Oklahoma Bombing Aftershocks Rumble Through Rescuers’ Lives : Terrorism: Spotlight has faded and they’ve rejoined the workaday world. But their lives have been irrevocably altered.

Russell Burkhalter’s haunting dream is always the same: a slow walk through a maze of collapsed concrete, a search for signs of life, then disappointment.

No matter where he looks, the weary firefighter never finds anyone alive in the remains of the crumpled federal building. It’s only a dream now but, all these months later, it still seems all too real.

One of the first rescuers on the scene after the bombing, Burkhalter clawed, crawled and dug through the rubble, pulling out one lifeless body after another. The only survivor he found, a pregnant woman entombed in debris who clutched his hand, died hours after being freed.

Now, six months later, the building has been leveled, two men have been charged with the bombing and Russell Burkhalter is back answering routine calls from Station No. 5. But that day rarely leaves him.

“Maybe, subconsciously, I’m still looking for survivors,” he said of his recurring dreams. “I know this will stay with me. It already has.”

“You may close the book,” he added, “but you’ll always remember the story.”

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The 4,800-pound fuel-and-fertilizer bomb that tore the face off the Alfred P. Murrah federal building April 19 killed 169 people. More than 500 others were injured; the lives of thousands more were forever changed.

In the months that followed, America mourned the victims, comforted the survivors and honored the rescuers, who were transformed from obscure public safety workers to collective heroes. They gave interviews, made speeches and received letters, gifts and awards for a job well done.

Now, the spotlight has faded and they’ve rejoined the workaday world. But, for many, the impact of the tragedy lives on. Some have formed bonds with survivors or victims’ families. Others have noticed personal changes.

“My wife said I’m a lot more serious,” said the wiry, soft-spoken Burkhalter, 34. “I don’t cut up as much as I used to.”

Certain sights still trigger memories. One firefighter said stepping on broken glass reminds him of the bomb site; another said that for weeks he couldn’t sleep in certain positions because it reminded him of bodies he found.

“You’ll never forget it,” said Jon Hansen, assistant fire chief. “It’s something all of us think about from time to time. We talk about things being back to normal. But our normal has changed.”

Firefighters had mandatory “defusing”--counseling immediately after they left the scene; later, group debriefings were held with mental health experts.

“We’re not having as many problems as we thought we’d have,” said Maj. David Bowman, part of the department’s stress debriefing team. But he also notes some signs of post-traumatic stress have begun to surface, with workers not getting along with colleagues or having trouble at home.

He cautions, too, that although some rescuers say the experience was “no big deal,” there may be fallout later, perhaps when the trial begins.

“People put this stuff in the back of their minds and park it. Later on, something causes it to come out,” Bowman said. “I think everybody was touched by this.”

In fact, some rescuers still feel guilty they didn’t do more. And they insist what they did accomplish was nothing extraordinary.

“There’s probably not a person in this fire station who could honestly look you in the face and say we’re heroes,” said Cpl. Shane Davidson.

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Chris Fields has been dubbed the poster boy of the bombing.

If the world doesn’t remember his name, it probably remembers the Page 1 photo of the firefighter cradling the limp, lifeless body of 1-year-old Baylee Almon--a single frame of film that captured the heartbreak and horror of that day.

Since then, Fields has become a symbol and a celebrity. His firehouse buddies jokingly call him Captain Hollywood.

He has been interviewed by reporters from Australia, Germany and Japan--the British Broadcasting Corp. also came calling a few weeks ago--and received hundreds of letters and gifts, including an African ostrich egg with a hand-painted picture of him holding Baylee.

“I’m still in shock,” said the affable 31-year-old firefighter. “It’s embarrassing. It’s hard to imagine having that much impact on people.”

But his real solace comes from his friendship with Aren Almon, Baylee’s mother, whom he met shortly after cradling her dead child. They now talk once or twice weekly.

“When I heard from her, that eliminated all the counseling I’d ever need,” said Fields, father of a 2-year-old son.

As for Baylee, he said: “I think about her every day, bless her heart. I wonder what she’d be doing if she were still alive.”

Someday, he said, he’ll put together a scrapbook from a roomful of mementos sent by well-wishers, but he won’t display the famous photo: He doesn’t want to be constantly reminded of it.

“I’ll always regret the picture was taken,” he said, noting that people have tried to cash in on it by featuring it on T-shirts and other souvenirs.

Fields also said he’s the same easygoing guy he was six months ago--with one exception.

“You stop and smell the roses a little more. I kiss my wife every morning when I leave and tell her I love her. Not that I didn’t before,” he said with a laugh. “It’s almost like it’s on a checklist now. I just make a point of it.”

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After 25 years on the police force, Sgt. John Avera knows about death. But he could never comfort victims’ families until he watched the chaplains after the bombing.

“I have always had trouble talking to someone who lost a loved one,” he said. “Now, I know what to do. . . . You walk up and you don’t say anything. You let them do the talking.”

Avera, 47, a drug lab worker, was photographed clutching Baylee to his chest, running to hand her to Fields. When he pulled the baby from the wreckage of the building’s day care center, he said, he knew she was dead.

For months, he lived with gnawing doubts.

“I felt real guilty,” he said. “We left so many people who didn’t make it. . . . I wasn’t sure that I had done all I should have done.”

After local counseling, he recently traveled to Massachusetts for additional therapy, where he re-examined his steps that day, inch by inch, second by second. It became clear only then that he had made no mistakes.

“I didn’t feel bad anymore,” he said. “I’m a lot happier now. That counseling was a turning point. I’m really back to my normal self.”

Avera, who also keeps in touch with Baylee’s mother, said he still gets unnerved when he sees his photo without warning--such as when a local charity recently showed it in a film.’

“I don’t want to look at myself,” he said. “I don’t want to look at the building. . . . I don’t want to go back there anymore--not that close.”

The two photos--his and Fields’--sit propped against a wall on his living room floor, the images turned inward. Though his son and daughter are proud of their dad and eager to display the pictures, he’s not so sure.

“I’ve had them framed,” he said, “but I don’t know if they’ll ever hang on my wall.”

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Police Sgt. Jerry Flowers knows terrible memories have no expiration date.

The gang investigator has many: the decapitated child he found in the day-care center (he later learned he knew the parents), the baby’s foot wearing a pink sock, the bloodied man severed from the waist, eyes open, staring down from the crushed floor above--a shocking scene he still talks about with his brother, Dennis, a Highway Patrol worker who also helped dig out bodies.

“I wish I could have rescued somebody and gone to the hospital and said, ‘I helped get you out,’ ” Flowers said. “That would be part of the healing process. . . . But today, I look back and I know I did all the Lord gave me the ability to do.”

Flowers, 41, attended the funerals of several bombing victims, including his next-door neighbor of 20 years and friends from the Drug Enforcement Administration and Secret Service.

A few weeks ago, he returned with a TV news crew to the “pit” area of the building, where many bodies were buried under a mangled mass of steel and concrete.

“It was strange to be back there,” he said. “That place to me is really sacred.” He has a piece of rock from the building as a reminder of the day.

Flower said the anxiety he once felt has been replaced by anticipation.

“There is peace knowing the ones who possibly are responsible are in custody. There will be peace when the convictions come down,” he said. “I don’t think it’s something you lay to rest and say it’s over and done with. There’s a scar on me.”

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On Sept. 29, Dr. Rick Nelson kept a promise he made to a young woman on the most terrifying night of her life.

As firefighters used hammers and chisels to free Brandy Ligons from the ruins, Nelson, a volunteer rescuer, told her “the best-looking surgeon out there was waiting to take her to dinner.”

Brandy was trapped 13 1/2 hours. She was the last survivor pulled from the wreckage.

Five months later, Nelson treated Brandy, her mother and her two sisters to a 16th birthday feast of calamari, pizza and crab claws at an Italian restaurant, followed by a trip to the carnival at the state fair.

A 38-year-old Muskogee surgeon who drove 2 1/2 hours to help at the bombing site, Nelson said his experience was a positive one.

“It reinforced what I already knew--that life is so temporary and transient,” he said.

Nelson has established a trust fund for Brandy’s education.

“I expect a lot of her,” he said. “She’s been given a chance most people didn’t have. I think she’s symbolic of renewed hope. I think she’s symbolic of a second chance in life.”