The Red Pill: Take It: Part One — by Hugh Mungus

EMPTY

"Row, row, row your boat

Gently down the stream

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

Life is but a dream"

― children's nursery rhyme *

• Bill Hicks:

"So often times it happens

That we live our lives in chains

And we never even know we have the key"

― The Eagles *

• The Eagles:

Yuri Oscar Ulisov.

"Stupid name," thought Randall. "Fuckin' foreigners," he cogitated, the same way he had thousands — perhaps tens of thousands — of times in the past.

What else could he do? Sixty-two years in the same goddamned cell, and every night — or close to it — he'd awaken at the same time, and that Russian's name would be illuminated through his window. Damnedest thing, too. Not that he was an educated man — he'd been locked up for a crime he hadn't committed since he was 18 — but wasn't the Moon supposed to be at different points in the sky throughout the year?

"Why then," he wondered, "was that Red's name lit up perfectly, the same time every night?"

Didn't make sense, but he'd stopped trying to figure out the moniker engraved into the cold concrete wall of his cell, the same way he'd ceased attempting to decode the message carved beneath it: HAVE THE KEYS.

For years, awakening to YURI OSCAR ULISOV HAVE THE KEYS was a tick burrowing under his skin. Randall was no wordsmith, but even he knew the grammar in that sentence was more fucked than a pedophile in the joint.

"Dumb shit, Commie prick. It's Yuri Oscar Ulisov has the keys. Has, you sorry son of a bitch," Randall mumbled to himself.

He knew goddamned well why this lapse in language was suddenly bothering him after all these years. He was turning 80. Tonight was his birthday, and he'd spent almost his entire existence behind bars. There was no hope for parole either; not that it mattered at this point. He'd never even kissed a girl, let alone been intimate with one. The only times he'd fucked had been against his will, and even those horrific nights in the shower were long gone.

He was an old man, and nobody but death wanted old men.

"God fuckin' dammit!" he turned in his cot, to avoid staring at that Pinko's wall carving. In the sickly light, he gazed at the lone photo he had of himself and his mother. She'd just stopped visiting one day, probably 20 years ago. He didn't have to be some slick-suited lawyer to figure that one out. She'd been the only one who'd ever shown. He surmised the others were dead, as well. They were far older than he was. He'd known he was alone for at least a decade; he could feel it.

It was impossible to believe that 16 year old kid in the picture was related to him…much less actually him. For 62 years, all he'd had was Yuri. Yuri god-fucked Oscar Ulisov.

Randall wondered what the prick was in for, how much time he did, whether he'd died in this shithole, or was released.

He would've taken the time to contemplate whether he, too, would end up dying in here, had he not understood that happened decades ago. Sixty-two years in an eight by 10 foot cell was death. He'd been existing, but hadn't lived a day, let alone an hour, the entire time he'd been on Earth.

In fact, he couldn't be certain if the planet — outside these walls — was still around. Apart from the news he caught on the dilapidated three channel in the rec room, he had no idea what the world was like. When he was first locked up, cars were the size of elephants, and couldn't go more than 50 miles per hour. The rockets on wheels he saw on TV these days weren't even as big as the go-karts he'd built as a kid, and looked like they could reach the Moon before lunch.

And how about television? It hadn't existed when he spent his first night in the joint.

Fuckin' Yuri had probably driven fast cars and fucked fast women. He'd probably done his time, and been released early enough to own a house, and drown his liver in troughs of whiskey.

Randall's deep-seated hatred for Yuri Oscar Ulisov overcame him, as he twisted toward the wall, delivering a haymaker into the name that had mocked him for so long.

Though he'd braced for the inevitable physical anguish, it never came. Blood never spattered, and no bones broke. To the prisoner's shock, the concrete wall surrounding the Russian's name was thinner than Randall's see-through skin, and crumbled like the timeworn cornbread served in the cafeteria. From the resultant hole his fist had created, something emerged. Whatever it was echoed with a metallic tone at the foot of his cot. Randall collected himself, before gazing at the corroded key on the ground.

Why wasn't he in anguish, clutching his obliterated fist, and what was this new development before him?

Trembling, he extended arthritic fingers, and grabbed the alloy object.

Sixty-two years confined here, without a clue what was now in his palm had been with him the entire time.

Randall stared down at his newfound discovery. "A key?...To what?" he wondered.

In his limited scope, there was only one option. The prisoner gazed toward the lock on his cell.

"Is it possible? Could the answer have been here all along?" Randall asked himself. Six decades in Hell, and the key to escape was with him the full sentence?"

"Is this what you've been trying to tell me all this time, Yuri?" the inmate pondered.

"You bastard!" Randall's mind raced out of control. "Why didn't you—?"

His thought processes came to a screeching halt, similar to a speeding train slamming into a mountain.

Whatever the elderly incarcerate had for dinner came up for air, as he realized he'd possessed the key to freedom all along. Randall collapsed to the floor, any strength remaining drained from his weary frame. In the sickly moonlight, he wiped the hunks of partially digested meat from his chin, pushing himself up from the freezing concrete.

"Yuri Oscar Ulisov," he whispered in the din of his cell. Over and over that name formed on his bleeding lips. "Yuri Oscar Ulisov. Yuri Oscar Ulisov. Yuri Oscar Ulisov. Y.O.U. YOU. YOU…You have the key."

The grammar had been correct all along.

With a quaking paw, Randall looked to the lock, raised to his feet and inserted the cold chunk of steel into the cylinder. Cinderella's foot in the glass slipper. Before turning the key, he prayed — for what remained of his sanity — it wouldn't work. How could he justify having the method for escape all along, yet allowing himself to be imprisoned for the past 62 years?

The loosening of tension, as the lock rotated, and the barred door before him opened.

Randall was a free man.

The guard station was less effective than a skull with no brain, as he passed a sleeping sentry in the midst of what appeared a fitful nightmare. From there, passage to the prison entrance was an obstacle course with no obstacles.

Seconds later, he was outside the penitentiary, headed toward a world he'd never before encountered. His heart raced like a starving man for food. His breath nearly didn't come, as he ascended a ridge above a road, and gazed down on lights as far as the eye could see. He understood he was staring at a city; a metropolis he'd been a mile from almost his entire life, but had never visited. The sheer expanse of the municipality frightened him to no end.

Out of nowhere, something roared overhead through the night, as he cowered in horror. He knew about planes, but had never actually seen one in person; and this variety appeared immense.

A train whistle announced the size of something monstrous, and the biggest truck he'd ever seen — he heard they were called semis — raced toward him, as he leapt to the soft shoulder for safety.

Attempting to calm himself, he stared across an open field at an immense sign. There, the largest photograph he'd ever observed showcased a smiling, young woman, clad in a bikini that left nothing the to the imagination. In the background was a tropical beach.

Randall realized he'd never actually been to a beach, nor seen the ocean, except on TV.

This foreign world around him was far larger, and much more intimidating than it seemed on television. An interstate sign above was the size of a cell block, and the city looming closer with each step, the entire Earth.

There was nothing he could relate to, and at his age, how could others relate to him? He was an infant in an 80 year old man's body. Randall had watched the news, and seen the dreadful stories of how the elderly were forgotten in modern society.

Even out here in the middle of the country, everything was moving more quickly than he could comprehend. By the time he reached the city, he'd be lost.

He found himself atop an overpass, looking down, the fastest vehicles he could ever imagine speeding beneath him.

He'd never even learned to drive.

No, this was not a world he could live in nor adjust to. Hence, he quietly climbed the slick metal railing, and leapt into the rushing river of vehicles below.

THE RED PILL

"The Matrix is everywhere. It is all around us; even now in this very room. You can see it when you look out your window, or when you turn on your television. You can feel it when you go to work, when you go to church, when you pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth. […]

Like everyone else, you were born into bondage; born into a prison that you cannot smell, or taste or touch. A prison for your mind.

Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself.

This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill, the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.

Remember, all I'm offering is the truth; nothing more."

― Morpheus *

• The Matrix:

What if humanity became extinct this second, leaving its creations behind? What if travelers from a distant planet arrived on Earth hours later? What conclusions would these adventurers derive from what they found?

Being that money is, by far, the most prevalent of humankind's inventions, these explorers would probably deduce people required cash in order to survive. Perhaps it was necessary for humans to eat or inhale these strips of fabric to stay alive.

Of course, nothing is further from the truth. Humans most definitely can't ingest money, should they be starving. As far as breathing in these swatches of material — if we're suffocating — you're more likely to be thrilled at the thought of waiting in line at the DMV.

In fact, since there's an overabundance of food on Earth, and more than a billion people starving to death — because they don't have the cash to buy said sustenance — it seems money would be the least common artifact in a rational society. Hence, one can deduce the current version of humanity is illogical, and suicidal. Why else would it make the one thing that's bringing about its demise, the most widespread object in civilization?

What if Earth is a prison planet? Some of the most successful penitentiaries — when it comes to keeping prisoners confined — are the most remote. Alcatraz, Devil's Island and Siberia were effective due to isolation from the majority of the populace.

What if we step back and view Earth from a Universal angle? Even in the context of the Milky Way, this planet seems in the boondocks; distant from what would likely be the most inhabited portions of the cosmos.

Thus, if Earth is a prison planet, would that make us prisoners; unable to leap into the cosmic ocean with our primitive lifeboats — spaceships — and drift to those highly populated areas, and hence salvation? Perhaps. The answer to that query seems to depend on who put us here, and why. After all, not only do prisoners reside in a prison, but so too guards and wardens.

What if we've been placed on Earth not to be punished, but to keep those who are being punished from escaping? What if felons of this Universe were on this planet, as we speak, and we were keeping them from absconding? The question arises as to how we wouldn't realize these prisoners were among us.

Again, take a step back and view the current human condition.

There are a handful of people — in comparison to the total populace — who are prospering, while the rest of us struggle to stay alive. One can suggest these few are simply more adept. When you consider their success comes at the expense of those who are toiling against extermination, proficiency isn't part of the equation. At this point, these prosperous individuals thrive thanks to pain and suffering of the masses.

Who are these entities flourishing from the agony of the rest of us? Obviously, it's the ultra-monetarily affluent of humanity.

Designer Hugo Boss produced the standard Nazi uniform for Third Reich soldiers during World War II. Today, his corporation continues to reap benefits; its garments beloved, whether worn by those sending the emaciated to gas chambers or high school students suppressing boners at formal dances. **

** Hugo Boss:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hugo_Boss

And Hugo Boss is one of a myriad of companies — as long as there's a monetary system — eager to exploit anyone, in order to acquire more cash — swatches of fabric, as previously proven, inherently useless to humans. Yet, a tool many are willing to use for their own benefit, whether or not others suffer as a result.

What of Coca-Cola producing Fanta specifically for Nazi troops, parched after blowing fist-sized holes through skulls of concentration camp prisoners? *** Is that any different than U.S. soldiers downing ice cold Cokes, whilst lobbing mortars into apartment buildings in downtown Baghdad?

*** Fanta:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fanta

In short, millionaires and billionaires derive rewards at the ultimate cost to the innocent. Because what these deranged entities are collecting — when reduced to fundamentals — is meaningless to humans, that makes them psychopaths. How are they any different than individuals on the television show Hoarders, who crazily compile an overabundance of useless objects? ****

**** Lee Camp: Billionaires are Psychopaths:

Where's the dissimilarity between keeping a million pointless strips of fabric in your coffers, and a million used tampons in your linen closet? At least the tampons, at one point, had a legitimate use. In the words of comedian Lee Camp:

"You don't respect anyone else who collects a billion or a million of something. […]

If you find out someone's got a million shoes, you're like, 'What the fuck's the matter with you?!' So why do we respect people with a million pieces of paper with Alexander Hamilton's fugly mug on ['em]?" *****

***** IBID.

It's into this fucked-up paradigm — the deep end of the shit pool, if you will — we've all been launched.

As if the above weren't enough to contend with, most people around you have chosen to take the blue pill, while you've taken the red. Attempt to show them the truth, and be attacked by rabid masses the way Winston Smith was in the movie 1984. ******

****** 1984:

ROSWELL

"It is my thesis that flying saucers are real, and that they are spaceships from another solar system. I think that they possibly are manned by intelligent observers who are members of a race that may have been investigating our Earth for centuries."

― Professor Hermann Oberth, Father of Space Travel *

• Birnes, William, J. (2004). The UFO Magazine UFO Encyclopedia: The Most Comprehensive Single-Volume UFO Reference in Print. Pocket Books. ISBN: 0743466748

"It was approaching dusk when one other soldier and I were stationed in one of the ambulance trucks at the recovery site. Everything was being loaded onto trucks, and I couldn't understand why some of the trucks had ice or something in them. I did not understand what they wanted to keep cold. Our orders were not to look under the canvas tarp in the back. The moment we had a chance, I pulled back the covering. There were bodies…small bodies…and they had big heads and slanted eyes."

So stated Sergeant Melvin E. Brown during a deathbed confession regarding the Roswell Incident of 1947.

But Brown wasn't the only witness asserting whatever crashed in this distant region of New Mexico was of otherworldly origin. In fact, more than 600 purported observers to some portion of the event — most of them military — have offered up their testimony.

If you're on your deathbed, expressing your last words to immediate family, wouldn't you want to convey the most important thoughts on your mind? For decades, you never hint to interacting with a crashed UFO of extraordinary derivation in the southwestern desert. In fact, you don't even speak of the subject, in general. Then, with final breath, you reveal you were present — near Roswell, New Mexico — and witness to the bizarre events that occurred there in 1947.

So, what did crash outside the sleepy hamlet of Corona — in The Land of Enchantment — that year? Here's a subtle hint: It was a flying saucer! At least one, anyway.

The 600-plus witnesses referenced prior constitutes an argument formidable enough.

Combine this with the fact the U.S. military initially admitted to a downed disc in nationwide newspapers, and you've got a case any court of human law would deem authentic.

What did eyewitnesses have to gain by going public? Solely two — both military officers; one a medical doctor — penned books about the topic. Both did so late in life. Obviously, monetary compensation was not a factor in the confessions.

Could fame have been the catalyst for such an array of credible individuals coming forth?

Since mainstream media has perpetually relegated those reporting UFOs as less reliable than political promises, why would anyone willingly subject themselves to scorn? What's more, when the prospect of losing one's pension — should they go public — is dangled before them more conspicuously than Dick Rambone's dong, what would encourage so many individuals to speak out?

The inner serenity that comes with divulging the truth appears more of an incentive than originally imagined. Many of these witnesses to Roswell were threatened by the U.S. government with their lives. Chavez County Sheriff George Wilcox, wife Inez, schoolgirl Frankie Dwyer, rancher Mac Brazel's family, and numerous others were issued death threats if they revealed the truth.

Government: Kenny Loggins is more likely to release a death metal album than bureaucracies are to care for their populaces.

Why such secrecy if — as the U.S. hegemony asserts — all that crashed at Roswell was an ordinary weather balloon; the type launched daily by the military? Was it necessary to levy the ultimatum, "If you talk, we'll not only kill you, but your entire family," should the government be hiding a mundane object?

Moreover, who the fuck is Washington, D.C. — which only exists due to taxpayer's money — to threaten a population giving them life?! So much for democracy: rule by the people.

More than likely, you've heard some version of the events that took place in Roswell referenced on a warmed-over, mainstream cable show. You probably paid less attention to what was being presented than kale garnishing on a plate of prime rib. Well, guess what? Kale's big news now — featured as an appetizer, in salads, and even fried as vegetable chips.

In similar fashion, Roswell's also big news, and always has been, no matter the number of lame excuses the government provides to disregard it. Ah, government: What other entity is allowed to decide how it will testify — reference Dick Cheney and George W. Bush regarding 9/11 — changing its story as often as it pleases? When it comes to at least one otherworldly vehicle — which is what was uncovered at Roswell — how could that be anything but the biggest news in human history?

Let's cover the fundamentals concerning this event that took place in 1947.

At some point in July of that year — during a thunderstorm — something crashed in the middle of the night on the Foster Ranch near Corona, New Mexico. Mac Brazel — caretaker of the homestead — awoke to a wreckage field about a mile square, strewn with anomalous material. Mac, and others in the area, were accustomed to finding downed weather balloons sent aloft at nearby Roswell Army Air Field (RAAF). The debris the rancher discovered on this day, however, was vastly different from any he had encountered before. Thus, he decided to take the anomalous remains to Roswell — the closest town of appreciable size.

Doing so ignited one of the greatest cover-ups of the 20th century.

Local sheriff George Wilcox, and Roswell radio personality Frank Joyce, suggested Brazel bring the debris to RAAF, after failing to determine what it was.

Major Jesse Marcel — intelligence officer for the 509th Composite Bomb Group at the Roswell base — and Captain Sheridan Cavitt were sent to the Foster Ranch to investigate. Upon viewing the expansive debris field, the two men loaded their vehicles with as much of the wreckage as they could, and carted it back to RAAF. Along the way, Major Marcel stopped at his home, and showed the material to his wife Viaud, and son Jesse, Jr.

All confirm the wreckage they handled consisted of "memory metal" — a foil-like material that wouldn't burn, dent nor tear, and returned to a smooth, flattened state, even after being wadded into a ball. In addition, abnormally light, yet strong I-beams — with unrecognizable markings on them — were observed.

When Marcel and Cavitt delivered the debris to the base, and it was determined to be of unknown origin, a press release was issued stating a flying saucer had been discovered. More wreckage was collected. Within hours, the army had retracted its original story, now asserting what they'd found was a downed weather balloon.

Under armed guard, with preeminent military officials present — is there such a thing? — debris was transported to Fort Worth Army Air Base in Texas. It was there General Roger Ramey held a deceptive press conference in which Major Marcel was ordered to pose for photographs with wreckage from a weather balloon. The military claimed Marcel — who had been explicitly trained to identify radar targets indicative of weather balloons — had made a mistake, unable to discern between balsa wood, neoprene and a flying saucer.

Less likely than The Rolling Stones are to be crowned Best New Band of 2015.

The government then engaged in an extensive, and surreptitious, clean-up of the debris field. Those who handled material were ordered to stay silent, bribed or threatened with their lives, as well as lives of their families.

Death threats? Over a commonplace weather balloon?

Two additional sites — one with the craft, itself; the other with up to four non-human pilots — were soon discovered.

Rancher Mac Brazel was sequestered by the military for nearly a week. Upon return to society, oddly enough, he was no longer referring to aliens and flying saucers. Instead, he was now embracing the government's cover story of a downed weather balloon.

The enigmatic craft, along with the bodies — one of which was allegedly alive — are speculated to have been flown to Wright Field — later re-designated Wright-Patterson Air Force Base — in Ohio.

To silence growing reports of aliens, the military again changed its verdict regarding Roswell. This time they asserted crash test dummies had been dropped from classified, aerial crafts. When researchers noted crash test dummies hadn't been employed in such experiments until 1953, and Roswell occurred in 1947, the military quietly placed its tail between its legs.

Sometime later, they offered up still another weak explanation for what had been found. This fourth false claim was a Mogul balloon — a string of neoprene weather balloons attached to a microphone, used to intercept Soviet atomic detonations.

First, how many times are we — as a populace — going to allow these fuckers to change their story before we acknowledge we're being lied to? Did we selectively forget the tale of the boy who cried wolf?

Second, if Major Jesse Marcel — specifically trained to recognize radar targets — couldn't determine a balloon from a flying disc, how did he graduate from Army Air Forces Training Command?

Third, Colonel William Blanchard was in command of Roswell Army Air Field — where the 509th Composite Bomb Group was stationed.

This elite assemblage dropped atomic weapons Little Boy on Hiroshima, and Fat Man on Nagasaki, Japan. At that time, the 509th was the sole atomic bombardier unit in the U.S. If Blanchard — who ordered the flying saucer explanation issued to newspapers — wasn't able to distinguish between an extraterrestrial vessel and a weather balloon, why the hell was he in command of the most lethal weapons known to man?!

Fourth, rancher Mac Brazel knew goddamned well what a weather balloon looked like. All farmhands in the region did, since they routinely discovered them strewn about their property, thanks to continual military testing of the devices. Because sheep, and often cattle, eat anything they find on the ground, it was essential local homesteaders dispose of weather balloon wreckage before livestock could get to it, and satiate on something that may choke them. In fact, an adjacent empty water tank was filled with downed weather balloons uncovered over the years.

Fifth, intransigent skeptics — who themselves don't believe their ridiculous conclusions, but refuse to accept a tsunami of proof — assert Project Mogul was Top Secret. Hence, these insular idiots allege the military acted appropriately, rather than excessively.

True, the aforementioned surveillance initiative was furtive, but the materials comprising the rudimentary craft were objects you could buy at a hardware store. Hence, the components of a Project Mogul array were anything but unique; i.e. something restricted. In fact, calling attention to what — on the surface — seemed just another weather balloon, would make no sense. If the military wished to keep its secrets, why wouldn't they simply retrieve this mundane material without bringing in high-ranking officials, cordoning off the area, vacuuming the site clean for days, flying the wreckage to three other military facilities and two states, and imposing death threats?

Sixth, after technology has advanced to such great extent, once-Top Secret programs are typically featured in museums, since they're now archaic, and control freak bureaucracies no longer feel the need to keep them hidden. The Bell X-1 and SR-71 Blackbird are but a sampling. If what crashed at Roswell was some sort of secret project the U.S. was attempting to keep under wraps, where are the overt displays of it? No longer need to hide whatever it was, as humanity now has satellites with the ability to count your scrotal hairs from miles above Earth.

Seventh, how does a weather balloon leave wreckage over — from different accounts — 250,000 square feet, up to approximately a mile in length? These apparatuses don't explode when they crash. They're filled with helium — an inert gas. Hence, they just deflate, coming down in one piece. Numerous individuals — like Staff Sergeant Earl Fulford — affirm visiting a debris site that stretched out for "hundreds of yards." According to Fulford:

"The bus took about two hours. The site was northwest of Roswell. We went north up Highway 285, then west on the Corona road, which was a gravel road back then, past a little school house and some other structures, and then turned south onto a dirt road. I remember seeing a little house, which was not far from where we were going. When the bus stopped, we were told to get out. A major was in charge, and armed MPs ringed the site, which was situated at the base of gently sloping hills. Sgt. Rosenberger then handed each of us a burlap bag and told us to "police up" the site and put anything that we found in the bags.

I picked up small, silvery pieces of metallic debris, the largest of which was triangular in shape, about 3 to 4 inches wide by about 12 to 15 inches long. It looked like thin, light, aluminum foil that flexed slightly when I picked it up, but once in the palm of your hand, you could wad it up into a small ball. Then, when you let it go, it would immediately assume its original shape in a second or two — just like that! That was the only type of debris I saw that day. I thought to myself, 'Hey, this stuff is neat. I'm going to keep a piece for myself.' But they searched us thoroughly when we got back to make damned sure that none of us had anything of size. We didn't see any other type of debris or pieces of debris with writing on them, and we didn't see any bodies. We also did not see any balloons or balloon material. They launched weather balloons from in between barracks where I lived back on the base every day. I was familiar with them, and the debris wasn't from one of those. When we got back to the base, everything that we picked up was taken back to Hangar 3. We were then lined up and told one-by-one by our First Sergeant in no uncertain terms that we didn't see anything, and we didn't say anything; and if we did from that point forward, we might be courtmartialed. A few days later, I think it was on Saturday, our entire squadron was called together for a special meeting in Hangar 2 where we were addressed by our Squadron Commander, Maj. Harry Shilling. Also present was our second-in-command, Capt. Earl Casey, and a glowering First Sergeant Hardy who had been in my face a few days earlier. Capt. Casey gave the cautionary admonition to everyone present not to talk about anything they might have seen or heard in the past few days, but Maj. Shilling got right to the point, 'You didn't see or hear anything. Nothing happened!' "

Eighth, if a missing Project Mogul balloon was so important, why wasn't the military looking for it? Rancher Mac Brazel found anomalous debris. Had he not reported his discovery, it seemed the U.S. armed forces would have remained clueless as to what was found on the Foster Ranch. Major Jesse Marcel and Captain Sheridan Cavitt certainly had no idea the magnitude of the remains to which they'd be privy.

And then, of course, we've over 600 individuals — the majority of whom are highly credible military — testifying to having observed a cover-up by the government.

Let's start with the signed, sealed affidavit of First Lieutenant Walter Haut — RAAF Public Information Officer in 1947 — which was to be opened after his death.

"My name is Walter G. Haut. […]

In July, 1947, I was stationed at the Roswell Army Air Base in Roswell, New Mexico, serving as the base Public Information Officer. […]

I was aware that someone had reported the remains of a downed vehicle by midmorning after my return to duty at the base on Monday, July 7. […]

By late in the afternoon that same day, I would learn that additional civilian reports came in regarding a second site just north of Roswell. […]

A preliminary briefing was provided by [Colonel William] Blanchard about the second site approx. 40 miles north of town. Samples of wreckage were passed around the table. It was unlike any material I had or have seen in my life. Pieces which resembled metal foil, paper thin yet extremely strong, and pieces with unusual markings along their length were handled from man to man, each voicing their opinion. No one was able to identify the crash debris. […]

At approximately 9:30 a.m. Col. Blanchard phoned my office and dictated the press release of having in our possession a flying disc, coming from a ranch northwest of Roswell […].

Before leaving the base, Col. Blanchard took me personally to Building 84, a B-29 hangar located on the east side of the tarmac. Upon first approaching the building, I observed that it was under heavy guard both outside and inside. Once inside, I was permitted from a safe distance to first observe the object just recovered north of town. It was approx. 12 to 15 feet in length, not quite as wide, about 6 feet high, and more of an egg shape. Lighting was poor, but its surface did not appear metallic. No windows, portholes, wings, tail section, or landing gear were visible.

Also from a distance, I was able to see a couple of bodies under a canvas tarpaulin. Only the heads extended beyond the covering, and I was not able to make out any features. The heads did appear larger than normal and the contour of the canvas over the bodies suggested the size of a 10-year-old child. At a later date in Blanchard's office, he would extend his arm about 4 feet above the floor to indicate height. […]

I am convinced that what I personally observed was some type of craft and its crew from outer space."

And what of Private First Class Eli Benjamin, who also attests to having experienced, firsthand, remnants of an otherworldly visitation:

"I got myself ready, got my gun, and reported to the big hangar, as ordered. As near as I can recall, it was late afternoon or early evening at the time. While looking for my OIC [officer in charge] to get instructions for duties at the hangar, I came upon a commotion taking place at the main entrance to the hangar. Some MPs were trying to subdue an out-of-control officer who, among other things, appeared to be drunk as a skunk. I found out later that the officer in question was from my squadron and was the very officer — whose name I cannot now recall — was to have overseen the transfer of several 'Top Secret items' from the big hangar to the base hospital, and I was there to help escort the transfer. I was later told that he had been to the crash site and had seen the ship. When this officer reported to the hangar and saw the small bodies, it was apparently too much for him to handle, and he just lost it. At this point, having just arrived myself, a Major or Lt. Colonel came out of the hangar, looked at the situation, and pointed at me. 'You! Come over here,' he said. 'You're now in charge of this detail. Get these over to the base hospital!' He then pointed to three or four gurneys inside the hangar, each of which had something on it that was covered by a sheet. On one of the gurneys, whatever was under the sheet appeared to me to be moving. I saluted my acceptance and understanding of his order, and instructed the rest of the men in the detail to load the gurneys with their payload into the back of a truck that had just arrived for the purpose. Up to this point, I had no idea what we were transporting to the hospital. I would know soon enough, however. As the men were loading the truck, one of the gurneys slipped during the handoff, and the sheet covering it fell away, revealing the grayish face and swollen, hairless head of a species that I realized was not human. My orders were to deliver these to the base hospital's emergency room [Building 317] and remain there until relieved.

Upon arriving at the emergency room ramp, we proceeded to unload. I went in with the first gurney and stood aside near the doorway as the medical people took control of the gurney. A half-dozen or so medical and non medical officers quickly removed the covering sheet. I couldn't see too well from where I was standing because of the number of officers gathered around the gurney, but I could see well enough to make out that a very small person with an egg-shaped head that was oversized for its body was lying on the gurney. The only facial features that stick out in my mind now are that it had slanted eyes, two holes where its nose should have been, and a small slit where its mouth should have been. I think it was alive. The medical people were mostly just staring at it, but I'm not sure. After the rest of the gurneys were brought into the room, I was dismissed and told to return to my squadron, which I did. There, I was debriefed and made to sign a nondisclosure statement regarding what had just taken place. I was told that if I ever spoke about it, something bad would happen, not only to me, but also to my family. I heard later that the one species that was still alive was apparently taken to Alamogordo, then shipped to Texas or Ohio."

When all was said and done, Major Jesse Marcel — perhaps the key player in the reason the Roswell Incident is so widely known — had the following to say:

"It was nothing we had ever seen before. It was not an aircraft of any kind; that I am sure of. We didn't know what it was. It was nothing made on this Earth."

Jesse's son — Jesse Marcel, Jr. — who also allegedly handled the crash wreckage, and later became a flight surgeon for the 189th Helicopter Battalion in Iraq, would conclude:

"As did my late father, I have no doubt that what I saw in Roswell was unearthly in origin. The only questions that continue to nag at me are, first of all: from where did it come? Secondly, what does the government I have joyfully served for all these years have to gain from hiding the truth? And lastly — though just as worrisome as the other questions — to what lengths will it go to perpetuate the falsehood?"

General Arthur Exon was stationed at Wright Field when the Roswell debris was delivered for testing. Exon — a lieutenant colonel in 1947 — was employed at the (FTD) Foreign Technologies Division. It was here ordnances seized from other nations were analyzed. Arthur was also part of Air Material Command, in Dayton, where crash remains were initially sent. In 1964, General Exon became base commander of Wright-Patterson, and — to the displeasure of the government — spoke freely regarding what occurred at Roswell.

According to Arthur, the belief amongst scientists inspecting the anomalous debris was that the:

"...pieces [of wreckage] were from space. […]

They knew they had something new in their hands. [T]he metal and material was unknown to anyone I talked to. Whatever they found, I never heard what the results were. A couple of guys thought it might be Russian, but the overall consensus was that the pieces were from space. Everyone from the White House on down knew that what we had found was not of this world within 24 hours of our finding it."

In 1991, Thomas Jefferson DuBose — chief of staff to General Ramey during the Roswell Incident — divulged a government cover-up. Ramey was the architect of the weather balloon story, and DuBose — having been a colonel at the time — assisted in the deception. Retiring as a Brigadier General, Thomas DuBose had the following to say:

"It was a cover story. The balloon part of it is the story that's to be given to the press, and that is it. And anything else, forget it."

DuBose avowed General McMullen — Deputy Head of Strategic Air Command — had supervised the Roswell clean-up, and admonished:

" 'you are not to discuss this, and this is […] more than Top Secret,' " as he said. " 'It's beyond that. […] [T]his is the highest priority [that] can exist, and you will say nothing.' " And that was the end of it. ***

*** Brigadier General Thomas BuBose:

Counter Intelligence Corps Master Sergeant Lewis "Bill" Rickett — who assisted preeminent meteor expert Dr. Lincoln LaPaz in uncovering specifics regarding the crashed craft — had this to say:

"The Air Force's explanation that it was a balloon is totally untrue. It was not a balloon. I never did know for sure exactly what its purpose was, but…it wasn't ours!"

Sources:

Books:

Berliner, Don; Friedman, Stanton T. (2004). Crash at Corona: The U.S. Military Retrieval and Cover-Up of a UFO. Paraview Special Editions. ISBN: 1931044899

Carey, Thomas J.; Schmitt, Donald R. (2007). Witness to Roswell: Unmasking the 60-Year Cover-Up. New Page Books. ISBN: 1564149439

Marcel, Jesse Jr.; Marcell, Linda. (2009). The Roswell Legacy: The Untold Story of the First Military Officer at the 1947 Crash Site. New Page Books. ISBN: 1601630261

Online Movies:

Recollections of Roswell:

Roswell: The UFO Cover-Up:

The preceding blog was written by Hugh Mungus. Feel free to contact the author directly here on Steemit, or via his personal E-mail address: [email protected]