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.
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
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.”
