Doing twelve things at once on his control panel, he said, in his announcer’s mellifluous voice, “Late morning, Monday after the Fourth, I was making my usual calls, before the noon news, looking for any late-breaking items…. When I checked with Sheriff Wilcox, he put this rancher, Mac Brazel, on. Never met the man, and wasn’t sure I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Well, this bizarre wreckage he described made me pretty skeptical; flying saucer talk, I mean, really! Little green men, that sort of thing. I asked him to put the sheriff back on, and recommended they call the RAAF, since they were the experts on everything that flies.”
“Did you put the story on the radio?”
“No. This was Monday; that story didn’t break till Tuesday.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, having been in the military, I knew they’d frown on something like this getting out—assuming there was anything to it. We’re just a little station, and we were just starting out, then—we didn’t need to alienate the local air base. Funny thing is, my pal Walt Haut was the p.r. officer out there, and I’d been giving him a hard time about putting me last on his list, whenever a story broke. Guess what story he brings to me, first, to make it up to me?”
“And that’s when you put it on the radio.”
“Yeah, but the funny thing is, I was still reluctant. I mean, I find myself readin’ this press release about the Air Force saying it has a flying saucer, and I say to Walter, ‘Wait a minute! I know this story—I sent this guy Brazel to you!’ And Walt says, ‘Oh, well, thanks,’ and I say, ‘I don’t think you oughta release this story.’ Like I said, I know how the military works, and I could see the top brass havin’ a shit fit. But Walt says, ‘It’s okay, Frank, the Old Man has cleared it, and it’s okay for you to put the story on the air.’”
Since it was close to airtime, Joyce had flown out the door to reach the Western Union office, two blocks away, to wire the release to the United Press in Santa Fe, knowing he had hold of a “once-in-a-life-time” story.
“You’re the one that spread the news, then,” I said.
Joyce nodded, getting the next disc ready on his second turn-table, cuing it up in earphones that left one side uncovered, so we could converse. “By the time I got back here, the phones were going crazy, AP, UP, every big and little paper in the Southwest, hot for confirmation and more details.” His mouth tightened under the mustache. “Then I got the first of the threatening calls.”
“Who from?”
“A Colonel Johnson, in Washington. He cursed me out, told me I was going to get in a lot of trouble, and I told him I was a civilian and a member of the press, and he couldn’t treat me that way, couldn’t tell me what stories I could put on the air. And he says, ‘I’ll show you what I can do,’ and hung up.”
This made a kind of skewed sense. If Walter Haut was right, the point of the exercise had been to release the flying saucer story locally—where rumors were rife—and then quell it a few hours later with an official retraction and the new “weather balloon” explanation. Having the story spread over the wire, nationwide and worldwide, focusing instant and intense attention on Roswell and its purported flying saucer, may have been more than the brass bargained for.
“A day or so later,” Joyce said, a new platter spinning, a Peggy Lee, “two soldiers escorted that rancher Mac Brazel into this very station. They sat him down in that chair you’re sitting in and he offered to do an interview. I said, ‘Fine, but you boys’ll have to wait outside,’ and the soldiers, they waited out on the street, by the jeep they brought him in.”
“And you interviewed him.”
“Yes, but I didn’t bother putting it on the air. How could I? The story he told this time was completely at odds with what he first said.”
“He backed up the military’s weather balloon tale.”
“In spades. Now Brazel said that what he found on his ranch was rubber strips, tinfoil, paper, Scotch tape and sticks. Like a big kite had crashed. No writing on it, either. All the debris could be tied up in a little bundle weighing less than five pounds, he said. And he told the same story at a press conference for the AP, among others.”
“Did you get a sense of why he lied? You figure he was threatened, too, and caved in?”
“Well, there are two schools of thought on that. One is based on the fact that ol’ Mac somehow came into a considerable amount of money—a fella so poor he couldn’t rub two nickels together suddenly shows up in town in a brand-new pickup. Then he buys his family a new house, at Tularosa, and a cold store at Las Cruces….”
“That sounds like the Chicago school of thought,” I said. “What’s the other one?”
“Money may have been part of it, but this is one of your old Wild West, dirt-in-the-pores cowboys, and I could see his quiet anger, how coldly p.o.’ed he was. He’d been bullied, pushed around and threatened.”
“Is this something you surmised, or …?”
“I had a moment with Brazel here in my ugly little announcer’s cabin, and I said to him, ‘You know that this story doesn’t have a damn thing to do with what you told me on the phone, the other day.’ And he says, ‘Look, son—best keep that to yourself. They told me to come here and tell you this story, or else.’ ‘Or else what?’ I ask. ‘I open my mouth, I’m in the federal calaboose. Or breathin’ sand.’”
That was not the end of it, not of the threats anyway. Joyce told me that his boss, the owner of the station, had received a call from “someone in Washington, D.C.,” who made it clear that if KGFL aired an uncensored story about Brazel’s two differing accounts “the station’s license would be in jeopardy.”
“So you never aired the story,” I said.
“No. And whenever I run into Mac Brazel, here in town, we don’t speak.”
The Roswell Fire Department was a new buff-brick building with room for three trucks in as many stalls, but only two were taken up. I checked in at the front office with the receptionist, who fetched fireman Dan Dwyer for me.
Dwyer, a big brown-haired man in his thirties, asked me what I wanted and I suggested we talk outside; he didn’t object, and when I brought Major Marcel’s name up, he responded warmly.
“Jesse’s a nice fella,” the husky fireman said, hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit. “How’s he like Washington?”
“I think he’s happy. But I’m pretty sure he feels his reputation at SAC is tainted, because of the ridicule heaped on him, in that ‘saucer’ incident.”
The fireman’s friendliness evaporated. He studied me through slitted eyes. “Is that what this is about? Who are you?”
I told him, was showing him my i.d., when he held up a hand in a stop fashion.
“I have nothing to say about that situation.”
“Jesse seems to think you witnessed something, Mr. Dwyer. Didn’t you respond to a call in early July of ’47? Was there wreckage of some kind of flying craft, possibly bodies of—”
“Stop. I told you, already. I’m not talking.”
“We can keep it discreet. Your name won’t be used. We’re just trying to determine what happened, and whether the military got out of line in the way they—”
“I’ll tell you about the military getting out of line. How about threatening to stick my wife and kid and me in Orchard Park?”
“What’s Orchard Park?”
He threw his hands up. “That’s all I got to say, mister. And anybody asks me, I didn’t say that.”
Then turned and all but ran into the station.
The Clover Cafe made no attempt to serve the native cuisine; its Blue Plate Special was meat loaf, peas and gravy, and worth every bit of fifty cents. At two o’clock, the lunch crowd was gone; you could have fired a cannon off in the place and not hit anybody. I sat in a back booth, finished off the wholesome fare, and waited to see if Deputy Reynolds would show. He did, about two-fifteen. We spoke over Cokes and a radio’s country-western music.
“Sorry I’m late,” the slender deputy
said. “We were bookin’ a guy.”
“What happened to your low crime rate?”
“This drifter tried to rob the Conoco station in broad daylight. Wanted everything in the cash drawer.” He laughed. “Manager’s an ex-Marine who gave him a wrench alongside the head, instead.”
“Stopped his drifting, anyway. Say, Deputy—what’s Orchard Park?”
“Former POW camp, for the Japs, out in the desert—why?”
“Nothing important.”
“Look, Mr. Heller, we need to make this quick. This joint is pretty dead after lunch hour, so it’s safe enough. But I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Why are you?”
“What, taking a chance? Because it pisses me off how the strongarm’s been put on a lot of good citizens by their own goddamn government. In particular, pisses me off, what the sheriff’s been subjected to.”
“Like what?”
“You wouldn’t know it, from talkin’ to him today, but Sheriff Wilcox is an easygoing, even gregarious fella. Progressive, too—he was the first one in the state to separate juvenile offenders from adults.”
“He wasn’t oozing warmth and compassion this morning.”
“Not after what he’s been put through. Do you know he’s talking about not running again? Best sheriff we ever had, best boss I ever had. He hardly says anything about what happened, though I have heard him say he’s furious with himself for bringing the military in. Once they showed up, and claimed jurisdiction, we got completely cut off. I heard him say, if he had it to do over again, he’d call in the press, first. Give ’em carte blanche.”
“Deputy … what’s your first name, anyway?”
“Tommy.”
“Tommy, call me Nate. Listen, were you there from the beginning?”
“From when Mac Brazel stumbled inta the office, just a cowboy in faded jeans and scuffed boots and a week’s worth of dirt and dust caked on him, yes I was.”
“Then you saw the saucer debris?”
“Yes—but not the bodies.”
“Bodies?”
“I’m gettin’ ahead of myself. Look, I saw that thin metal you’d crumple that’d then uncrumple itself; and I saw some little I-beams with hieroglyphics. Saw samples of all that stuff. Sheriff sent me and Pete Crawford out to the ranch—”
“Wait a minute … this was before Major Marcel went out there?”
“Yes, sir. We didn’t see the debris, but we saw this patch of blackened ground; it looked like somethin’ big and round and hot had sat itself down. We come back and reported in to the sheriff, and he called the air base, and there was no new news, and then things settled down for a bit.”
The next morning, Tuesday, things got unsettled, and unsettling, in a hurry. Deputies Reynolds and Crawford drove back out to the ranch and found it had been cordoned off by the Army; they were not allowed passage, lawmen or not. Armed sentries and Army vehicles were stationed at ranch roads, crossroads, everywhere. Annoyed and frustrated, the deputies returned to the sheriff’s office, where Wilcox was fielding phone calls from all over the world.
“We still had a little box of that strange debris,” Reynolds said, “off in our side room. Day or so later, just when things had kinda gone back to normal—the weather balloon story had calmed things down—the military landed on us like fuckin’ D day, excuse my French.”
“Landed, how?”
“Two MP trucks showed up and they came in and demanded the box of wreckage, and the sheriff handed it over, with no protest. But they were belligerent as hell, anyway. These MPs gathered all of us, deputies and Sheriff Wilcox, and told us to keep quiet about recent events and direct all inquiries to the base. The sheriff said, well, that’s what he’d been doing. And the MP, a colored sergeant, real menacin’ fella, said, well, if any of us had any other ideas, there’d be ‘grave consequences,’ was what he said. I didn’t take kindly to that, and said something to the effect, what do you guys think you’re doing, threatening officers of the law like that? And this black bastard, he says, cold as ice, he says, ‘We’ll kill you all, and your families, and your goddamn dogs, too.’”
“Sounds like you’re taking a hell of a chance, telling me this.”
“I don’t like being threatened. And … look, there’s something I haven’t told you.”
“What’s that, Tommy?”
“I kinda got a personal stake in this. I date the sheriff’s daughter, have been, off and on, for a couple years. Threatening me is one thing; threatening my girl’s life, well those guys can go fuck themselves!”
We listened to a staticky Hank Williams singing about a cheating heart, then I asked, “You said something about bodies?”
“I didn’t see anything, but I think the sheriff did. I think it’s part of why he’s so shook up, why his health has failed and everything else. My girl, her father wouldn’t answer any of her questions, and her mother told her to stop asking him … but that night she heard him talking to her mom, heard the sheriff say that three little bodies had been found, little guys with big heads in silver suits. Found ’em in a burned area with metallic debris and the crashed saucer.”
“When was this supposed to’ve happened?”
“I don’t know. Hell, maybe my girl imagined all this, or heard snippets of conversation and wove ’em into somethin’. But I know the military got to Sheriff Wilcox, browbeat him, threatened him, maybe even took him for a stay in that same ‘guesthouse’ where they held Brazel.”
“What do you mean, ‘guesthouse’?”
“Some kind of place where they hold unofficial prisoners for questioning, out at the base. Brazel was there for a week, I hear. I don’t know, maybe you could ask him yourself. Maybe he’s ready to talk, after all this time has passed.”
“Yeah, I was thinking of driving out to his place, later today.”
“Hell, don’t bother—he’s in town!”
“What?”
“Yeah, Brazel comes in every now and then to sell some wool.”
“Where can I find him?”
“My guess is, if you park yourself at the bar next door, your man’ll come to you, before too very long.”
The bartender at the Trading Post Saloon knew Mac Brazel and—for the assurance I wasn’t a process server, and a consideration of one dollar—agreed to point him out to me, should the rancher decide to stop by for a drink.
On a bar stool, I nursed a beer and went over my notes, trying to decide what I made of all this; I wasn’t convinced that a flying saucer had really crashed, but the military’s misbehavior in these here parts seemed undeniable. My back was starting to hurt, and I was about to move to a booth, when the door opened, sunlight slashed in, and in strode a tall character in a beat-up Stetson, dirty faded jeans and an equally dirty, even more faded denim shirt.
The bartender gave me a barely perceptible nod, but I think I could have saved myself a dollar: who else could this long, tall New Mexican be but Mac Brazel? His face was spade-shaped, his eyes wary slits, mouth a wider slit, skin as dark and leathery as a saddle.
He settled onto a stool two over from me, and in a low voice requested a Blatz.
“Mr. Brazel?”
He glanced at me; his face was like something an Indian had carved out of wood. “Do I know you?”
“I’m a friend of Major Marcel.”
He turned away, but I caught him looking at me in the mirror behind the bar; I looked back at him in it, and said, “I’d like to talk to you about what happened out at your ranch July before last.”
His bottle of beer arrived, with a glass. “I don’t talk about that.”
“You know, you’re an American citizen, Mr. Brazel. The military can’t tell you what to do and what to say, or what not to say.”
Brazel was pouring the beer. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“What did you find, Mr. Brazel, out in that field?”
He sipped the beer, savored it, then—speaking so slowly it would have irritated Gary Cooper—sa
id, “I’ll tell you one thing, mister. It sure as hell wasn’t a weather balloon.”
“What was it?”
Several swallows of beer later, he responded—sort of. “If I ever find anything else, it better be a bomb, or they’re gonna have a hard time gettin’ me to say anything about it.”
“Even if you find more little green men?”
He took a last swallow of his beer, and then that leather face split into a strange grin. “They wasn’t green.”
And he tossed a fifty-cent piece on the bar, climbed off his stool and ambled out.
I’d been running a tab, and had to take the time to pay for two beers before I could follow him, and by the time I got back out to Main Street, the rancher was climbing into a recent-model Ford pickup truck, across the way. I might have made it to him, before he pulled out, if that hand hadn’t settled on my shoulder.
“Mr. Heller,” a crisp young voice said in my ear. “Would you come with us, please? Colonel Blanchard would like to see you.”
Then a white-helmeted MP was at my side, a wide-shouldered kid of twenty or so, no bigger than your typical starting college fullback; he took me by an elbow and walked me to an open-topped jeep at the curb, where a second MP—a big colored sergeant—was behind the wheel.
I saw Brazel’s new pickup heading north, out of town, as we headed south.
Toward the air base.
14
Rustic Roswell slipped away and scrubby desolation took over, the two-lane ribbon of well-worn concrete stretching endlessly ahead. In the open-air jeep, jostling along, I held on to my hat, figuratively and literally. I didn’t ask any questions, because getting my ass hauled out to the former Roswell Army Air Field was about the only way I might hope to actually talk to Colonel William H. Blanchard. And the two white-helmeted MPs, both of whom sat in front, had nothing to say to each other, let alone me.
Five minutes outside of town, the base was signaled by a sign with the words WALKER AFB in a proud deco mushroom cloud that rose above its horizontal base, smaller letters spelling OUT HOME OF just below, with 509TH BOMB GROUP and 1ST AIR TRANS UNIT boldly emblazoned left and right, respectively. The field had been renamed after the Air Force had broken off from the Army into its own entity, something which Jim Forrestal had initially opposed, incidentally.
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