Robert A. Vicari Jr. is one of the remaining Korean War veterans in the United States. Less than a million are still alive.

Bob has lived in his tidy blue house on Irving Street for 41 years and has forged dear friendships with his neighbors. Now nearly 92, he relies on those neighbors for the care he needs as a veteran.

Wonderful neighbors
Bob can’t say enough about his “wonderful” Sunset neighbors.

“They bring me food all the time and check in with me every day to see if I’m still vertical,” he says, laughing. 

Bob’s bright blue eyes sparkle as he recounts a recent delivery of salmon.

“They brought me two big pieces of salmon – wild salmon!” Bob exclaimed. “I had four meals in a row, and I’m going to have a piece for supper tonight!” 

Bill Barnickle, who leads a merchant association in Bob’s neighborhood, makes sure Bob gets help with health issues from the nearby VA hospital and visiting nurses.

“Bill is always there for me,” Bob says.

That’s because Barnickle is also a member of the San Francisco Veterans Affairs Commission and a 30-year Air Force vet who volunteers to ensure all local veterans receive the help and benefits they are entitled to.

Barnickle recently helped Bob get much-needed assistive hearing devices. 

The making of a Marine
In 1950, at the beginning of the Korean War, Bob was a 17-year-old high school graduate in New Jersey when he got his parents’ permission to join the Marines.

“I joined because I was angry about the communist atrocities in Korea at the time,” Bob recalls, “and because I had always wanted to be a Marine.”

It was that dream to be a Marine that seemed far-fetched when Bob first mentioned it at his eighth grade graduation.

“It evoked quite a bit of laughter in the audience as I only weighed 85 pounds and was the smallest kid in the class,” Bob says. “Boy did I fool them.”

After advanced infantry training in California, Bob served overseas as a forward observer directing artillery fire.

“Once, because I was from New Jersey, they picked me to call in six rounds from the battleship New Jersey to help the ship fix its position offshore,” Bob says. 

He saw plenty of combat and is proud of his Combat Action Ribbon, displayed in his den. Bob was never wounded, but he had a close call. A fellow soldier pulled the lanyard on a 105-inch howitzer too soon and Bob was hit hard by the recoil.

“I was 18 and a tough guy. So I walked around with a cane for two weeks. I was Iron Man,” he says, laughing at the memory.

Life memories
Bob’s memory is remarkable. He can recall the names of his pals in the military, the men and women he worked with over his diverse career, even the stocks he liked to trade — what he paid, what he made, or lost.

“I bought Sirius radio for pennies,” he recalls, chuckling. “I did well with it.”

After the military, Bob worked for  myriad companies in Silicon Valley and around the country as an electrical designer.

“That’s midway between an engineer and a draftsman,” Bob explains.

He worked on projects ranging from wineries in Napa to Disney World in Orlando, Genentech, and the library at 19th Avenue and Irving Street. He even had a secret clearance when he worked on the Manned Lunar Landing Mission at the Pan Am Aerospace Division.

He also found time to coach baseball teams for his three kids and serve as a PTA president, and volunteer for the Florida Highway Patrol Auxiliary for many years.

His memento-filled den overflows with photographs and other highlights from his life.

One of Bob’s most prized mementos is a plaque signifying that his three children all served in the Marine Corps.

And then there’s a photo of his late wife. 

“That’s Diane when she was 19,” Bob says. “She was dynamite.”

Diane died last year, leaving Bob alone in the house they had shared on Irving Street for decades. He keeps her ashes in a box in the den.

“I talk to her every night,” Bob says. “She was a home economist and dietician. We did two cookbooks together.”

Remembering a fallen friend
During his first two weeks in Korea, Bob took part in the Battle for Kanmunbong Ridge. He later wrote this about the death of one of his friends. American battle deaths totaled 33,632 at the war’s end in 1953, according to the Pentagon.

Bob’s friend Johnny Prince was one of them.

This is what Bob said about the incident:

“While serving [as a replacement] in a gun battery, Cpl. Sapp ordered me, not being a regular on the guns, to go to another position. Seconds after I left to take cover in the ammo pit, our gun took a direct hit and Johnny Prince, my replacement, was mortally wounded. Doc administered morphine and when the [firing] ceased we loaded him on a jeep back to the aid station. He didn't make it. We had been buddies over the previous month, and I felt a deep loss. I have always felt guilty about his death. It should have been me. But that’s not for me to decide. I was just following orders. It did take years to get over it.”

NOTE: If you are a veteran, you may qualify for additional benefits. To learn more, contact Veterans Affairs Commissioner Bill Barnickel at 415-309-8087 or by email at William.barnickel.vac@sfgov.org.

Reported and written by volunteer community journalist Tom Colin. We encourage residents with journalism experience, retired journalists, and student journalists in high school and college to volunteer as writers for Supervisor Engardio’s newsletter. Interested? Apply here. Do you know a story you would like to see featured in the newsletter? Tell us about it here.