The Children of Roswell (Book One) The Swift Chronicle

This is the story of what really happened to the wreckage found at the two crash sites outside of Roswell in 1947, as told to me by a retired Air Force pilot some forty years ago. It may sound a bit "far fetched", but, in the end it is the only story I've ever heard that really makes sense of it all. After you read his tale, you will have to decide for yourself. I (for one) am a believer.You have all (no doubt) read the countless stories of the Roswell saucer crash in 1947. The truth is you probably bought this book because the title contained the name of that once sleepy little town lost in the desert of Chaves County, New Mexico. If you’re like me, you grab at every chance to garner as much new information about that day in July (and the important days and years thereafter) trying to squeeze as much truth as is possible from the falsehoods that have been perpetrated by our government in their efforts to keep that very truth from you.Please rest assured, I will not bore you by rehashing the stories you have already heard. This is not another Roswell book per se; for there will be no mention of the Roswell rancher and the tale of what he found on his property. Nor will you find pages of repeated dialog from witnesses (military or civilian) about the pieces of debris and its unusual properties. You will not hear again: the story of the grey creatures; their autopsy; testimony from Officers (or their children) as to what they saw, heard or knew.What you will read (in the pages that follow) is the story developed from testimony given to me by a long retired Air Force pilot whom I befriended many years ago while we participated in a mutual hobby. This was a solid, God fearing man (military to the core) but, he was a man with a burning need within, to tell his story before he passed on.I am not quite sure why he chose me as his confessor, for there was a great disparity in our ages. Perhaps it was that he saw a copy or two of the many books on UFOs that were constantly littering my desk in my shop. Whatever the reason, he sat me down early one Saturday morning in a secluded hangar at the local airport and began a one sided verbal journey that wouldn’t end until late in the evening-hours of the following day.His hands shook and his voice cracked as he forced himself to break the vows he had taken as an officer in the service of his country. He was risking (in his mind, for he was well indoctrinated) being thrown into prison and losing what little time and retirement pension he and his wife had left. I could tell that this bothered him greatly and I asked him several times if he would rather stop.“No, No, just let me finish,” he would reply. “Someone has to tell this story. I have to tell this story.” And then he would whisper, “Before I die.”Then, he would wipe away a tear with curled, shaking fingers and continue.What follows, is the story (as accurately as I could pen it) told to me over those two days. It is the story of a young officer, caught up (and lost in) the bureaucracy of a military machine that was fresh out of World War Two, and later the Korean conflict (war). It was a military that now found itself burdened by the pressures and the threat of communism and the cold war. It was a military divided by pomp, ego, and a sense of self inflicted grandeur.I have changed names and a few places to protect my storyteller and hiding places now scattered around the country. Many of the places named in this book still exist (some nearly intact) and readers are welcomed to search them out. I myself have stood in a couple of the very places mentioned in these pages, and believe me, the ghosts of the past only add to the mystique.Those of you who are already believers in the conspiracy that began in the New Mexico desert on that July day in nineteen forty-seven, will understand (but maybe not agree with) the moves made by our government and some of the individual players in the days, weeks, and years that followed the original crash. Some of you, who have found yourselves on the fence (not knowing whether to believe or not) may be pushed off your precarious perch (in one direction or the other). My only hope is that my storyteller finds some modicum of peace in knowing that His truth is now “out there.”