A Tragedy Remembered
As the Oklahoma City bombing trial was ending, rescuers and witnesses recall the horror.
OKLAHOMA CITY
Jimmy Hill was waking his daughter on a clear spring day in 1995 when his world exploded.
For the next 24 hours, he and other AFSCME members either rescued the injured or cleaned up debris from the April 19 explosion that tore the heart out of the Murrah Federal Building here, killing 168 men, women and children.
In May, as the trial of Timothy McVeigh was ending in Denver, Public Employee returned to Oklahoma City where we gathered Hill and four other members of Local 2406 to recall what they did following the bombing.
All five still suffer from the tragedy. All five believe the bomber should pay with his life.
A few weeks later, the jury found McVeigh guilty of the bombing and sentenced him to death.
His punishment, however, cannot erase the terrible memories of the attack nor undo the damage.
SHOCK WAVES. An AFSCME steward, Hill is a registered Emergency Medical Technician for the Oklahoma City Water Department and teaches CPR at an area community college.
As an EMT, Hill responded when calls were broadcast on local radio stations for trained medical personnel to assist in the city’s emergency rooms. For the next 12 hours, Hill treated people who had lost limbs or were horribly cut by shards of glass.
"The first guy they had us work on didn’t make it," Hill recalls. A tear runs down his cheek as he stands in front of the fence at the federal building site.
"Unless you were here, you cannot imagine the horror of that day. We live out by the airport. When I first heard the explosion I was sure an airplane had crashed," Hill says. Though he lives miles from downtown, Hill’s house shuddered from the shock waves.
"I remember running out and looking toward the airport, expecting to see smoke or fire. As I turned, I noticed a huge, black mushroom cloud was spreading over the downtown area. I remember saying ‘Oh my God! What happened?’"
Terry Tarbutton, an AFSCME member employed by the Oklahoma City Street Maintenance Department, was cutting grass a half-mile away from the federal building when his tractor violently rocked.
"I thought I hit something. I lifted the mower. Nothing. I glanced up. I saw this horrible black cloud coming at me."
Minutes later, Tarbutton and his co-workers were ordered to clear streets surrounding the federal building.
"I remember one lady sitting in her car at an intersection just east of the bomb site. Her car windows were blown out. She was hysterical. She was sitting there in a pile of safety glass, screaming her lungs out because she couldn’t hear a thing," Tarbutton says.
RUNNING THROUGH HELL. AFSCME member Jim Elder, a public service technician with the city police department, responded within minutes of the explosion to cordon off the area.
"It was like running through hell," Elder recalls. The parking lot across from the shell of the federal building was ablaze from ruptured automobile gas tanks which lit the artificial darkness. As he ran to the site, glass crunched underfoot. Gravely injured people wandered the streets in shock.
"The pavement was wet with blood. I actually slipped a few times. It was dark and eerie with the flames. That was one horrible, horrible scene," he says, shuddering at the memory.
Roscoe Lewis, president of AFSCME Local 2406, gave blood three times in the week after the explosion. "Apparently, I have some rare kind of blood, and they asked me to keep coming back, so I did," he says.
ENDURING PAIN. Within minutes of the blast, AFSCME member Nancy Heath, an Oklahoma City Water Department dispatcher, was at the building, anxiously searching for her father. Paul Allen Heath is a Veterans Affairs employee whose office was on the building’s fifth floor.
Unbeknown to Nancy, her father survived and carried seven others from the building. He later became a principal spokesperson for the victims during the McVeigh trial.
Heath talks to a psychologist — her father — about the bombing.
Lewis says he avoids driving through town to escape memories of that day. Tarbutton recalls the black cloud rolling over downtown and engulfing him. Both Hill and Elder say they still have nightmares.
"April 19, 1995 is a day that will live in infamy," Elder says, shaking his head as he gazes at the empty lot where the federal building once stood. "This never should have happened."
By Daniel Guido
