He graduated from high school at a time when the world was engulfed in conflict. Like so many young men of his generation, George’s plans for adulthood were interrupted by war. Shortly after graduation, he was drafted into military service. Answering the call without hesitation, he enlisted in the United States Navy.

George served aboard the USS Salamaua (CVE-96), a Casablanca-class escort carrier deployed to the South Pacific. As a second-class radio operator, he played a critical role in maintaining communications — the unseen but vital lifeline that connected ships, aircraft and command during operations across the vast Pacific theater.

The South Pacific during World War II was a brutal and relentless battleground. Escort carriers like the Salamaua provided essential air support for amphibious landings, protected convoys from enemy submarines and aircraft, and helped maintain strategic control over key island chains. Though smaller than fleet carriers, escort carriers were no less significant — and no less vulnerable.

As a radio operator, George worked long hours in tense conditions, often below deck, monitoring transmissions, decoding messages and ensuring critical information moved swiftly and accurately. In wartime, communication failures could mean catastrophe. The calm precision required of his role demanded focus under pressure — a responsibility he carried with quiet competence.

For his service, George was awarded numerous honors, each representing a chapter of his contribution to the Allied victory. Among them were the World War II Victory Medal and the Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal, recognizing his participation in operations across the Pacific theater. He also received the American Defense Medal, the American Campaign Medal and the Philippine Liberation Medal — each reflecting the global scope of the conflict in which he served.

His Navy Good Conduct Medal stood as a testament not only to his performance but to his character — discipline, integrity and commitment throughout his service. And like many veterans of that era, he carried the “Ruptured Duck” Honorable Discharge emblem with pride, a simple yet powerful symbol that marked the end of his military duty and the beginning of a new chapter at home.

When the war ended and George returned to Indiana, he joined millions of veterans transitioning from battlefield to hometown. In 1947, he married the love of his life, Dorothy Feist. Their marriage would endure for seventy years — a partnership rooted in devotion, faith and shared resilience.

Together, George and Dorothy built a life grounded in family and community. Those who knew them describe a couple who valued loyalty, hard work and kindness. Their home was one where grandchildren gathered, stories were shared and laughter echoed across decades.

Professionally, George went on to work at Monsanto, where he served as a foreman until his retirement in 1989. In that role, he brought the same steady leadership and responsibility that had defined his Navy service. Colleagues remember him as dependable, fair and hardworking — a man who led not with loud authority but with consistency and example.

Though he rarely sought attention for his wartime experiences, George belonged to what has often been called “The Greatest Generation.” He and his peers endured global conflict, economic hardship and rapid social change. They did not ask for recognition; they simply did what needed to be done.

In his later years, as fewer and fewer World War II veterans remained, George became part of a shrinking fraternity of living history. Each birthday marked not just another year of life, but another milestone in a century that had seen unimaginable transformation — from horse-drawn farm equipment to space exploration and digital technology.

Reaching 100 years old in 2025 was itself an extraordinary testament to endurance. Those who visited him in his final years often remarked on his clarity, humility and quiet gratitude. He remained proud of his service but more proud still of his family.

For communities like New Alsace, the loss of a centenarian veteran carries a profound weight. It is the closing of a living bridge to World War II — a reminder that history is not only found in books, but in the lives of neighbors, grandparents and friends.

George Lingg’s story is not one of headlines or battlefield heroics captured in dramatic photographs. It is the story of steadfast service — of a farm boy who answered his country’s call, who fulfilled his duty honorably, and who returned home to build a life defined by love and labor.

In remembering him, we also remember the countless young Americans who left farms, factories and classrooms to serve across oceans. We remember the ships that crossed dangerous waters, the operators who kept communication lines open, and the families who waited anxiously for news.

George’s life reminds us that heroism often looks ordinary. It is found in responsibility accepted without complaint, in decades of marriage nurtured with care, in work performed faithfully, and in citizenship practiced quietly.

As we say goodbye to this treasured hero, we extend our deepest gratitude — not only for his wartime service but for the life he lived afterward. His century on earth was marked by sacrifice, perseverance and love.

To his family, friends and community, we offer our heartfelt condolences. To George F. Lingg, we offer our enduring thanks.

Rest in peace, Sir. Your watch has ended. Your legacy endures