Paris, France 1944
Dale Matthews sat in a wooden, low-back chair in the lobby of a formerly opulent hotel. He was wearing a clean uniform and had showered and shaved earlier that morning. After eating a decent breakfast in the makeshift mess hall, he was reporting to Allied Supreme Command Headquarters just outside Paris, France. Paris had been occupied by the Germans for the last four years, but a few months earlier, allied forces had pushed the Germans out and reclaimed Paris for the French. Now, Paris and its surrounding towns had become the headquarters for Allied operations. The city was bustling with thousands of troops moving millions of tons of supplies. Paris had become a critical part of the Allies’ long supply line, as they prepared to cross the Rhine River and push further into German territory.
After his encounter with Nox Bellator, he had told his commanding officer of the incident, a decision he may live to regret. Apparently, his report was read by division command and then sent on to Allied Supreme Command because, a few days later, he was recalled from the front lines and ordered back to Paris. Dale enjoyed having a couple of days with decent food and sleep, but, he was very uncomfortable talking to colonels and generals. He thought he had finished yesterday, but then, here he was again today. How many times could he tell the same story?
It was obvious to Dale that a few years ago this hotel had been magnificent. The six-story, massive hotel was constructed with white stone blocks. He sat in a large hallway lined with decorative arches and white stone pillars. Everywhere he turned, there were recessed ceilings, crown molding, and fancy black and white checkered marble floors. There were still signs of the hotel’s former glory: a deep, rich mahogany front desk; fancy crown molding and even a few delicate end tables were scattered about the lobby. The ornate rugs and sofas had been removed and replaced with more practical desks and wooden chairs. Well-to-do Paris elites, with top hats and coat tails, had been replaced by dozens of soldiers wearing olive drab uniforms, running back and forth with orders and reinforcement requests.
A neat and trim officer approached Dale from around the corner. He was young but clearly professional and every bit of his uniform was pressed and perfect, not something Dale was accustomed to seeing among the officers to whom he reported. Dale stood at attention and saluted the dapper officer. By his insignia, he could see the officer was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Army Air Corp.
“At ease, Sergeant,” the colonel said, in a gentle but professional tone. Dale relaxed his stance but was anything but ‘at ease.’
“Come with me, Sergeant.” the Colonel said.
“Yes, Sir,” Matthews had given up on asking why, what and how; he simply followed the Colonel. They walked down several long, open, spacious corridors. Massive doors opened into vast ball rooms, that now served as makeshift offices for secretarial staff. They came to a conference room, that was insignificant compared to the others, and the Colonel opened the door and gesticulated for Dale to follow.
The small conference room was no less lavish than the rest of the hotel, with painted, wood panel walls and heavy crown molding. The ceiling had a circular recessed section that was painted a golden color. In the center of the room, stood a single table covered by a white tablecloth and surrounded by six high-back wooden chairs.
“May I get you something: coffee; tea; water?” the Colonel offered.
“Water, please,” Dale replied. He was not thirsty, but based on how long previous meetings had taken, he figured after a few hours of repeating himself to some pretentious Colonel, his mouth would be dry.
“Have a seat. I will be right back,” the Colonel politely, nodded toward the table and walked away.
“Thank you,” Dale said, keeping up the charade of politeness, even though both men knew it was an order, and compliance was expected. Dale took the chair on the other side of the table, so he could face the door from which they had entered.
A few minutes after the Colonel brought back the glass of water another officer walked into the room. Dale could see from the three stars pinned on the collar of his khaki uniform that he was a General. Dale stood to attention and saluted.
“Good morning, Sergeant Matthews. At ease, take a seat,” the General said, with a hand flourish toward the seat. The General appeared to be in his early fifties, with a touch gray creeping out, above his ears.
“I have already told the other officers everything I know,” Dale insisted, in a respectful but defensive tone.
“I’m not here to interrogate you, Matthews. I have read the reports submitted by the previous interviewers, and I believe you. I’m General Ryan Bartlett with the Army Air Corps.”
Dale nodded his head and decided to not speak, other than to answer direct questions.
General Bartlett pulled a folder from his brief case and placed it on the white tablecloth between the two men. Dale glanced at it, assuming it was transcripts of his previous interviews.
“The report says you killed three of these creatures.” The General stated, leaning back in his chair.
“Not exactly. I assisted with killing two of the beasts. Quite frankly, I’m not sure I landed the death blow on either one them. I shot one with my Trench Broom. I mean Thompson machine gun, but it did not go down until it was hit with an M-9 bazooka. The other one I stabbed in the neck, but it did not die until it was shot in the head with an M-2 carbine.”
General Bartlett nodded his head as if to agree with Matthews. “So, I read your description of the flying machine. Did you ever see it fly?”
“As I told the others, I never saw it fly. It was sitting on a concrete platform the entire time.”
“What made you believe it was a flying machine, Matthews?” the General demanded as he was looking down his arrowhead-shaped nose at Matthews.
“I just assumed. It had no tires or tracks. It was made from a metallic substance and sat on the concrete pillars like a ship sits in dry dock.” Dale thought for a moment. “There was also the opening at the top of the chamber directly above the flying machine. It looked to me like that opening was the only way for it to come into or go out of the underground chamber.”
The General cradled his chin between his index finger and thumb, as if in deep thought, never taking his eyes off Matthews. Dale thought this seemed a lot like an interrogation. The General took his hand from his chin and pushed the folder on the table toward Dale, “Look at these.”
Dale reached for the manila folder and opened it, to reveal dozens of photographs of disc-like flying objects. The pictures were all taken from different perspectives and positions.
“I see why you believe me now,” Dale muttered. All the pictures were of metallic objects flying. None of the flying machines had wings, and they were all generally disc-like or cylindrical in shape.
“What you saw, did it look like any of the pictures,” The General asked, pointing at the folder and pictures spread across the table.
Dale nodded his head and quietly responded, “Yes Sir.”
“Matthews, what you saw, it is highly classified, and you cannot discuss it with anyone,” the General warned, in a stern voice.
“Yes sir, I mean, no Sir, I won’t tell anyone what I saw. I won’t even discuss it with the men in my battalion.” Dale knew by the three days of interrogations, that the three-star general was not going to tolerate the slightest breach of confidence.
“I know you will not discuss it with your friends in the battalion,” the General replied, sitting up in his chair, he leaned forward on the white tablecloth and said, “I know, because you are not going back to your battalion. You are being reassigned.”
O God what are they going to do to me?”
“Where to?” he stammered.