Who's Shooting Who?

THIRTEEN DAYS after Fort Lewis Ranger and ex–pro football player Pat Tillman, 27, was killed in Afghanistan, a Fort Lewis military policeman named Jesse Buryj, 21, was killed in Iraq. In life, the famous chiseled athlete and the small-town baritone horn player never met. But their deaths have followed a parallel course. Both were victims of "friendly fire," the military's oxymoronic euphemism for death at the hands of a fellow soldier. And who exactly killed them, and under what circumstances, remains a mystery.

The Army is trying to answer that question in the high-profile Tillman case. It has undertaken four investigations in three years and is now performing a fifth review to answer questions about a possible Army cover-up and whether the killing was intentional, which could lead to criminal charges.

In contrast, the Buryj case has fallen silent. The service is satisfied with blaming an unknown soldier from Poland, even though the Polish government denies the claim and Buryj's mother in Ohio says she was told an American soldier has confessed to shooting her son.

"My son is another Kennedy—nobody seems to know who shot him," says Peggy Buryj with a hard laugh. She's grateful for the Army's attempts to provide her with information, although each new answer raised more infuriating questions. And she doesn't begrudge the Tillmans for the attention they've gotten, having conferred and commiserated with the family. Peggy Buryj feels the Tillman case has helped open the eyes of other parents to questions about the Pentagon's casualty reporting methods. And like the Tillmans, she suspects a military cover-up. "Where's my criminal investigation?" she asks.

Understandably, the Tillman case has gotten more notice. Pat Tillman was the Arizona Cardinals defensive back who gave up a $3.6 million NFL contract to join the Army in 2002. He signed up with his brother Kevin, who gave up a promising baseball career, eight months after the Sept. 11 terror attacks. They ascended to Ranger School, were assigned to Fort Lewis' elite 75th Ranger Regiment, and served together in Iraq and Afghanistan. A hero to many, Pat Tillman was killed April 22, 2004. He was the 106th U.S. fatality in Afghanistan, where, as of this week, more than 370 have died.

His death made international headlines. The funeral was nationally televised. Moments of silence were held, flags were lowered, and memorials were established in his name. He's been given a special display at the Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio, his picture and story included in the NFL's "Wartime Heroes" exhibit and elsewhere.

Jesse Buryj's life was comparably modest. He grew up in Ohio, played in the high-school band, and joined the Army after graduating in 2002. Hoping to someday become a police officer, Buryj wound up in Fort Lewis' 66th Military Police Company, which, in addition to MP duties, can also be involved in combat situations. He shipped off to Iraq in February 2004 and was killed three months later. He was the 761st U.S. fatality in Iraq, where, as of this week—the war's fourth anniversary—more than 3,200 have died.

The name Buryj is Ukranian, by the way. It's pronounced BOO-dee. But, as Buryj's mother says with a chuckle, "In the Army, you'd never survive with a name that sounds like 'booty.' So he didn't complain when they started calling him Spc. 'Burage.'"

Buryj's death rated mostly small headlines back home. Family and friends turned out for the service, and citizens paused in the street as his procession passed. He was remembered as the typical good guy who strikes out for a career in the military. He had slung a few burgers at Wendy's and married his high-school sweetheart, Amber, a piccolo player in his school band, in a wedding ceremony officiated by the band's director.

He was honored in Canton, too, a gritty former steel town 45 minutes south of Cleveland. That's his hometown. He's buried in a small church cemetery there. Though he never became the local cop he'd hoped to be, his name is included on a list of fallen officers remembered at an annual Canton police memorial event.

The uneven contrast of their lives and their Canton memorials is reflected in the differing levels of investigation into the two soldiers' deaths, Buryj's family thinks.

The Army initially told both families their sons were killed during firefights with the enemy—Tillman ambushed in the mountains near the Pakistani border, Buryj fatally injured when his armored vehicle turned over during an attack in Karbala, south of Baghdad. Each family buried its loved one thinking the soldier was slain by forces aligned with the Taliban and Al Qaeda. That's hard enough to take. But it wasn't true.

Five weeks after Tillman's death, the Army revealed he was killed by his own troops—one, or several, of four U.S. soldiers—something the Army knew from the start. "Cease fire, friendlies," he is said by a witness to have futilely shouted, "I am Pat fucking Tillman, damn it!" He was hit in the head by three bullets and torn apart.

Fellow soldiers wrapped Tillman's body in a poncho and later burned his bloody clothing and body armor—because they were a biohazard, the soldiers claimed. Commanders meanwhile debated how and when they'd admit the fratricide. They were silent, Tillman's father, Patrick, would say later, because "they killed their poster boy" in an unpopular war during an election year.