BUTLER, Pa.—Just more than four hours before former President Donald J. Trump was set to speak at the Butler Farm Show Complex off Buttermilk Road, Harry Norman—like 50,000 other people who came to spend the day at the rally—was walking across the freshly cut pastures that surrounded the stage from which former President Trump would speak.
The 75-year-old Vietnam veteran, who spent more than 20 years in the military, cut a determined figure in the midsummer heat, making his way toward the last of the few seats left before the overflow crowd began accumulating. Wearing a green cotton T-shirt, jeans, and a camouflage hat with “TRUMP” across the front, Mr. Norman struggled as he maneuvered with a cane to the stage entrance.
He told me he is a retired mechanic. When I told him I was going to interview former President Trump later in the day, Mr. Norman passed along the one message he wanted me to share with the former president: “Tell him he’s doing good, and bring the country together, that’s all I know.”
Three hours and six minutes later, Mr. Norman was among the crowd in the bleachers watching the former president take the stage in what was intended as a triumphant return to Butler County. Former President Trump began his speech by talking about a chart on the screen behind him showing the escalation of illegal immigrants flooding into the country since he left office.
“You know that chart is a little bit old, that chart is a couple of months old,” the former president said, briefly taking his sights off the crowd, something he rarely does. “If you want to see something that really ...”
He began turning ever so slightly to the right to illustrate the problem—when three pops were heard by those close to the former president.
I was one of those people.
I was standing in what reporters call “the bumper” with my daughter and son-in-law—the well that runs the perimeter of the stage, used primarily by photojournalists, who suddenly found themselves documenting for posterity the moment when a gunman opened fire.
The former president, just feet from me, grabbed his face and found blood running into his ear. He ducked down. More gunshots rang out. Within seconds, former President Trump was surrounded by law enforcement who formed a human shield around him.
At this point, Michel Picard, one of the Trump campaign’s advance team, forced me down on the ground. The moment is a blur, but I recall just standing there, with my daughter and her husband already on the ground, and then Michel stretched on top of us to shield us.
I found out the next day, along with the rest of the world, that the man killed by the bullets intended for former President Trump did the same thing. His name was Corey Comperatore, and he was a family man and firefighter who went to church every Sunday. His wife told Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro that “Corey died a hero”—that he dove across his family to protect them.
Within seconds, I heard one of the Secret Service agents say, “Clear.”
Then they started telling the team, “Move, Move. You ready?”
I heard the former president telling an agent who was affirming to him that he’s got him, “My shoe. Let me get my shoe.”
Former President Trump rose in sync with the agents, his face smeared in blood. I heard him say, “Fight. Fight. Fight.” He raised his fist in the air, pumping, it seemed to me, at least twice. Then they escorted him from the stage past me and toward the motorcade.
His red hat fell on the ground in front of me.
I heard the crowd chanting “USA! USA!” I heard one woman screaming hysterically in the crowd, her voice piercing the air, but mostly I heard the chanting. Security escorted those of us in the bumper to a holding zone where several communication and technical staff members were in tears, clearly shaken by the assassination attempt on their boss.
Men like Corey Comperatore don’t grow on trees. Or maybe in western Pennsylvania they do. Some 50,000 Harry Normans were in that crowd on July 13: Men, women, and children who were beyond excited to see former President Trump speak to their little county of Butler, along the Ohio state line.
Most of them were dressed in some sort of patriotic theme, all of them believing that they were doing their part in something bigger than themselves. Former President Trump’s great gift to middle America is that he communicates that they matter and that they are seen, which is why they are willing to spend four hours in 90-degree heat just to catch a glimpse of the man and hear his message to them.
An hour after the all-clear came through, they let us out of the holding area. By that time, the entire field had been cleared. I missed the process, but the evidence of left-behind purses, phones, and even a wheelchair left a trail showing that the exodus was one of urgency.
It took another hour for law enforcement to let us out of the parking lot, where a telling thing happened: People got out and talked to each other. They shared water bottles and hugs and relief when word spread to the parking field that the former president was going to be OK.
On the drive out to the Butler Farm Show Complex nine hours earlier, the political importance of Butler was apparent. On one side of the road, we passed the Sunnyside Up diner that was attached to a bowling alley, and across the street were newly built half-million-dollar homes. To our east, we had passed the Cleveland-Cliffs steel mill; to our west was the iconic Mahoning Valley of Ohio and East Palestine. Crowds lined the two-lane streets on the way out there. There were lemonade stands and hot dog stands, all stocked with items made by the residents in their homes. You could even park there for $20 to avoid the traffic.
This was the heart of America. It was pierced but not shattered. And by raising his fist, former President Trump echoed President Ronald Reagan’s gesture after he was shot in 1981—leaning out the window and waving to let people know that we will recover from this.
