ST MARY’S INSTITUTE OF HISTORICAL RESEARCH INCIDENT REPORT

Competition entry by Elaine Leet

Encrypted Message

St. Mary’s Incident Report

Global Contemporary Historical Research

Title: Whoooo Are You? (aka Knock Knock)

Division: Clandestine Operations

Assigned to: Junior Agent D. Liu, Across the Pond Field Office, North America

Mission Source: St. Mary’s Institute of Historical Research, Rushford, England, Great Britain

Mission Objective: Roswell Incident. Identify landing party. Determine origin. Roswell, New Mexico, United States of America, North America, July 7, 1947.

Result: Further investigation required

Narrative Report: by D. Liu

History: The Roswell Incident is swathed in mystery. Headlines reported that a Flying Saucer or Unidentified Flying Object carrying extraterrestrials crashed into the high desert during a storm. The crash was originally reported by William “Mac” Brazel to the sheriff’s office either in person or by phone from a local drug store. Brazel might have been accompanied by his son. Accounts differ. An officer from Roswell Army Air Field accompanied Mac back to the scene and collected debris. The crashed vehicle, which came from space, was denied. The military issued statements that the debris was from a weather balloon.

I closed my basketry shop in Williamsburg, Virginia, USA, and prepared a simple “observe and document” jump, avoiding contact with contemporaries. Though I hoped for the best, I planned for the worst. Which, in my mind, was contact with a suspicious post-World War II mentality. Trust in government operations was largely based on wartime propaganda, but blind patriotism was eroding in light of personal wartime experience and more open reporting in print and radio. The only thing people were sure of was that they were not always given the whole truth.

By my timetable I would be in and out before Brazel came anywhere near the site. But I know how those plans usually go, so I disguised myself in the denim, leather footwear, and cowboy hat prevalent in the area at the time. Plus full body armour under the disguise because, you know--aliens. I packed my lime green work gloves (easiest to find and hardest to lose) and sketching supplies. I set the pod controls to arrive just after dark, with the drama expected to begin just before dawn during an electrical storm. I ran checks on equipment, and all were up to spec. That was the last thing that went right.

When I arrived at the site, the storm was already splashing slashes of brilliant jagged streaks across the dark landscape. Visibility didn’t support putting one foot in front of the other, much less observing any alien spacecraft landing. My tech didn’t work. No readings on EMP or radiation, and my recorder wouldn’t even power up. No proximity readings. I was getting a bad feeling about this.

I crouched near my pod to recon the area. And then I heard it. A sharp, rapid, staccato percussion that set off alarms in the ancient part of my brain, the part that carries lessons of long forgotten dangers in the dark. My blood froze. A rattlesnake coiled at my feet, poised to sink its venomous fangs into me. He struck the calf of my leg. Fangs crunched and broke against my leg armour. He reared back with a stunned expression that would have been comical if his intent hadn’t been so murderous. He looked me square in the eye, and I glared back at him. He chose the better part of valour and slithered under a rock. Welcome to the wild west. I stumbled back to the doorway of my pod and did some deep breathing.

Wind blew the sky clear for a few minutes. Bright moonlight revealed scrub brush and open land. I was sure I spied a coyote skulking around, but it turned out to be a lost lamb who adopted me as her Mary. It followed me everywhere as I tripped over clumps of coarse grass and rocks trying to get my bearings. The wind died and the lamb’s pitiful calls filled the suddenly quiet night. In no time at all a huge furry blur responded to the lamb’s cries, bowling me over and pinning me to the ground. I could feel the cold of a nose pressed close to my own and two close-set eyes stared at me with such intensity I went crosseyed. Fudge. Where there were sheep, there were sheep dogs.

That was when the southeast sky burst apart in an explosion of light and ground shaking roar. The dog jumped off me, herded the lamb into the shadows, and disappeared.

Falling from the broken sky, a house shape (Think Wizzard of Oz.) spewed pieces of itself all over as it bounced and skidded across the terrain. It careened around the area for about three quarters of a mile. Not sure what that is in kilometers.

What came out of the light was definitely not a weather balloon.

When it finally came to rest, what appeared to be a human crawled out of the wreckage attempting to drag a second, larger form by its feet. The sky darkened to show flames engulfing the structure.

That is when primitive instinct kicked aside my rational brain and the “Do Not Interfere” directive. You don’t sit around doing nothing while somebody’s dying, no matter what galaxy they’re from. I ran to the victims and grabbed a foot. We dragged him away from the wreckage. We got half a football field (That’s American football, not soccer.) before we collapsed from the effort. That bugger was heavy.

A stone hut or shed appeared just to our south. One heck of a big human burst out the door. He performed a quick scan of the area and threw the unconscious victim over his shoulder. A second soldier (security?) bounded out of the hut brandishing a weapon. He seemed to be covering the others as they made their way toward the hut.

The smaller victim paused to face me and placed one hand over its chest (heart?). I tipped my hat in return. I stepped back and they disappeared into the stone structure.

Another vehicle appeared. It was big and black. An almighty ground battle took place. Combatants on both sides were hit. The stone hut with the crash victims and their rescuers disappeared. Then the attacking force collected their injured and did the same. No identifying insignia. All wore helmets.

By dawn the storm passed. I sketched samples of debris in situ (attached). I was under a large piece of the wreckage trying to reach what was another body, a pile of laundry, or Dorothy’s wicked witch, when a man’s gruff voice stated flatly, “No such thing as aliens.”

Hands closed around my denim clad leg that extended out from under the wreckage. They squeezed and gave a tug encountering rigid armor. My leg was suddenly dropped and the man said, “What the--.”

I reached out from under the wreckage and slowly curled my green gloved fingers around debris.

A childish voice rang out, “Fingers! The fingers are moving! It’s alive!”

The man commanded, “Run, Vern, run!” followed by the sound of feet pounding down the mesa.

Mac Brazel was early. He found me. This wasn’t my fault. Times listed in historical records are not reliable.

Sketch of distinctive artefact:

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