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Fox News
19-04-2025
- Fox News
Oklahoma City bombing survivor was ‘getting ready to die' after being trapped in 10 feet of rubble
April 19, 1995, started off as a beautiful spring day for Amy Downs, a teller at a credit union inside the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. "I remember the red buds were blooming," Downs recalled to Fox News Digital. "I was so excited. I was getting ready to close my very first house. I don't think I did any work in that first hour of the day. I was running around talking to all my friends about the house. "And then I was looking at my watch, thinking, 'Oh gosh, it's almost nine o'clock. I'm going to get in trouble. I had better get back to my desk.'" Downs flew past her boss. A co-worker who was six months pregnant sat beside her. Downs asked if she needed anything. "I don't know if the words even came out of my mouth or not, because that's when the bomb went off and everything went black," Downs said. It was 30 years ago when a truck bomb detonated outside a federal building in America's heartland, killing 168 people in the deadliest homegrown attack on U.S. soil. Downs and other survivors and witnesses are speaking out in a new National Geographic docuseries, "Oklahoma City Bombing: One Day in America." "I think it's so important to remember what happened and the lessons that were learned," Downs said of why she chose to come forward. Downs was 28 years old when she found herself trapped upside down in her office chair. She had fallen three floors down and was buried under 10 feet of rubble. Whenever she gasped for air, it burned down to her chest. Her body was pierced with glass. "I remember hearing roaring and screaming, and this powerful rushing sensation, like I was falling," said Downs. "I found out I had fallen. … I couldn't move. I couldn't see. It was very hard to breathe. I had no idea what had happened. I just knew it was bad." Downs screamed for help, but no one replied. In the darkness, she heard silence. Suddenly, after what felt like an eternity, there was a sudden commotion of firefighters. One said, "Let's split up. Let's look for the daycare babies." SIGN UP TO GET TRUE CRIME NEWSLETTER They were referring to the children at the America's Kids Daycare inside the building. "I was confused," said Downs. "I thought, 'Why are they looking for the daycare babies here? The daycare is on the second floor, and we're on the third floor.' I had no idea that we were at the bottom of what was once this nine-story building." Fire Chief Mike Shannon heard Down's cries for help. Just as he was about to go get her, his crew learned there was a possibility of another bomb that was about to go off. It forced them to immediately evacuate, leaving Downs behind. Shannon was determined to stay with Downs, but fellow firefighters refused to leave him behind. In the documentary, Shannon described how he heard the echoes of Downs sobbing, begging him to save her, as he was being rushed out. At that moment, Downs believed her life was coming to an end. "I now knew it had been a bomb, and it looked like there was another one," she said. "I was getting ready to die. I prayed, or maybe you could call it bargained with God. I kept promising God anything, just to be able to live. I prayed for a second chance. My reality was that I was 28 years old and getting ready to die, and I've never really lived. I had a lot of regrets about how I had not been living." SIGN UP TO GET TRUE CRIME NEWSLETTER In between tears, she began to recite portions of Psalm 23 to comfort herself. "The only thing I could remember was, 'I walked through the valley of the shadow of death,'" said Downs. "I couldn't remember what came next. I thought that was awful. And then, of all the weird things to do, a song popped into my head that we used to sing growing up in church. I started singing this song, and I felt peace. This was the first time that I thought I was at peace with what was getting ready to happen." There was no second bomb. Once the firefighters realized this, they rushed back in. Shannon remembered to look for Downs. When Downs heard the sounds of men again, she promised in the darkness to bake them, anyone, chocolate chip cookies if they could save her. Six and a half hours later, she was free. "I was in the hospital for about eight days," she said. "The biggest injury was my leg, which had been split open. My bone was intact, but the leg was open. But the hardest part was finding out that 18 of my 33 co-workers were killed. … Grief is something that I couldn't comprehend. Dealing with the grief and trauma was the hard part. The injuries were nothing." Downs was one of the last survivors to be pulled from the rubble after the bombing, which killed 168 people, including 19 children. Nearly 700 others were injured. GET REAL-TIME UPDATES DIRECTLY ON THE TRUE CRIME HUB Downs struggled with survivor's guilt. "I remember on the eighth day in the hospital, they found my best friend's body," she tearfully said. "She had baby girls at home." As Downs grieved, the community banded together. In just 72 hours after the bombing, 7,000 people waited in line to donate blood, FOX25 reported. "We have our differences, and differences are not a bad thing," she said. "But I think it's cool when we know when to put aside those differences and come together for good." Downs was still in the ICU when she saw a group of nurses glued to a television screen. It was revealed that the bombing was orchestrated by two former U.S. Army buddies, Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols. They shared a deep-seated hatred of the federal government fueled by the bloody raid on the Branch Davidian religious sect near Waco, Texas, and a standoff in the mountains of Ruby Ridge, Idaho, that killed a 14-year-old boy, his mother and a federal agent. "When I found out that it was an American, not only that, but somebody who also served in our military … I struggled with that," she said. "I could not wrap my brain around that. My father is from the Greatest Generation. He lied about his age when he was 17 years old to fight World War II. It just didn't add up. How could you be an American? How could you serve our country? How could you do this?" According to the documentary, Downs later faced McVeigh in court. "It was very disturbing," she said, shuddering. "He almost seemed proud of it." McVeigh was executed by lethal injection in 2001. He was 33. Nichols, now 70, is serving life in prison without the possibility of parole. Downs was ready to embrace her second chance at life. She went from a 355-pound "couch potato" to losing 200 pounds and completing a full ironman triathlon. She went on to work for the same credit union, now called Allegiance Credit Union, where she served as president and CEO. "I'd flunked out of college because I couldn't pass a math class," she said. "But I was very fortunate to have bosses who mentored me and believed in me. … I had promised God that I would never live my life the same if I survived, and I meant that. … I went back to college, got my degree, did all the things. … And just this week, I retired. So, I decided to launch a new chapter." Today, Downs is a full-time speaker. She also created a new bucket list. She and her sister are planning to walk about 160 miles of Camino de Santiago, a pilgrimage known as "The Way of St. James." She's also eager to ride her bicycle across the United States. "I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up," the 58-year-old chuckled. Downs hopes viewers watching the documentary will learn how a community became united during tragedy. "It showcases the strength of the human spirit and the courage of these men who rushed in to help," she said. "And the way we came together. The thing is, we are all going to face times in our lives when we're buried under the rubble, where devastation comes to us. … We will face difficult times. "I think the lesson from this is that, as people, we can come together. And when you come together during times of difficulty, you are stronger than you realize. And together, you will get through it."
Los Angeles Times
16-04-2025
- Los Angeles Times
The Oklahoma City bombing was 30 years ago. Some survivors worry America didn't learn the lesson
OKLAHOMA CITY — Thirty years after a truck bomb detonated outside a federal building in America's heartland, killing 168 people in the deadliest homegrown attack on U.S. soil, deep scars remain. From a mother who lost her first-born baby, a son who never got to know his father, and a young man so badly injured that he still struggles to breathe, three decades have not healed the wounds from the Oklahoma City bombing on April 19, 1995. The bombers were two former U.S. Army buddies, Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols, who shared a deep-seated hatred of the federal government fueled by the bloody raid on the Branch Davidian religious sect near Waco, Texas, and a standoff in the mountains of Ruby Ridge, Idaho, that killed a 14-year-old boy, his mother and a federal agent. And while the bombing awakened the nation to the dangers of extremist ideologies, many who suffered directly in the attack still fear anti-government rhetoric in modern politics could also lead to violence. A 30-year anniversary remembrance ceremony is scheduled for Saturday on the grounds of the Oklahoma City National Memorial Museum. Little Baylee Almon had just celebrated her first birthday the day before her mother, Aren Almon, dropped her off at the America's Kids Daycare inside the Alfred P. Murrah federal building. It was the last time Aren would see her first child alive. The next day, Aren saw a photo on the front page of the local newspaper of Baylee's battered and lifeless body cradled in the arms of an Oklahoma City firefighter. 'I said: 'That's Baylee.' I knew it was her,' Aren Almon said. She called her pediatrician, who confirmed the news. In the hauntingly iconic image, which won the amateur photographer who took it the 1996 Pulitzer Prize for spot news photography, firefighter Chris Shields came to symbolize all the first responders who descended on the bomb site, while Baylee represented the innocent victims who were lost that day. But for Aren, her daughter was more than a symbol. 'I get that [the photo] made its mark on the world,' Almon said. 'But I also realize that Baylee was a real child. She wasn't just a symbol, and I think that gets left out a lot.' The Oklahoma City firefighter in the photograph was Chris Fields, who had been on the scene for about an hour when a police officer came 'out of nowhere' and handed him Baylee's lifeless body. Fields swept the infant's airway and checked for any signs of life. He found none. He said the photograph was snapped as he waited for a paramedic to find room for the baby in a crowded ambulance. 'I was just looking down at Baylee thinking, 'Wow, somebody's world is getting ready to be turned upside down today,'' Fields recalled. While he tries to focus more on being a grandfather than politics, Fields said he has little doubt an attack motivated by radical political ideology could happen again. 'I don't worry about it, but do I think it could happen again? Without a doubt,' he said. One of the youngest survivors of the bombing was PJ Allen, who was just 18 months old when his grandmother dropped him off at the second-floor daycare. He still bears the scars from his injuries. Allen suffered second- and third-degree burns over more than half his body, a collapsed lung, smoke damage to both lungs, head trauma from falling debris and damage to his vocal cords that still affects the sound of his voice. Now an avionics technician at Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma City, Allen said he had to be homeschooled for years and couldn't go out in the sun because of the damage to his skin. Still, there doesn't seem to be any self-pity when he speaks of the impact of the bombing on his life. 'Around this time of year, April, it makes me very appreciative that I wake up every day,' he said. 'I know some people weren't as fortunate.' Austin Allen was 4 years old when his father, Ted L. Allen, a U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development employee, died in the bombing. He never truly got to know his dad. Although he remembers snippets of riding in his dad's truck and eating Cheerios with him in the morning, most of his memories come from friends and family. 'It's just been little anecdotes, little things like that I've heard about him over the years, that have painted a bigger picture of the man he was,' Allen said. Allen, who now has a 4-year-old of his own, acknowledges he's troubled by the anti-government vein in modern-day politics and wonders where it could lead. 'It's such a similar feeling today, where you have one side versus the other,' he said. 'There is a parallel to 1995 and the political unrest.' Dennis Purifoy, who was an assistant manager in the Social Security office on the ground floor of the building, lost 16 co-workers in the bombing. Another 24 customers who were waiting in the lobby also perished. Although he doesn't remember hearing the explosion, a phenomenon he said he shares with other survivors, he remembers thinking the computer he was working on had exploded. 'That's just one of the weird ways that I found out later our minds work in a situation like that,' he said. Purifoy, now 73 and retired, said the bombing and McVeigh's anti-government motives were a reality check for an innocent nation, something he said he sees in our society today. 'I still think that our country is naive, as the way I was before the bombing, naive about the numbers of people in our country who hold far-right-wing views, very anti-government views,' Purifoy said. 'One thing I say to tell people is 'conspiracy theories can kill,' and we saw it here.' Murphy writes for the Associated Press.
