Troy Burroghs: Death of an Army Friend

I was 27-years old back then, a Corporal; my friend Tom Bach, was 22 and a Private First Class. It was our night out on the town, kind of: you know when soldiers get thirsty and they want to get a little wild—it was Sunday, in Huntsville, Alabama, we were at a local pub talking about our son-of-a-birchen barracks Sergeant. We got talking about how we’d like to shoot the crap out of him for having us work seven days a week, and enforcing bed check. Most of the Army was done with that damn bed-check crap, I mean, bed check was going out of the window, it was out dated we were in the modern army, and women were coming in. It was the new modern Army; l969 was the year, a new day for the soldier. Now that I think of it, and am getting older, every ten years I hear them say, “This is the New Army.” But things were changing back than; it was at least for us.

As some of us did, I lived off base, no kids just a little wife, and two friends who lived in our little rented house who helped pay the rent. They each had their own room up on the second floor.

Well, to make a long story short, Tom went back to the barracks that night, as Mathew, Cory, my wife and I went back to our house.

There was a chill in the air that following morning as I was trying to start my 1961, Valiant; I think it was a Ford product. Anyways, it was a faithful little bug of a car; I brought down to Alabama from Minn-a-so-ta.

As every Monday for the past two months, while stationed at Red Stone Arsenal, I would ready myself for the morning row call at the barracks: 7:00 AM sharp; where we had our formations. I expected to see Tom, but when I got there, parked the car, and started walking up to the formation area which was alongside the middle half circle area by the barracks, I quickly realized something was wrong, but than my mind shifted, and I started thinking, Tom wasn’t around—he might have a hangover from last night; so I looked about, and still no Tom, but no one was around, either, not Tom, the platoon sergeant, nobody. Something was very wrong. I got thinking then, did I miss something, like a drill. I called for Staff Sergeant Henry, no one answered; he was the sergeant we were talking about last night at the bar. The one Tom and the rest of us said we’d like to shoot: jokingly.

All of a sudden as I was walking out of the barracks, the Military Police pulled up, “Corporal, you part of this platoon,” meaning part of Company C although we were separated by platoons? This was an advance training area for munitions and explosives.

“Yaw, why, something happen?” I asked.

“It sure did,” said the Military Police man, leaning his hand out of the car window.

“Private First Class Tom Bach, shot and killed Staff Sergeant Henry.”

“What?” I said in shock.

“He came in about 1:15 AM last night, woke up the staff sergeant, and put a 22-gun to his head, and pulled the trigger twice; we’re looking for him now. Matter-of-fact, so is your whole platoon.”

I had to catch my wind; it was like I got hit in the stomach. We were just kidding I told myself, as the MP’s slowly drove away, watching me out of their side mirrors. I just shook my head. Then it dawned on me, he’ll most likely go to my house. I told myself, I knew he was a little slow thinking, but I never thought he’d do this. Quickly I grabbed my keys to the car, ran back to the parking lot and jammed the key into the starter and drove off base to my house.

When I got there, I noticed my other two friends were home. I slowly walked through the doors, there was Tom sitting on the couch, my wife standing by the archway from the living room, to the kitchen, about 15-feet from Tom, and my two friends sitting on the floor. Tom was shaking his head. I tried to pretend nothing was abnormal, but everything was.

“Why you guys mad at me, I got rid of that asshole; I did what you guys couldn’t do; hay Corporal Chris, your wife is a little scared, tell her I’m not going to do anything.”

“Put your gun down Tom, your scaring everyone. And as far as you doing what we couldn’t, -- that’s hogwash. We were just joking last night. We always talk like that.” I started to go upstairs.

“Where you going,” Tom said curiously.

I pretended to pay not heed to it, and simply said, “I got to wash up, my hands are dirty, I’ll be right down.” He looked at me, and nodded, as if to copy my behavior as this being insignificant.

I quickly ran into my bedroom, got my .357 pistol out, which was under my bed, and made sure it was loaded; then I went into the bathroom turned on the water, leaving the door open so Tom could hear it. Than slowly I started to walk down the stairs with my shoes off. There was about fifteen stairs. I walked down three, I could see Tom talking, looking, as if he was trying to keep his mind going. I needed one more step than I could focus my firearm through the poles of the railing.

Tom looked at me, “What you up to,” he shouted, making a 60-degree turn in the chair with the gun in his right hand starting to focus it. A shot went off automatically, and my wife started screaming, I was hit, but it was only the lower part of my left hand, a little hole right through it; right below my little finger.

I slowly aimed through two of the poles, he was aiming reckless, and quickly: he thought he was John Wayne I think. I was now laying on the steps on my side, with the gun 90% focused, I needed to put him out with one shot or he’d kill everyone down there, he was close enough to, he just hadn’t thought about it yet. Another of his shots hit the door underneath the stairway, it was real low. Now he turned a little more, his gun still aiming freely towards me, his eyes at my wife, I shot, the bullet went through the top of the sofa chair right through and into his side. I told myself, trying to aim the gun upward, I hit him, but where, his lungs, heart. I wasn’t sure. His eyes bulged, and he caught his breath; I watched him slowly, then fell back a foot, his gun waving in the air. Then he fell on to his back, his neck quivering like a chicken’s when it is cut off; the gun falling out of his hands.

Everyone stood exactly where they were, in disbelief. It was over; everything was silent. The world had ended for all of us for that very moment. He never stopped starring it seemed. We all looked at one another, as if to get permission to move, to talk, to go on living. Then my wife said, “Are you all right,” looking at me, I smiled, even though it hurt to smile. She needed to know I was ok, and it was hard to talk.

I picked myself up from the stairs, rubbed my eyes with my right thumb and finger from underneath my glasses. A few tears were coming. I wasn’t sure if that was from killing, or saving.