a given when bombs are exploding a few feet away and mortar rounds are crumping next door. Like the faded black-and-white photographs in an album, some memories have dulled, while others remain as colorful as yesterday's sunset, local veterans say.
In Merced County, military veterans are as thick on the ground as almond groves. At the end of September, the Department of Veterans Affairs reckoned there were 13,792 in a county of 252,544 people -- that means nearly one in five Mercedians has served Uncle Sam at some point. Many of them were stationed at the giant Strategic Air Command base at Castle during the Cold War, liked the area and stayed after they retired or after the base closed down.
Traditionally, military veterans are a conservative, or at least libertarian, lot. The notions of sacrifice, brotherhood and loyalty loom, not as abstract virtues, but real-life experiences they call on when needed.
For some, war was the best time of their lives. For others, the worst. For many, it was both.
Brigade and squadron reunions were a way of post-war life until Vietnam, when entire units stopped being deployed as one, and individual troops rotated in and out -- moving, expendable parts -- for their yearlong tours.
Today, veterans' organizations in Merced report thriving memberships -- with one worrisome trend line. The federal veterans agency estimates that in seven years, the number of Merced vets will drop to just under 11,600 -- even with the hundreds of local boys and girls who signed up after Sept. 11, 2001. Whatever the numbers, a lifelong camaraderie shared by no other group of humans explains why the Shakespearean phrase "band of brothers" means so much to Merced veterans.
Pull up an easy chair and unlimber your listening skills. What follows is a collection, literally, of war stories.
War stories
As he was eating breakfast in South Vietnam after an all-night firefight with the Viet Cong, Charlie Pigott felt a stinging sensation. A bullet had pierced his neck. That was the climax of nearly a year's U.S. Army deployment in Indochina -- but the welcome back home proved equally painful.
Pete Komlenich's best explanation for living through his B-24 being shot down over Italy and being a "guest of the Gestapo" for one-and-a-half years during World War II is that angels were resting on his shoulders. At age 94, he figures he needs to live many more years to pay back all his good fortune.