by Jesse Marcel
People representing all the different aspects of ufology were featured in this live presentation-NASA, the CIA, and people associated with the Roswell Incident, and even the Russian government, which has publicly acknowledged several UFO sightings. In fact, this documentary was done in conjunction with the Russians via satellite. On the evening of the show, representatives from the Russian Embassy came to watch. I was surprised to learn that the Russian government is apparently far more open in its discussion of UFOs than is our own government.
In the early 1990s, Jess was invited on an all-expense-paid trip to Washington, D.C., for a UFO conference. (He wrote about this in an earlier chapter.) Even though the kids and I had been invited as well, with all our expenses paid, we had no idea who was financing the trip. When Jess tried unsuccessfully to find out, my occasionally overactive imagination kicked in, and I let him know that I was sure we would all wind up dumped in the Potomac River, never to be seen again. Jess really wanted to go, however, so we reached a compromise. I told Jess that he could go if he really wanted to, but that the kids and I were going to stay home.
After Jess arrived, he called home and told me he was staying at the Hilton, and attending a party hosted by the Prince of Lichtenstein, who, as it turns out, was bankrolling the UFO event. Apparently, the prince was interested in UFOs, and the Roswell crash in particular. I could have kicked myself for letting my paranoia keep me from attending what must have been a really spectacular event.
In truth, however, my "paranoia" wasn't that unwarranted. Shortly before receiving the invitation, we had been getting strange phone calls from people who wouldn't identify themselves, always wanting to know where Jess was, or if he had left for a certain lecture or commitment. Many times, the caller would leave a number for Jess to call, yet when Jess tried to call the person back, he would get a recording stating that the number was no longer working. And from the late 1980s to the early '90s, we would get calls in which no one would be on the other end of the line. For a while, it seemed this happened every time we had company-but only when the subject of Roswell was brought up. In fact, it was my mom who first brought to my attention the fact that the phone would mysteriously ring whenever the conversation turned to Roswell. We honestly began to wonder if our home was bugged, though we never found any evidence of this.
As a result of these strange calls, we became very secretive about Jess's meetings and travel itineraries. But still, the calls would come. Somewhere out there, someone was watching. The calls had ended in the early 1990s, but they still had us a bit shaken.
As Jess also related earlier, he received another puzzling phone call shortly before he left for Washington. This was from a person who wanted to meet with him at a location in the U.S. Capitol Building, claiming it was urgent. At this meeting, he asked Jess if we had ever been threatened. Jess told him about the strange, but not exactly threatening, telephone calls, whereupon the man gave him a number to call if we ever felt threatened. It was all very cloak-and-dagger, and had both Jess and I pretty concerned.
In 1994, we were off to California, to the premiere party for the TV movie Roswell, written and produced by Paul Davids, directed by Jeremy Kagan, and starring Kyle MacLachlan, Martin Sheen, and Dwight Yoakum. Kyle MacLachlan played the part of Jess's dad. The script was based on the book UFO Crrash At Roswell by Kevin D. Randle and Donald R. Schmitt; some credit this movie-which was nominated for a Golden Globe Award-with truly bringing the Roswell Incident into the mainstream. The trip to Hollywood was quite an adventure for our family. Staying in the penthouse suite of the Universal Hilton and riding in limos, it was "country goes to the city!" Our girls were in heaven. In fact, I think this almost made up for the fear, uneasiness, and even embarrassment our kids sometimes felt in regard to the Roswell phenomenon. One of them actually had a very small part in the movie-so small that if you blinked, you would miss her. Her sisters were livid, as they figured that because the story was about her grandfather and father, she could have had more than fifteen seconds of fame.
In 1996, we were off to Paris for an appearance on a French television show. It was, naturally, done in French, so I could only understand Jess's part, and couldn't for the life of me tell you what the other stories were. Partway through Jess's interview, his face changed, and the MC wore a puzzled expression. Apparently, Jess's earphone had been inadvertently disconnected, and he could not hear the interpreter. As you would imagine, this rendered some of his answers completely bizarre. Our friend Kent Jeffrey and I had a hard time not laughing. Kent had been a big supporter of the effort to make the truth about Roswell public, as his father had apparently been in the Air Force, stationed at Roswell. At the time, Kent was trying to get a document known as the Roswell Initiative signed to force the government to release information on Roswell. For some reason, he later abandoned his efforts, and I guess we'll never know what changed his mind.
In July 1997, we chose to attend the 50th anniversary celebration in Roswell. Our youngest daughters had always been frightened about Roswell, so naturally we put off even telling them of our plans to attend, but the time finally had come, and we left for Roswell on one of the few driving trips we've taken. We usually fly, as we are timelimited and Jess is direction-impaired. But this time we thought it would be fun to take a road trip. We set off in the company of good friends, and toured Utah, the Grand Canyon, and Carlsbad Caverns along the way. When we arrived at Roswell, it was like entering another time, or, some would say, another dimension. The streets were crawling with jeeps, driven by people dressed as aliens, some of which were actually quite convincing. In the shop windows were mannequins dressed as aliens. Everywhere you looked, there were people in costume, and vendors peddling anything even remotely related to UFOs, not to mention some of the most far-fringed products you'd ever imagine. It was like one big party, which-thankfully-served to elevate the girls' moods and make them completely forget that they had been afraid. For the next several days, our activities alternated between serious lectures and the carnival atmosphere on the street. I must admit, it was a wonderful time, and we got so caught up in the revelry that we almost forgot how deeply ingrained our lives had been with the original event.
In December of 1997, Jess came home from work and said, "I've got a conference to attend in Brazil. Anyone want to go?" We were all excited, until we were told that it was not safe to take the little girls. Guess who got to stay home again. Jess left for Brasilia in the beginning of December, and being the detail man that he is, had not left me his travel details. I had no idea where he was staying or when he'd be home. He later told me that he had met a Russian cosmonaut who had spent six months on the Muir space station, and had seen-you guessed it-a UFO.
After few days passed without hearing from Jess, I began to get worried. I checked the news to see if there had been any reports of planes crashing in the area. There were no crashes, so I told myself not to worry (I didn't listen), and I waited. After several more days went by without a word, my paranoia kicked in again. I was beginning to think he might have been abducted-not by aliens, but by Earthlings with sinister motives. The days turned into weeks. I did my Christmas shopping and attended Christmas parties alone. Everyone was asking me when he'd be home or if I'd heard from him, but there was still no news. Then, suddenly, one afternoon just before Christmas, he called and said that he was in California and would be home on the 11:00 plane. He acted as if he'd just been gone overnight. I was, to say the least, upset, and asked him-not too calmly-why he had not called. He said that it cost a hundred dollars to place a call from Brazil, and that if I wasn't home when he called, it would still cost the same. He said that, knowing me and that I'm seldom home, he thought he'd save money and call from the United States. I probably don't need to tell you that when he finally got home, and the initial relief at having him back safe and sound wore off, we had an in-depth discussion about the advisability of keeping in touch and the usefulness of the modern answering machine.
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/> In 2006 we again returned to Roswell for the Fourth of July to test the waters and see if the time had come for Jess's book to be written. Jess had been encouraged throughout the years by so many people to write a book, and it felt as though the time had finally come for him to put pen to paper (so to speak). In 2004, Jess had been called back to active duty as a flight surgeon for the U.S. Army, and spent 13 months in Iraq. It was while he was stationed there that he began his effort in earnest. The atmosphere at Roswell in 2006, coupled with the strengthened resolve-and heightened sense of mortality-gained during his recent experience in Iraq, convinced him once and for all that he really needed to go full speed ahead with the book. Although Jess's concept of "full speed ahead" might not be completely consistent with some people's, his efforts throughout the last couple of years have been significant, and the result will, I hope, give the public a broader perspective on not just the events themselves, but also the people involved.
From the U.S. Press Corps, to television documentaries, talk shows, radio shows and lectures in Brazil, Japan, Italy, France, and many U.S. cities, so many people had told their parts of the story, and Jess and his father had shared bits and pieces of theirs. But nowhere has the story been put into book form, by the one living person who possesses firsthand knowledge. I am truly glad that Jess has chosen this time to share his legacy with the world, for it is intimately tied to the Roswell story. Roswell has been a mixed blessing for our family, but as far I am concerned, Jess's love and admiration for his father-and his allegiance to truth in a culture that seems to thrive on deceptiontrump everything else in this story. I think his dad would be proud of his efforts. I know that I am.
— Linda Marcel
Chapter 9
The Domino Effect
Many books have been written about the Roswell Incident, along with a seemingly endless stream of documentaries, movies, and editorial pieces, but none of them looked beyond the dates, times, and names surrounding that event, to examine what kind of effect Roswell has had upon the lives of those who actually lived it. And I can state with no hesitation whatsoever that the effect-at least upon me and those closest to me-has been significant. Linda's contributions in her chapter really brought that to light for me, and showed me that if readers are to have a clear picture of what Roswell meant and means, they need to be given an opportunity to read the story, as seen by those who actually lived it.
The best place to start any story is, of course, at the beginning, and the beginning of this story goes beyond the crash 60 years ago. It begins with the person at the center-my father, Jesse Marcel, Sr. He was so much more than just a footnote in history or an opinion to be accepted or refuted. And although I have already gone into his life story in a previous chapter, I believe that, in order to give you a clearer idea of how Roswell affected my life and my children's lives, it is worthwhile to dig a little deeper into my father's life, as well as his personality as it evolved throughout the years. That said, let's go back again for a moment.
Jesse Marcel, Sr., was an officer, a husband, a father, and a generous friend-a regular guy who got caught up in events bigger than himself, and handled those events and their repercussions pretty much as anyone who knew him would have expected. And to those who have painted a picture of him as anything else, well, they obviously didn't know him. And that is their loss.
As a kid, I can remember my dad being a pretty easygoing guy, albeit with strong opinions and deep passions. There was no doubt that he was a military man through and through, but that didn't mean he tried to run his home like a boot camp. Unlike the stereotypical career military man, he was perfectly willing to let others have their say without condemning them. And, as I've learned to appreciate since I became an adult, he was adept at being firm with the unbounded and unbridled energy of children, yet not so rigid as to stifle that energy. Was he perfect? Of course not. But, as I came to understand as I matured, the things that frustrate us the most are just the products of the same qualities we love the most about someone. I'll get into that a hit more later on.
As I noted early on in the book, from the time he was a kid, my father was fascinated with radio technology. Actually, fascinated might just be too Mild a term. You may recall that he spent hard-earned money on parts to build his own radio, even knowing that he would get in trouble for doing so. It wasn't that he was rebellious. As a matter of fact, knowing him, I have wondered whether childhood rebellion had even been invented when he was growing up. No, he was a dutiful son-typical back then, but a rarity nowadays. The only thing that ran deeper than his respect for his parents was his hunger for knowledge. And he did his best to feed that hunger, not just as a kid, but all his life. That he was willing to go-albeit gently-against his mother's guidance in order to learn more about technology was but an early indicator of a pattern he would follow all his life, and that would ultimately be the source of his greatest sorrow, as well as his deepest joy.
By the time I came into the picture, Dad had really immersed himself in his life as an Army Air Corps officer. Some might say that in that life, he had the best of both worlds: the authority figures he could look up to and respect, as well as the opportunity to learn the details of how this new-fangled electronics technology worked. I can remember times when he would come home, excitedly telling my mother and I how he was learning so much about things that we couldn't even imagine, yet always reminding us that he couldn't say much about these things because it was his duty to keep the secrets to himself. Although he rarely talked much about what he was learning, I was always caught up in his palpable excitement, and I think it rubbed off on me somewhat. Because of his obvious passion, I developed a passion for learning myself.
He was also plainly fascinated with flying, and his many tales of flying with his buddies or the amazing capabilities of the airships of the day probably played a major role in my own fascination with airplanes. I came to understand that fathers can play a big part in forming their sons' interests-bigger, perhaps, than any of us fathers (or sons) would like to admit. And one area in which he had an enormous effect upon me was his love for the military.
To say that the military becomes one's parents, profession, and passion is actually not a big stretch at all. Even as a little kid, I knew that my father ate, drank, slept, and bled Army. He was very proud of what he did, and felt that he was fulfilling an important role in his country's well-being. I was proud of him for that, and he was truly the model from whom I would learn the definition of the word honor. It was only in later years that I began to understand how that code of honor could be diminished by the very people charged with keeping it alive.
When my father came home late that night in July of 1947, his excitement was obvious, and, frankly, contagious. Something big had happened, and we were all a part of it. Just how big, we had no idea. Yet in the months and years that followed, I saw my father change. Although there were still things that brought out a boyish excitement in him, I began seeing the edge of his passion blunted. He couldn't conceive of the reasons people he had trusted were acting differently toward him, or why people who were well aware of his capabilities and expertise had begun to question those capabilities and deny that expertise. And, as one would expect, the change in the institutions and people he had respected for so long began to take its toll on him.
It wasn't that he would come home and complain or speak badly about anybody, but it was obvious that he was troubled by what he was seeing. I occasionally heard him talking to my mother when they thought I was out of earshot, wondering what the heck, was going on, and why people were so insistent upon saying things they knew were not the truth. In those days, it was common practice for a man to come home from a day at the office and sit down to a cocktail or two; it was more a ritual than anything else, I think-a silent declaration that the workday had ended, flowing naturally into the time for family, friends, and recreation. As time went on, I began to notice that the ritual cocktail or two became three, and then four, all before dinner. M
y parents' frequent bridge and bingo nights at the Officers' Club were all enhanced by copious amounts of liquid refreshment. The tension weighed on my mother as well, and she began drinking more heavily too.
I guess it would not be stretching things to say that my parents became alcoholics, though the word was never used in our home. The pressure they felt was clear, even to a child, and it got to the point that just about the only times I saw them acting as a loving, happy couple was after they had downed a few drinks. Eventually, even the reprieve they got from drinking began to diminish, and after my father finally left the military, alcohol seemed only to enhance their unhappiness, rather than mask it. As a child, I certainly didn't understand what had created the cloud that seemed to hang over them. All I knew was that my mother and father were no longer the happy couple I remembered.
In later years, that cloud seemed to grow even more impenetrable. My dad seemed to see people in a more negative light than he had previously. He would sometimes catch himself being overly critical of people he had revered in the past, and then the father I knew would reemerge for a time, reminding himself out loud that he wasn't being fair to them, even when his anger was probably more fair than his forgiveness. Eventually, even his actions toward my mother began to come under that cynical cloud. They didn't argue or fight, but it was obvious that there was a wall building between them, and their drinking-especially my mother's-became heavier and heavier as the years passed. Sadly, for the last 15 or 20 years of my mother's life, she suffered from a form of dementia common to people who drank heavily for many years.