The wrinkled, gray haired man sat
silently staring straight ahead. The computer screen’s glow provided
the only room light. He made
his decision, reached forward and typed in a cable news network e-mail
address. Tabbing down he wrote, “The time has come; I can’t stay
silent any longer. As you
will see, the big lie has been going on too long, America -- no the world -- needs to know the truth, a true
account of the beings that I have come to call the Watchers. Here is the
story.”
***
I
remember the penetrating cold of the desert. I had forgotten how cold
the desert night could be. That’s why
I happened to be awake though. If I hadn’t been trying to build up my
fire a little to chase the morning chill away, I would never have seen
it from the beginning. Over the next fifty plus years people would
continue to make believe it didn’t happen, to discredit witnesses and
fabricate all kinds of stories. I don’t care what they say; I was
there! I saw what I saw and
nothing will ever change that. Anyway, that wasn’t the first time I
saw them -- the Watchers. The first time had been about two years
before.
I was flying fighters for the Army
Air Corps out of Tinian Island, a small island in the Marianna Chain.
I flew support for the bombers, the big B-29’s as my main mission. The
war was almost over. Flying support for the bomb missions had become
pretty much a milk run. The enemy didn’t have very many interceptor
fighters left and we almost had complete air superiority. It ended up
being my last mission though, the mission when I made first contact.
The
first week of August, 1945, around 2:25 a.m., I took off in my P-51
Mustang to support Special Bombing Mission 13, The Enola Gay, an
upgraded B-29 carrying a special cargo named Little Boy. I
would remember this day for two very distinct reasons. One most every
student of history knows, the other, only a few would ever know about. I
was officially ordered to keep the second incident secret and did so for
over fifty years. I am tired of hiding the truth.
The
Enola Gay made its bomb run at about 9:15 a.m. local time. We had been told that as the bomb was dropped we were
to turn and fly away from there fast. We would have about 45 seconds to
get as far away as possible. Over my radio I heard “bombs away” and
quickly made a steep banking turn to the right.
As
I flew through a cloud bank at about 20,000 feet, something to the left
caught my attention. I quickly pulled up and swung
around to have a look. It was an aircraft, however, it was like no craft
I had ever seen. The
craft bore no discernible engines or markings, though the gray black
shape was distinctive. At first I couldn’t describe it,
but after a few seconds I realized that it looked like a large stingray.
It glided through the air like the stingray glides through water.
I dubbed them “The Watchers” as that’s what they appeared to be
doing. But I also knew the craft wasn’t one of ours. Logically, if not one of us, then it had to be an
enemy. I shoved my stick forward to make my attack run.
The
strange aircraft hung in the air, as if it wasn’t moving. I lined up my sights and pulled the trigger. The heavy
.50 caliber bullets screamed through the air -- into nothing. The ship
was no longer there. It had simply darted out of the line of fire! I
couldn’t believe what I had just seen. I made a turn and came back for
a second run with the same result. A
sudden bright light flashed from the rear of the craft and in an instant
it disappeared. The unbelievable speed of the craft astounded me. I had flown the new Lockheed P-80 Shooting Star jets
with their incredible speed but they would have poked along like an old
biplane compared to what I had just seen. Had it been real? Self-doubt
plagued me as I resumed my return flight to Tinian.
Maybe I had imagined it but I didn’t think so. I knew my gun
camera film would tell the tale.
The next few months were a living
nightmare. During debrief, when I attempted to tell what I had seen, the
debriefing officer silenced me and then ordered me to a separate
briefing room to finish my story. Afterward, without preamble the
military police marched me to the hospital isolation ward. Three long
days later the flight surgeon’s diagnosis was that I was suffering
from either advanced combat fatigue or serious psychological trauma due
to witnessing the first atomic blast.
Several times during my isolation
I requested information about my gun camera film. Each inquiry was met
with blank stares. After a number of days the debriefing officer arrived
and informed me there was no gun camera film. My guns had not been
fired. A short time later the flight surgeon ordered me evacuated me to
a stateside hospital for a much needed rest. I spent almost six months
in an isolation ward.
One day I received a visitor. When
he entered my room he had the air of Washington, D.C. stamped all over
him. He first asked me to retell what had happened on that August day.
When I finished, he stood and walked out. I had a feeling that my story
wasn’t the first time he had heard of the Watchers.
A couple of hours later another
man carrying a thick file folder came to see me. He said if I signed an
official secrets form I would be released. The gist of the form was that
if I
revealed anything about my participation in Special Bombing Mission 13,
I would spend the rest of my life in military prison. I signed the paper
and the military quietly discharged me a few weeks later.
I bought some surplus military
gear and a surplus Jeep and went out to the desert to do a little
prospecting and to quietly reflect on what I had just been through. That
was why I happened to be there the night I saw them again.
***
July 4, 1947. Happy Independence
Day I thought as I added a little more dried sagebrush to my fire. I
crawled back into my sleeping bag but couldn’t immediately fall
asleep. A
beautiful full moon and millions of sparking stars hung in the sky. Unexpectedly,
a large flying object came over the hills and silently swooped down into
my valley. The thing moved
slowly like it was having some trouble staying airborne. As it neared I
realized that I knew that shape. After all, I had seen it before. It was
a large, flying stingray. A long trail of smoke spewed from the back. A
few seconds later, another sound followed as two low flying airplanes in
battle formation swept in from the same direction. I could see the
silhouettes, but didn’t really need visual contact to identify them.
The
sounds were the screaming whine of jet engines on full throttle.
Lockheed P-80s on full burner chased the stingray. Two rockets flashed
out from the lead jet and then the .50 caliber machine guns opened up
from the second. The stingray was hit, hard. Suddenly it spun around
like a top and fired its own weapons. What looked like lightening bolts
erupted from the stingray’s nose. In less that a heartbeat, both jets
disintegrated right before my eyes. One second they were there. Then
they were gone. I couldn’t believe it.
I glanced back to the strange
craft. It was wobbling noticeably and emitted a high-pitched whining
sound. I knew it was in serious trouble. For just a minute I thought it
might be able to pull away. Then it made a hard left bank and buried its
nose into the ground. The crash occurred less than a quarter of a mile
from me. A large explosion followed. I sprang up, pulled on my boots and
sprinted toward the blazing light. I had to get a look at what had
haunted me for all these months.
The stingray had gone down on the
other side of a low hill. When I topped the rise I stopped dead in my
tracks. I could see that the ship had broken up, either from the crash
or the explosion. That however wasn’t what stopped me. In the light of
the flaming ship I could see figures. I saw one, then another, then
another. They didn’t look like any humans I had ever seen. I watched
as they attempted to help others from the stricken bird. They never had
the chance.
From behind came the scream of
another attacking jet. Glancing back I saw the plane approaching and
watched two silver canisters drop from the wings. I knew that sight all
too well. I immediately dived behind some boulders just below the ridge
line as the bombs landed. They were big ones, at least five hundred
pounds each. The double explosions picked me up, blasted all the air
from my lungs and sent me flying down the slope. Stunned, I lay there in
the swirling dust and falling debris.
After some time I slowly rose to
my feet. Nothing seemed to be broken but I felt pretty banged up. Intent
on making my way back to the crash site, I almost didn’t see the
vehicle lights speeding my way. A sudden flash of a headlight a few
miles away caught my attention. I couldn’t be seen here. By dropping
two five hundred pound bombs on the wreck, the military planned to
obliterate all traces of the alien ship. I had already had more than my
share of military cover-ups. I did a stumbling run back to my campsite
and threw all my equipment into the Jeep. I checked the area to make
sure that I had left nothing identifying behind and made a hasty
departure in the direction opposite to the oncoming lights.
Without headlights, I slowly drove
across the quiet desert for a couple of hours. As daylight arrived I
found myself pulling up to an old dirt track. I climbed out and walked
to the faded road sign tacked to an old post stuck in the sand. The sign
had an arrow pointing to the left which read, “Roswell 14 Miles”. I
went back to my Jeep, pulled out onto the track, turned right, and
quickly drove away. That was over fifty years ago. I am ashamed that I
have taken so long to . . .
***
A sudden pain slammed the man in
the chest. Oh no, he thought. Not now. I can’t fail now. Slowly
reaching forward a trembling hand, he focused on the send-mail key. From
behind him a second 50,000 volt M-18 Taser shot through the darkness.
Another searing pain engulfed him. His shaky hand fell forward to the
edge of the keyboard, jerked once and then grew still.
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