Original: June 29, 2023 (reprinted in 2026 Mountain Breeze newspaper)
“Hi Wayne. This is Mark Powers, the music guy from church. Your granddaughter, daughter, and wife keep telling me we need to get together and play golf. I’m thinking, ‘that many women can’t be wrong.’ You wanna try it?”
“Hi, Mark. Thanks for calling.” His speech pattern was measured, subdued. I would grow to appreciate his thoughtful manner over the years to come.
Wayne continued, “Since you’re a minister of the gospel, you need to know something about me. I drink a little whiskey and sometimes I deal with depression… because of the war.”
Silence. I didn’t know what to say.
He continued. “I respect you. So I want to make sure you know what you’re getting into if people see us together.”
A decision was staring me in the face. Grace or judgment? I chose cautious grace… if there is such a thing.
“Okay, let’s go play. We can talk through all that together. Then we’ll figure out what happens next.”
First tee. As he lined up his shot, he chuckled, “I’ve never hung out with a Baptist minister before.” His golf swing was as slow and measured as his speech patterns. At the top, his arms hinged, and the club dropped below parallel. But the resulting shot was very good. “The hitch in my swing is from my wound in the war.”
“Vietnam or Korea?”
“The big one. World War II.”
Our golf game was interesting. Regardless of where his ball came to rest – fairway grass, sand, pine straw, tree roots or behind a tree – he played the next shot where it lay. I’d never seen anyone hit such effective shots from such bad lies. I asked him about it.
He answered without looking up. “Mark, golf is a gentlemen’s game of self-governance. You can play it however you want. I choose to play it with integrity.”
Back nine. I casually remark, “So tell me about the whiskey and depression.”
“Sometimes, the memories still sneak up on me. I was eighteen years old. Went straight from basic training to Normandy. 30th Infantry Division, 119th regiment. Landed on the beach on D-Day in the second wave. From there, we fought our way inland. I was wounded first when shrapnel hit me in the thigh and finger. Three months in a hospital. I made it back just in time for the Battle of the Bulge. Second time I was wounded we had crossed the Rhine River into Germany. Shrapnel again. This time it tore out the triceps muscle in my arm and part of my shoulder blade. It’s been almost fifty years. Nights are still rough. A little whiskey helps me sleep.”
I served Wayne’s church for eight years. We played golf twice a month. As friendship deepened, so did trust. As trust grew, the memories were uncovered like fossils in an archeological dig: Swimming ashore against the tide of fear on the Normandy beach; mortar shrapnel tearing through bodies; returning from the hospital to fight a ferocious winter under Nazi gunfire in an endless forest; sleeping in bombed-out ruins of French villages; the teeth rattling rumble of a German tank unit before it cleared the hill and begin pummeling his unit; the army nurses who appeared to him as angels in English hospitals both times he got shot; horrors of war engulfing teenage innocence; injuries that led to impotence and depression for years to follow; the first time I ever heard the phrase PTSD; nightmares that haunt for decades.
But I also learned of a man who was much more. Wayne was a devoted church member, an astute political observer, a steady husband to his beloved wife (a favorite member of my senior adult choir), and a very proud dad and grandfather. He and his sweet wife lived quiet lives in a small house, in a small neighborhood, in a small town. But their hearts were as huge as the contribution Wayne made to our freedom and democracy. And they shared it all with me.
Wayne came with his wife on our Senior Adult Choir trips. I often stopped by their house after golf. The flowers grown in the greenhouse he built were stunning. (He shared them with us.) We shot pool on his treasured den pool table. I applauded his pull-ups to strengthen his bad arm using the bar he installed in the ceiling.
One year on Veteran’s Day, after much persuasion, Wayne agreed to speak to my wife’s middle school classes. He showed up wearing his military uniform jacket and hat. His two Purple Heart medals, his Bronze star, and the French Legion of Honor medal were polished and shining. His stories were shared with quiet elegance and appropriate restraint. The middle schoolers were awed. They loved him. He loved them back. He came back the next year to share with another class.
Time turned the pages of our friendship. I moved to another church twenty-five miles away. I was there twelve years, but we continued to meet for golf monthly. We buried his dear wife and mourned together as friends. We continued to talk politics, spirituality, and aging. The war stories had all been shared, held in trust between us as a silent shrine of friendship.
In 2008, I moved to Columbia to work with the SC Baptist Convention. I would call Wayne every few months while traveling the state, just to keep up with him. It became harder and harder to keep up.
One of my deepest regrets is missing his funeral in 2016. He went fast. I didn’t hear the news until weeks later. I cried unashamedly.
“Hi Wayne. This is Mark Powers. Everybody says we should play a round of golf together in heaven. I hear the fairways are perfect… beautiful grass under every shot. See you there, my friend.”
