Die Hard–style action films might lead us to think it’s no big deal for our military and law enforcement personnel to stop dangerous people forcibly. We’re led to believe it’s all over when the criminal is down. Roll credits.
Life is different from the movies, though. In my last column, I told you about Senior Airman Andy Brown who, as an Air Force security officer at Fairchild AFB on June 20, 1994, fired his service handgun at a range of at least 200 feet to stop an active shooter. The killer had murdered four and wounded 22, but thanks to Brown’s intervention, his deadly rampage was over. Sadly, Brown’s troubles had just begun.
The airman had done his duty to save lives. He didn’t relish having to kill a man, and he certainly wasn’t seeking attention.
“How did you feel when people called you a hero?” I asked Brown.
“It was uncomfortable. I’ve never enjoyed being the center of attention. I didn’t like the focus on me when so many people were killed or wounded. They weren’t talked about so much,” Brown said.
The first instance of unwanted attention came when Brown requested leave so he could take a needed break off base. His request was denied. The Air Force wanted Brown up on a parade ground stage to get a medal. “It felt to me like the Air Force was taking a lot of heat in the press and they wanted to generate some good news,” said Brown, referring to a B-52 bomber air show practice flight crashing at Fairchild four days after the shooting.
He was awarded the Airman’s Medal for heroism despite personal danger as well as the Billy Jack Carter Award for protecting Air Force personnel. Other awards came from the Red Cross, Rotary Club, and the International Police Mountain Bike Association.
Reporters and TV producers called his home. Brown admits to challenges with PTSD and wanting the focus on that dreadful day to stop. “I was naive enough to think if I didn’t go on TV or radio, the incident would fade away quicker.” His silence didn’t work. Neither did talking to the media. Even now, almost 30 years later, he still sometimes receives calls on the anniversary of the event or in the aftermath of a new high-profile shooting.
Everybody on the base knew who Brown was. He had no more anonymity. Brown transferred to an Air Force base in Hawaii to escape his fame, but his reputation preceded him. Base after base, he was celebrated wherever he went. Eventually, he separated from the service.
Brown’s adrenaline rush on June 20, 1994, distorted his sense of time. He felt he took too long to reach the shooter after the emergency call. He worried that if he’d only ridden his patrol bike faster, he might have saved more lives. For 14 years, he struggled to obtain the recordings of the day’s radio traffic. When he finally listened to the tape, he was relieved to realize there were less than two minutes between the first emergency call and the time Brown radioed that he’d killed the shooter.
I felt bad, being the latest of many to ask Brown to recount the terrible day of the shooting. And yet, I met the man when he was doing a talk about his excellent book on this subject, Warnings Unheeded. He called himself naive for hoping that writing the book would stop people from asking him about the ordeal, but he still hopes the book will serve as the most complete account of his darkest day as well as an encouragement for others to seek treatment for their PTSD.
The credits didn’t roll for Senior Airman Andy Brown after he stopped the shooter. He struggled with PTSD, guilt, and with media, myself included, who demanded too much of him. He’s doing better these days, though. I wish him some well-deserved peace.
Trent Reedy, author of several books including Enduring Freedom, served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
*Some names and call signs in this story may have been changed due to operational security or privacy concerns.
