Wayne came into my family's collective lives by means of becoming the boyfriend of one of my sisters. But he wasn't just her boyfriend. He became someone very special to every one of us, my Dad and Mom, my little brother, my two sisters, and me. He became a hero to my little brother, and my best friend. And my parents virtually became his parents.

I think one of the reasons, perhaps the reason, that Wayne had that larger than life persona, was the fact that he came from a very dysfunctional and abusive home. His father, a small-town stockbroker, trading primarily in the commodities markets, was an alcoholic, and extremely abusive, both verbally and physically, to both Wayne and his Mom. We visited that home once, my sister and I, and I remember Wayne's father, drunk, throwing Wayne through a plate glass window in the kitchen door, right in front of us and Wayne's mother. [A good woman, years after Wayne's death, abused and hopeless, she shot and killed her husband. I believe she should have gone free, but the law sent her to prison nevertheless. I recall that my Dad helped pay her attorney.] Over time, and quite shockingly, I discovered that this young man with such bravado and exuberant personality was very insecure, with little self-esteem and living a very lonely life among all his drinking buddies. And no wonder. But that came later.

Early on, Wayne endeared himself to us all. As he was from St. Florene, Alabama, a little Catholic village just outside of Florence, and a pretty good drive from the University of Alabama, where he, my sisters, and I were all then attending, and we were from Pickens County, just a thirty-five or forty minute drive from the University, he spent a lot of time at my parents home on McShan Lake. We all loved him, and he clearly loved us all. We became the family, I know, that he had never had. Some of the things I'll never forget about Wayne were indicative of the boy. First of all, he brought my sister a Llwellyn Setter puppy, and he named it "Ace", or else we did, because Wayne called everyone - everyone male, that is - "Ace". He loved dogs, and he loved bird hunting. Hence the Llwellyn.  And Wayne could tell a joke as good or better than anyone I ever knew. What's more, he had memorized literally hundreds of them! It was amazing! He could sit for hours telling jokes off the top of his head.

Johnny Cash's album "Live at Folsom Prison" was out just then, and Wayne would stand in front of the whole family and act out singing and playing the guitar like he was Johnny, while the record played. He'd also sing the song "Folsom Prison Blues" and a few others on the album, like "Egg-sucking Dog". I guess you could say he was a 'ham', acting all the time, like he was on a stage. I actually envied him his wonderful, vibrant personality then, not realizing that it was a mask, hiding a lot of pain. He was desperately seeking our approval and our friendship, but we just thought he was 'cool'. And of course, he got our approval and our love!

I remember, too, Wayne's old '59 V-tail Chevy convertible, dark green with red interior. A cool car, but worn slap out and always breaking down. More than once he called me to come get him somewhere on the side of the road! One of those times, I'll never forget, I was in the middle of the most beautiful intimate moment of my life with the wonderful girl I was dating then when the phone rang. I told myself not to answer it, but for some reason still unknown to me I did, and of course it was Wayne. He and my sister were stranded up Highway 43. The old Chevy, as was its habit, had broken down and my girl and I had to go get them. The most beautifully romantic moment of my life ruined by an old Chevy convertible! That girl is the one I should have married, and I know I broke her heart, but I was too young and too stupid to know what I had until it was too late. How many young men do the same? 

And then there was the night when Wayne, me, and my little brother went on a little escapade that, had we gotten caught, would have landed Wayne and I in jail. But I'll not tell you the details, although the Statute of Limitations ran out probably thirty years ago! 

Later on, I joined the Air Force, in 1969, at the height of the Vietnam War, and Wayne and I 'celebrated' almost all night, by getting drunk as a couple of skunks while he rattled off jokes in his old single-wide trailer, where he lived while in college. He was used to heavy drinking and got up early the next morning and went to work, but I woke up a few hours later with the worst bust-head hangover of my life! To make a long story short, I only stayed in the service three weeks, being sent home by an old white-haired 'Bird Colonel' Air Force doctor on a medical discharge for asthma, something I had suffered with all through my childhood.

But then, shortly after I returned to the University, Wayne went into the Army (I can't recall whether he joined or was drafted, but it really doesn't matter). Before he left, I recall a very poignant moment with him in which he told me I was the only real friend he had. He said all of his many drinking buddies didn't really care about him, but that he could really talk to me and bare his soul to me. I will never forget that! It impacted me tremendously, and all these decades later it still does. And he did talk to me about painful things in his life - things I don't think he told anyone else.

When Wayne arrived in Vietnam, he lucked out on a relatively safe job: he became the personal jeep driver for an officer - a Major, I believe. But then he got a 'Dear John' letter from my sister, and went into one of those 'life ain't worth living' funks that young men do at such times, especially when they're far from home and fighting a war. He and I wrote regularly, and he shared all of his pain and depression with me, so I was well aware of all that was going on.

It was at this time that Wayne left his 'safe' job and volunteered to become a spotter in a recon helicopter, one of those small ones with just two people, the captain who piloted it and Wayne, the spotter. In Vietnam, the combat life of the men who flew in those recon helicopters was measured in minutes, and it was not long, it seems now like just a few weeks, when, early in January, 1970, we got word that the copter had crashed, instantly killing and then incinerating Wayne and the captain. I remember that the captain was on the evening news. Wayne wasn't mentioned by name; just "a spotter". I can safely say that his death devastated every single member of my family. It cannot be overstated. And he will be remembered for as long as one of us remains living. 

Wayne's earthly remains are buried at St. Florene, in the Catholic Cemetery near the beautiful old Church. And his name is on the black granite wall in Washington, near the center, where the casualties were at their peak, his name high up off the ground, where you can't reach it just standing. I've only been to Washington once, when my older daughter graduated Valedictorian of her High School Class, in 1998, and we let her decide what reward she would receive. She picked a trip to Washington, and only she and I went, being the two history buffs in the family, by the Southern Crescent Amtrack. We had a wonderful time together, and on the day we visited the Lincoln Memorial, then the Korean War Memorial, and then the Vietnam War Wall, I was not emotional at all. Everything was fine; everything was normal. We found Wayne's name and then, all of a sudden, literally out of nowhere, it hit me like a tidal wave of emotion and I began to sob uncontrollably, and could not stop. My daughter, not born until ten years after his death, began to sob also, and we stood there, in the midst of the crowd, and sobbed together, holding one another. This is a memory I shall never forget, and as I type these words the tears are flowing freely down my cheeks, into my beard, and falling to the floor.

Before Wayne left for Vietnam, we bought a bottle of Great Western pink champagne, which we were going to drink in celebration when he returned. I still have that bottle of champagne, never opened, and some day I plan to donate it to the Smithsonian to rest, along with all the other mementos left in memory of those boys who died bravely in Vietnam at  The Wall, as a tribute to my good and dear friend, Wayne Bramlett, who gave his life for his Country at the age of nineteen.

God bless you, Wayne. I'll see you some day in heaven.