Then through heat shimmer, like a desert mirage, the sprawl of the air base revealed itself: first the tower, then hangars, one- and two- and three-story barracks and other buildings, fenced-off areas, far-flung tarmacs where planes were taxiing, taking off and landing, even green landscaped grounds complete with trees. The main gate wasn’t terribly impressive, however, sitting like a brick tollbooth in a vast, unfenced paved area, the words WALKER AIR FORCE BASE curving above, black letters on white. For all the talk of security, Walker seemed fairly accessible; I mean, hell—they let me in, without a pass, merely on the word of the two armed MPs who’d kidnapped me.
We pulled up to a two-story white clapboard building and, over the rumble of airplane engines and churning propellers, I was told to follow the colored MP while the white one trailed behind me. We trooped through a bustling bullpen where aides and secretaries were at work at desks, typewriters clattering, new notices getting pinned up on bulletin boards while old ones came down, maps taking up most of the wall space. At a modest glass-and-wood walled-off office, the MP in the lead knocked at a glass-and-wood door stenciled COLONEL W. BLANCHARD.
Pearson’s file had filled me in a little on Blanchard—nick-name “Butch”—who had a reputation as a “swashbuckling” pilot, rumored to have once returned from a Mexican jaunt in a trainer jet so loaded down with whiskey, the plane crashed to a fiery stop; legend had it he’d fled the scene, then returned to indignantly demand the mysterious pilot be tracked down and court-martialed. Blanchard had been next in line to drop “Fat Man” on Hiroshima, but history had seemed to pass him by—unless, of course, there was something to these flying saucer stories I’d been hearing all day.
Blanchard—husky, dark-haired, dashingly handsome, the “Old Man” as Haut had referred to him—was barely past thirty; he looked up from a desk cluttered with work, framed family photos, humidor, pipe rack and trio of telephones. He waved the MP inside.
“Leave Mr. Heller with me, Sergeant,” Blanchard said, in a crisp baritone, “and don’t wait around.”
“Yes, sir,” the colored MP said, and held the door open, nodding curtly for me to enter.
I did. Blanchard gave me half a smile, didn’t rise, gesturing to the waiting hardwood chair across from him. I sat, just as the MP was shutting, almost slamming, the door; it startled me, but I’m sure my reaction was no more obvious than Shemp Howard’s would have been.
The colonel had the casual look of a man who’d seen combat and didn’t suffer bullshit—no tie, sleeves rolled up, but with the authoritative touch of the pipe he was smoking. On the wall behind him were framed photos from the war, Blanchard posing with his plane, with his crew, at the front of a group shot of the 509th; and centrally displayed was an elaborate, and impressive, collection of medals. Also on exhibit, just behind him, was a Japanese ceremonial sword, sitting on a pedestal atop a low-slung bookcase. To his right stood an American flag.
Blanchard said, “Welcome to Walker, Mr. Heller.”
“Thanks for inviting me. How is it you know my name?”
Leaning back, he took a couple of puffs at the pipe, then said, “I know a lot about you, Mr. Heller—your war record, including your Silver Star. Honor to have you in my office.”
“That’s kind of you, Colonel. But why am I in your office?”
Now he sat forward. “I understand you’ve been asking questions around town, about that …” He chuckled. “… flying saucer flap we had around here, while back.”
“It didn’t take you long to find that out,” I said. “I’ve only been in town since this morning.”
“Well, we pride ourselves on our intelligence here at Walker.”
“You talking smarts, Colonel, or spies?”
“Both.” Blanchard grinned a winning grin; he had the look of the most popular guy at the frat house. “If you have any questions about that incident, perhaps I can answer them for you.”
I blinked a couple times. “You’re willing to be interviewed?”
He gestured expansively with pipe in hand. “Certainly. By the way, who is this interview for, Mr. Heller? My understanding is you’re working for a well-known journalist.”
“I’ve been asked to keep his name confidential.”
Half a grin, now. “Why, does he have a bad reputation?”
“Let’s just say he has a reputation, Colonel. You, uh, mind if I take notes?”
“No, no … not at all.” His pipe had gone out; he used a kitchen match to get it going again—the smoke was fragrant, sweet. Maybe too sweet—like Blanchard’s attitude.
Notepad out, pen ready, I asked, “What can you tell me about the incident, Colonel?”
“A local rancher found some debris out on a pasture; with all this saucer hoopla in the air, I’m afraid we jumped the gun.” Blanchard shrugged gently, smiled the same way. “Turns out it was just a weather balloon, trailing a Rawin radar target.”
“Who authorized the press release?”
“I did.”
“On whose authority, Colonel?”
“Mine.”
“… I guess you didn’t anticipate the public’s reaction.”
He laughed through teeth that clenched the pipe. “I sure as hell didn’t. Phones were bombarded; I couldn’t even get an open line to make my own outgoing calls.”
I kept my tone light as I asked, “Were you reprimanded, Colonel, for ‘jumping the gun’ with that press release?”
The grin disappeared. “No. It wasn’t a big deal, Mr. Heller. We all had a good laugh.”
“Who, you and General Ramey? Did Major Marcel find it funny? He was the one who looked like a sap.”
“We all thought it was funny,” he said tightly. “Is there anything else, Mr. Heller?”
“What about accusations of the military threatening citizens into silence? Cordoning off the Brazel place? Calling the local mortician, asking for small caskets?”
Blanchard leaned back, took a long draw on the pipe, released a cloud of smoke. “Mr. Heller, Roswell’s a small town, and this base has a big responsibility. Sometimes the simple people of a farm community can make something out of nothing.”
“Mountain out of a molehill?”
“Exactly. This is ancient country, a land of myth, of superstition … add to that the kind of gossip that makes any small town go ’round, and you can come up with some really wild tall tales.”
I beamed at him, sitting forward. “Well, then, if you don’t mind … I’ll get back to town and see if I can find some more whoppers for this article. I mean, my boss is trying to do something fun, after all, about the saucer fad.”
The handsome face went blank; the pipe was in his teeth, but he wasn’t drawing on it. “The Air Force would appreciate it if you didn’t.”
“Didn’t what? Stick around, or give my boss the makings of a story?”
“Either. Both.”
“If there’s nothing to this, Colonel, what’s the harm of me staying around, and seeking out some more tall tales?”
Blanchard rose slowly, placed his pipe in an ashtray, and quite dramatically rested both his palms on the desk and leaned across, almost whispering, “You have a distinguished war record, Mr. Heller. You served your country faithfully and well. I’m asking you, as one patriot to another, to leave this be. To pack your bag and leave the Roswell area.”
There’s a stage out of town at noon….
I shook my head, grinned at him—not as winning a grin as his, I’m sure, but it was all I had. “First of all, Colonel, my war record isn’t all that distinguished—not unless you consider a Section Eight something worth framing and putting on the wall. Second, I get real nervous when people talk patriotism. It’s like when somebody says they expect you to do the ‘Christian’ thing.”
Blanchard stood erect. “That was not a threat, Mr. Heller. This was an embarrassing incident, and we’d prefer not to have it dredged up again.”
“Even if you could have another good laugh over it?”
; He sighed, shook his head, wearily. “I had hoped you’d cooperate.”
“You mean, go home, and quash this story?”
“Yes.” He pointed at me with the pipe stem, emphasizing certain words. “Let me say off the record … hypothetically … that if the Air Force were presenting a story to the public that did not represent the true facts, in this or any instance, there would be a good reason for it. Having to do with security considerations, and the public good. And I would hope a loyal American would respect the wishes of his government. Loose lips, as we used to say, sink ships.”
“Including flying saucers?”
“Mr. Heller, you disappoint me.”
I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms. “Say, Butch—did they ever find that pilot who crashed that plane loaded down with whiskey?”
Blanchard blanched. “How did you …”
“I pride myself on my intelligence, too, Colonel.” I stood. “Can you have somebody give me a lift back to Roswell? Or maybe have your men take me out in the desert and shoot me?”
“I don’t find you very amusing, Mr. Heller.”
“Sorry—I’m fresh out of weather balloons.”
Blanchard picked a receiver off one of his phones, said, “Send Kaufmann over here.” Then he hung up, and said, “No MPs, Mr. Heller—a civilian will take you back to town. Now, would you mind stepping out of my office? Step outside the building, in fact. I think I’ve seen quite enough of you.”
The colonel kept his word: no MPs waited to accompany me off the base. My driver was a rather grizzled-looking, brown-haired, square-headed, broad-shouldered civilian in his thirties, in a short-sleeved plaid shirt and chinos. He’d already been behind the wheel, waiting outside, when I’d climbed in the front seat; and we were outside the gate and tooling toward town before he took one blunt-fingered hand off the wheel to offer it in a handshake.
“Frank Kaufmann,” he said, in a low-pitched, slightly graveled voice.
His handshake was firm. My straw fedora was at my feet; traveling in the open-air jeep was making my hair stand up, if what I’d been hearing today hadn’t already done that.
“Nate Heller,” I said, adjusting my sunglasses.
Kaufmann glanced over at me, raising eyebrows that were as brown and wild as the brush streaking by us; his eyes were a light, clear brown and he had a sly smile going.
“Jesse Marcel’s friend,” he said.
“Now how do you know that?”
There seemed to be a twinkle in those amber eyes. “Maybe it’s ’cause I’m in charge of security out at the base.”
“A civilian in charge of security?”
He shrugged, still smiling, a private smile. “Well, I wasn’t always a civilian. Used to be a master sergeant. During the war I was the NCOIC under General Scanlon.”
Noncommissioned officer in charge.
“You must’ve had a pretty high clearance,” I said, “considering the 509th was the only air squadron flying atomic bombs.”
“I knew what I was doin’. When I left the service in ’45, I was offered my old duties at RAAF, in a civilian capacity, this time. It’s delicate, maintaining friendly relations with a nearby community, like Roswell, when you’ve got top-secret stuff goin’ on. The press makes requests, the mayor wants to take dignitaries on tours, and sometimes you gotta say no. Me bein’ out of uniform helped smooth that kinda thing over.”
“Did it.” This guy was striking me as a blowhard and a bore.
Kaufmann chuckled, then lifted a hand from the wheel to gesture toward the desolation around us. “You know, looking out at all this tranquillity, you’d never guess such earth-shakin’ events could take place out in these wide open spaces…. First atom bomb went off not far from here, at the Trinity test site. Manhattan Project, that was over at Los Alamos. Did you know that when they set that bomb off, a bunch of the scientists thought there was a real chance it’d spark a chain reaction that’d lead to the end of the world?”
“No.” I was listening closer now.
“Well, they thought that, all right, and went ahead and set it off, anyway. What does that tell you about scientists? Not to mention ol’ Uncle Sam.”
“It is a sobering thought,” I said, and wasn’t kidding.
Kaufmann glanced at me and his eyes had turned as sly as his smile. “You know what they’re doin’ over at White Sands?”
“No.”
“You remember the V-2s, don’t you? Them big firecrackers that leveled London?”
The V-2—the fabled buzz bomb—was a rocket, the world’s first large-scale one, at that.
“Well,” Kaufmann was saying, “over at White Sands, the Air Force is playin’ with captured V-2s, and you know who’s helping them? You know who’s in charge?”
“No.”
“Bunch of goddamn Nazis.”
“Nazis. Are running the White Sands Proving Ground.”
He nodded emphatically. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Smooth son of a bitch named von Braun is runnin’ things—he’s a ‘technical adviser.’ He’s not the only one, either—more Nazi scientists runnin’ around over there than you can shake a stick at. Gettin’ kowtowed to, when they oughta be lined up and shot, or maybe hung with piano wire.”
My first impulse was to laugh at this nonsense, but then Teddy Kollek’s words flashed through my brain: You can’t imagine how many scientists fresh from factories run by concentration-camp labor are on Uncle Sam’s payroll, now.
“They’re launching rockets over there,” Kaufmann was saying. “Real Flash Gordon stuff. Revamped V-2s. Trying to see how high they can shoot the sumbitches, trying to be more accurate, go further, carry a bigger payload of explosives. Sometimes, instead of TNT, they’re loadin’ up the noses with photographic equipment, and X-ray, and mice, and even monkeys.”
“What for?”
“The Nazis say we’re goin’ to the moon, someday. Outer space. They talk about it like it’s their goddamn religion.”
This guy was clearly insane—yet another candidate for the suite next to Forrestal’s; I was starting to wish Blanchard had sent me with the MPs, instead. Roswell was looming up ahead, and I was relieved.
And yet I was curious enough to ask: “Why are you telling me this, Frank? This sounds like classified material, to me….”
Kaufmann shrugged, and one eye under one wild eyebrow winked at me. “Some of it is. What the hell, one civilian to another … one veteran to another. Thought you might like to know what your government’s capable of. What our military’s willing to go along with. Jesus Christ, goddamn Nazis! Hell, I’m of German heritage myself, and it sickens me…. You’re a Jewish fella, aren’t you?”
“That’s part of my German heritage.”
“Well, how do you like the idea, Uncle Sam in bed with fuckin’ Nazis?” Kaufmann shook his head, sighed heavily. “I’m sure as hell glad this is my last week.”
“Of what?”
“Of working out at the base. I’ve had all I can stomach of the postwar Air Force. Anyway, I got offered a better job.”
“Yeah?”
His expression turned proud. “I’m gonna head up the Roswell Chamber of Commerce.”
All that smoothing over had paid off.
“Where you staying, Mr. Heller?”
“Don’t you know? You seem to know everything else.”
Kaufmann grinned at me, a big wide grin, maybe not as winning as Blanchard’s but much more real. “You think I’m a bag of wind, don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you something you probably will believe—Jesse Marcel called me and asked me to talk to you.”
“… You weren’t on the list.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “I turned Jess down, at first. Didn’t want to compromise my job.”
“But now you have another job.”
“That’s part of it,” Kaufmann admitted, and this time it was the wild eyebrows that shrugged. “Another part is thinkin’ about what a fool they made out of a good man like Jesse. And another is t
hinkin’ about what a fool they’re makin’ out of all of us … the great unwashed American people.”
I pointed. “I’m at the El Capitan.”
The hotel, just around the corner from Roswell Drug on Main Street, was just up ahead.
Kaufmann gave me his sliest look yet. “I can drop you there … unless, of course, you’d like me to take you out to the crash site, first.”
“What?” Now the son of a bitch really had my attention. “The Brazel ranch, you mean?”
Making a face, he said, “Hell no, not there; too long a drive, and anyway, there’s nothin’ to see, all that debris got picked up—they vacuumed that damn pasture! I’m talkin’ about the saucer … and the little bodies.”
“Saucer. Bodies.”
Kaufmann pulled over, double-parking the jeep in front of the drugstore, turning to grin at me. “Well, here we are, Mr. Heller—Hotel Capitan. Nice meetin’ you.”
I grinned back at him. “Pretty cute, aren’t you, Kaufmann? How far is it?”
“Just about a half hour. You think what I told you so far was good? Wait’ll you hear this….”
As we headed north, on the concrete ribbon of 285, into a mostly brown, occasionally green landscape of scrub brush and cactus and sand, under a sky as infinite and wide as the blue eyes of a child, Kaufmann told me a yarn that had me laughing in wonder, even as I wrote it down in my spiral notebook. He was, it seemed to me, one of the following: a raving lunatic; an outrageous bullshit artist; or the witness to something truly extraordinary.
On July 2, 1947, Brigadier General Scanlon of Air Defense Command had dispatched Kaufmann to White Sands Proving Ground at Alamogordo, where radar had detected strange movements, indicating an unidentified object flying over southwestern New Mexico, violating the restricted airspace. With orders to report directly to the general, Kaufmann and two others had, in shifts around the clock, charted the object.
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