Shortly after viewing the documents in the Grudge/Blue Book Report #13, my life changed dramatically. After reading the documents I assigned a probability rating to them of approximately 95%, based on information within the document that several years previously I had directly been involved with. The recovery of the B-52 Bomber Aircraft in Vietnam.

Much to my surprise the photographs and reports that I and my team made of the incident and then turned into MACV Headquarters in Saigon appeared within the document. I cannot speak for the validity of the rest of the information enclosed therein, but I can vouch for the authenticity of that particular material.


I would point out that since my public announcement of this material, I have publicly said that there is the distinct possibility that the material was fraudulent and that it was intended that I see it in order to spread misinformation. I would point out further, that I do not claim that this material is the gospel truth and that everyone should start gathering in their families and the animals because the world is about to end. Unlike some others that I know are currently on the speaking circuit . . ..

Within two weeks of viewing the document things began to happen with a speed heretofore unknown in government circles. I had originally viewed the document during the last week of June of 1977. About the second week of July, things had not changed significantly. I was still going to my medieval society meetings, taking the wife to school, and the boys to the day-care center during the week. On weekends Stephy and I would try to plan things together with the kids, outings of various types that would allow us to spend time with each other and enjoy ourselves. One of my particular favorites was taking my eldest son David into Bedfordshire on Saturdays.

That was when the market place was full of vendors trying to sell their wares, and we would just walk and see what kind of bargains we could find. It was like an adventure to us, and then after we walked through the market we would go to the riverside and throw bread to the swans that lived on the banks of the Bedford River. I look back on those days with a great deal of joy and sadness as they are now gone forever to me, and I am reminded that I have now missed the most important years of my sons lives.

During the second week of July I reported for work as I normally did, only this time when I checked in I was met by to Air Security Policemen who informed me that the base commander, Col. Robert Black wanted to see me at his office immediately. I was then escorted by these two neanderthals to Headquarters building at the top of the hill to the col's office where I was made to wait for about thirty minutes before Black would see me.

When he did see me he was very brusque and cold and politely informed me that my services as a Data Analyst for the United States Air Force Security Services Command were no longer needed and that I was being immediately sent back to the United States via a MAC flight from RAF Lakenheath.


I politely reminded the Colonel that since I was a civilian hire and that my place of hiring was in fact in England they had no right to ship me back to the U.S. without my consent, and since my wife was a civilian employee of the Department of Defense Schools, I would automatically fall under the dependant classification if I was no longer employed by the government.

Black's basic reaction to all of this was laughter. He in turn politely informed me that for all he cared I could eat shit and bark at the moon. I was going back to the United States whether I wanted to or not, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do about it.

Seeing that there wasn't much to be gained by arguing with the asshole, I then requested permission to at least call my wife at the school and let her know what the hell was going on. Permission was refused me and I was immediately escorted to RAF Lakenheath under armed guard and placed on a flight back to the states.

When I arrived in the states I immediately tried to call my wife to let her know what had happened. Every time I tried to get through, the phone would ring, a man's voice would answer and then the phone would go dead. Not only did this happen when I tried to call my wife, but also when I tried to call several friends that could possibly get a message to my wife.

Needless to say it was like this for several months, and finally I gave up trying. I wrote letters to her, to my friends, everyone that I could think of, and still there was no response. Finally, I gave up trying. I have since learned that my wife transferred to a different Air Force Base shortly after that, after she had been told by Black that I quit my job and deserted her and the boys. It was a bald face lie, but by then it was to late to prove otherwise, and would have been impossible under the circumstances.

What took place after that was one series of failures after another. I returned to my home town of Tucson, Arizona and began looking for a job of some type that would support me. After several months and much indignation I found a job working as a fry-cook/night manager at a Waffle House on I-10.

It was during this time that it looked as if I might be going back to Europe as there was a job offer to work for the British Broadcasting Corporation as a Cameraman. I quit my job at the Waffle House, and suddenly the job fell through. I just didn't hear anything more from them, and they wouldn't answer any of my letters of inquiry. Shortly there after I got a job working for a security company as a guard. It was during this juncture in my employment career that I was assigned to work at the campus of Pima Community College.

Prior to my assignment at the college, I had not given much thought to the question of UFO's and the effect that it was having on my life. In fact I had become so consumed with the act of survival that I had not given it any thought at all. You the reader, must bear in mind also, that this was perhaps the most trying time that I had ever had in my entire life. I had just lost a family that I loved and care for very much, and there wasn't a thing that I could do that would make it different, no matter how much I wanted it or tried. In short, I was on the verge of suicide.

While working the campus shift for the security company, I noticed an announcement on the bulletin board announcing the speech of one Stanton Friedman, eminent scientist and UFO Investigator. The speech was set to take place at the college that night and I decided that I would attend as it was free at the student union. During the course of Stan's speech he imparted a great deal of information about science and the study of UFO's, but for some reason none of it seem to be of any great consequence.

The information was based in part on investigations that many well meaning and hard working people had been able to gather. Most notable were the efforts of Jim and Coral Lorenzen, the founders of the Aerial Phenomenon Research Organization. The only problem with it was the fact that it wasn't all of the information. During the course of Stan's speech he made mention of the fact that Blue Book Report #13 had never been published and that the government had said that it jumped from thirteen to fourteen due to the unlucky significance of the number thirteen. Hogwash!!!!

I knew that this was hogwash and after Stan finished his talk I approached him and told him that it was. He asked me point blank how I knew it was hogwash, and I told him that I viewed a report entitled Grudge/Blue Book Report #13, that went far beyond their wildest dreams with regard to admitting the existence of UFO's.

Within a matter of minutes I was whisked away by Stan, Allen Benz, and Jim Lorenzen to the APRO Offices that were then located on North Country Club in Tucson, where I spent several hours relating my experience and detailing everything that I could remember about the report, which was quit a bit. It took several months for the final outcome of that conversation to finally come out, but at the time Jim Lorenzen thought that I was nuttier than a fruitcake. Which I suppose under the circumstances was understandable.

During the interim, I was allowed access to the files at the APRO offices where I began to learn and understand more than I had before all of this had started. One of the things that I discovered through my research was that over the years there was a pattern of government cover-up that far outreached anything that anyone was aware of at the time I began my research.

In fact it has only been during the past ten or so years that people have come to realize that this is the case. Another thing that I discovered was the fact that the information I had concerning Grudge/Blue Book Report #13 was information that some one wanted to keep quiet. So much so in fact, they were willing to kill, or at least put on the show of trying.

The first attempt took place in Tucson, Arizona. I was driving from Tucson to Sierra Vista, where my father had his Real Estate Office located at. I was in the process of starting a small custom leather shop at the time and had decided to go down to discuss with my father some problems that I had been having with funding. As I was driving down I-10 toward Sierra Vista it was a pleasant day, at least for riding a motorcycle. The road didn't have to much traffic and there were several stretches where I was the only vehicle on the road.

It was during one of these intervals that a black, 1978 Lincoln Continental came onto the road behind me and began to pace me as I drove along. As I traveled I kept seeing this car in my rear-view mirror.

At first I didn't think a great deal of it, but as time went on I noticed that it never seemed to go faster or slower than I did, always keeping the same distance. Between Tucson and the turn off to Hachuca City the limo made it's move and I happened to catch it in my mirror as it suddenly speeded up as it came toward me. I moved to the side of the road and began to hug the shoulder as closely as I was able to and in the process slowing down in order to let it pass me by. Instead of moving toward the left to pass it came over into the should where I was at.

Seeing this and getting a bad feeling in my stomach I gun the motor on my bike and cut suddenly left, just barely getting out of it's way as it came past me and over the spot I had just vacated. I knew then that this wasn't and accident. Just after the car pasted me by the driver slammed on it's brakes and spun around in order to make another pass at me. For a few moments it seemed like I was in the middle of a game of roller ball and I was the ball. Avoiding the vehicle again I then cut across into the desert as fast as I could go. The Lincoln tried to follow but as it came onto the desert floor it appeared to get stuck in the loose dirt and stopped. I continued on my way through the desert in the general direction toward Sierra Vista and eventually made my way to my father's office.

When I arrived at my father's, I told him what had taken place. He pooh, poohed and told me that it was my imagination, but never the less followed me in his car back to Tucson. This was the first attempt upon my life.

Within a matter of weeks another attempt took place. By this time I had gotten my business operating and did a lot of work out of my apartment. I had gotten into a pattern by this time and was usually in bed around ten o'clock at night. This night however I had been invited to spend the night at a friends whom I had been helping to rebuild a saddle. It came at the spur of the moment and I had not made any plans for it to happen prior.

This particular night I just happen to be at the store when he came over and asked me to come by and have dinner in exchange for the work that I had helped him with on the saddle, and then stay for an evening of movies and HBO. Normally I would have been at home that particular night. The next morning upon my return to my apartment I found that it had been burned completely. The fire department informed me that it had been arson. It would seem that some one tossed a fire bomb into my front window possibly thinking that I would be there. I lost everything that I had in the apartment to include a pet hamster that I had grown quite attached to.

Over the years there have been approximately fifteen attempts on my life. Several of these were reported to the local police department, several have not. In all cases the police department have not investigated once they find out that I am an investigator of UFO phenomenon. You figure it out.

In the early part of 1980 I was surprised to receive a phone call from Robert Black, the Air Force Colonel who in 1977 sent me packing on my way from RAF Chicksands. Black told me that he had been involuntarily retired from the Air Force and believed that it was due in part to the document that I had viewed while working for Security Services Command at RAF Chicksands.

I was more or less cool toward Black but agreed to meet with him at my store in Trail Dust Town in Tucson. When we met I asked him several questions concerning my family and discovered what had happened after my departure. Apparently my wife had been told that I deserted them and that I upped and quit my job without notice and then caught a MAC flight out to the states. My wife was faced with several difficult decisions, among them was how to handle the up bringing of two children. According to Black she finished out the school year at RAF Chicksands and then requested and received a transfer to a different school system within the Department of Defense Schools in Great Britain. He went on to say that he had no idea as to what happened when I tried to contact them, saying that he was told after I left, that it was out of his hands.

Black went on to say that he had come across some information that indicated a flying saucer or space vehicle of some type had crashed at the White Sands Missile Range, and that because of it's size they were unable to move it so instead buried it where it lay. He wanted to know if I was interested in coming with him to find it. I asked him why me, and he said because I had read the document and knew what it was we were looking for.


He went on to say also that he was putting every bit of money that he had into outfitting a special vehicle that would carry research equipment and supplies, but that he didn't have enough. By this time I was thoroughly hooked on the idea and made an agreement with him to sell my business and then put most of the money that I made into the vehicle also. Which is what I did.

In the meantime I contacted Wendelle Stevens and told him of what we were planning and invited him along. He was in the middle of investigating the Billy Miers case in Switzerland and declined. His decision to not participate is most likely what saved his life.

I met with Black in Belen, New Mexico during the first week of June in 1980. Along with Black was his former operations sergeant at RAF Chicksands, who's name escapes me at present. Black explained that the Sergeant had been involuntarily retired from the service also and that he was as interested in finding the answers as we were. I went along with thinking that if nothing else it would be a hell of a camping trip.

We proceeded northward from Belen, going toward Santa Fe and Albuquerque, and then crossed over easterly toward the "Trinity Test Site" where the first Atomic Bomb was tested. Stopping along the way to make brief incursions into the test range in order to setup the equipment and run it for short periods of time. From the Trinity Test Site we then proceeded southerly to Alamogordo and the over past Holloman Air Force Base, where we once again entered the test range. This time through the White Sands National Monument.

In those days they didn't close the monument to the public at night and you could go in 24 hours a day and even camp over night there. Once in the monument we then proceeded to the northern most boundary of the park and entered the range once again. This time we planned on going as far as we could until either came across something or we were forced to turn back in order to be off the range during the day and camp over night in the park.

I was walking about 500 to a 1000 meters in front of the Van with a metal detector, trying to see if there was anything buried under the sand. It was just after sun down and the van had it's lights on in order to allow me enough light to see where I was going. As I was walking I heard a sound that made my skin crawl. The sound of an in-coming rocket is something a veteran of the Vietnam era never forgets... especially after having been caught in several fire fights where they came in on your positions. I instinctively recognized the sound and screamed a warning. The warning was to late. The next thing I knew, the van was nothings more than smoke and debris and Black and Horn were no longer there.

If nothing else, I have never laid claim to being a hero, and I am certainly not John Rambo, willing to take on the entire Russian Army for friendship and glory. I am pleased to say that experience and common sense have taught me better than that. I would venture a guess and say that had I stuck around rather than make like a rabbit and take off, I would most likely not be here to relate this story to you. That is in fact exactly what I did. It took me only a matter of seconds to determine that it was both unwise and unhealthy to stick around to try and help what amounted to nothing more than hamburger, and I was off like a shot (excuse the pun).

I had on my web belt and a canteen fun of water and my survival knife, so I had essentially everything that I needed to survive in the desert. I traveled North Westerly through the desert at night for about two days before I came to a major road and was able to thumb a ride into Tucson from New Mexico.

When I arrived in Tucson it was in the early morning hours and I made my way to Wendelle Stevens home where I woke him up by knocking on his bedroom window. Being the good egg that he is, he let me into his home and gave me some food, the use of his shower and a shirt (the pants were to small). After I had refreshed myself I related to him everything that taken place during the past several days while he recorded it with his recorder and took notes. I have since learned that the original tapes have disappeared. After several hours of talking with Wendelle I pretty much told him everything that I could and he was kind enough to give me a ride home from his place.

As we approached the apartment where I was then living with a lady friend, I spotted a large black car parked in front of the building. I asked Wendelle to drive around the corner from the apartment and drop me off. Making my way back to the apartment I let myself in the back door and then quietly looked out the front of the window to see somebody sitting inside the vehicle smoking a cigarette. They (whoever they were) were watching for me. It was time to leave and go into hiding.


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I spent the next several days in the apartment making plans for my disappearance. The first thing that I did was break up with my girl friend, which I wasn't happy about doing, but I remembered what happened with my wife and felt that for her own protection it would be best. I then took what few processions I had accumulated and sold them to a local thrift store and then moved to a small trailer on the west side of town. I stayed there for about a month and then packed my backpack and caught a bus to Phoenix, Arizona, where I made sure that I was arrested in the bus station by a Phoenix police officer on an old traffic ticket. When I arrived at the holding cell at the Phoenix police department I called my sister and had her drive to Phoenix to pick me up and pay the fines with money that I had left with her for this purpose. She then drove me back to Tucson where I spent the night at her home.

The following morning I said my goodbyes and struck out to the edge of town and across the desert, traveling toward San Diego by night. It took me about a week to get there and once there I headed toward Los Angeles via the Coastal Highway. I arrived in L.A. almost three weeks after leaving Tucson.

When I got to Los Angeles I spent my first night in town in a shelter for the homeless. This in itself was an experience that one could write several books about. Upon my arrival at the shelter it became a slow and tedious process of hurry up and wait. In order to get a meal you had to wait for several hours in the waiting room until they past out tickets for you to eat. Then you had to wait several more hours before they opened the dinning room for you to enter. Once you entered the dining room and went through the line to eat the simple meal (it wasn't mom's home cooking, but if you were hungry, it was good) you then went back out into the waiting room and waited for them to pass out more tickets for you to get a place to sleep for the night.

The waiting was a pain, but I soon found by watching others that if you did wait you didn't eat and you did get a place to sleep for the night. By this time I was feeling fairly depressed and wasn't about to sleep outside another night. I needed a shower, which, as it turned out, was obligatory, along with a free louse inspection and spraying if it was found that you were carrying uninvited guest, and I needed time to think out my next move.

It always seems that during the hardest times in my life I always turn to God. Not because I am overly zealous as a believer, but more because I do seem to get a certain amount of comfort from him during the most difficult times of my life, and sometimes I even get inspiration. I cannot and will not say whether or not it comes from God, but when I need it the most the help seems to appear only after I have done some serious praying. Such was the case this time. As I lay there praying quietly to myself, a rather forlorn and skinny looking fellow in the bed next to me looked over and said, "if you need a place to stay and hid for a while, why don't you go check out the Hudson House".

It never occurred to me at the time, that this might have been a message from the man upstairs, but it certainly was an answer to my prayers. I thanked the fellow and went to sleep feeling much better about the events of the past several weeks.

The next morning I woke up and went down to the free breakfast that they gave to all of the overnighters as we were called and then packed my kit and found a pay phone. I called the office of Social Services in L.A. and inquired about the Hudson House, and obtained the phone number. I then called and was told that there was one opening at House number one and given direction to the place.

I had just enough money to take a L.A. Bus to the location of house number one which to my delight was just one block down from Grauman's Chinese Theater and the heart of Hollywood. The house was located on Franklin Avenue.

When I arrived I was met at the door by a fellow who I shall refer to as Robert. The reason I am changing this young man's name will become obvious in a moment. When I came into the house I was escorted to the dinning room area and invited to sit down and fill out the necessary forms, which seemed fairly standard in a situation like this. The rules of Hudson House were explained to me. For the first two weeks there I was obligated to travel out with several other members of the house to solicit donations from the outlying communities for the American Missions Association, which sponsored the operations of the Hudson Houses.

At the end of the two week period I would then be allowed time to go out and find a job in the local community and I would agree to pay the Hudson House operation $200.00 per week for room and board. Under the circumstances this seemed fairly reasonable to me and as I filled out the paperwork I thought that perhaps this would be the ideal situation for a while, then I would move on again once I was able to establish myself a little bit of a nest egg. What came next was more than just a little bit of a surprise.

As I sat there filling out the paperwork I came across a form that at first seemed innocuous until I looked at the bottom of it. Printed there were the letters G, B, S, and the instructions to circle one. Not understanding what it meant I asked Bob and he told me that it meant Gay, Bi-sexual, or Straight. I didn't think anything more of it at that moment thinking that it was California and the people that lived there were a bit different to begin with so I circled S since I was neither of the first two (here comes the kicker gang). When I circled the S Bob got a funny look on his face and started to hem and hah a little bit.

Finally he looked at me and said that there was a problem. "Oh?", says I. "What kind of a problem is that?" Hudson House is a halfway house for Gays . . .. "OOOOK!" I think to myself.

I must have turned white or something, because Bob tried to be as nice as he could, and you have to bear in mind that all of this took place within a matter of milliseconds. Thinking fast, I looked him dead in the eye and said, "I don't have a problem with that if you don't".

After several minutes of discussion with Bob, I assured him that I had nothing against Gays and would respect them and their lifestyle if they accorded me the same respect. Besides, I told him, I needed a place to live and more or less get my collective shit together and currently this was the best offer in town. After making a few phone calls to the administrators of the operation he agreed to give it a try for a while to see how things went.

I could write a book about the following three months. It was an experience that I shall never forget, and believe it or not, one that I shall remember with a certain amount of fondness. I learned a great deal, and many of those lessons have helped me considerably since then. I will say this, however. There is nothing stranger than to have a gay in love with another gay come to you and ask advice about what he, or for that matter, she, should do to win over the other. By the time I left, they were referring to me as "Papa Bear", the "Ann Landers" of the Gay World (What a distinction!).

I lived at the Hudson House in L.A. for about three months, during which time I did my two weeks of service and was then allowed to go out and seek employment. Using the services provided by the organization, I found a job working at a restaurant that was owned, operated, and frequented by gays in the local community, as a fry cook at $5.00 and hour.

It wasn't the greatest paying job in the world, but it allowed me the opportunity to support myself and at the same time save enough money to begin phase two of my now established plan. I must admit that being more or less an observer of life, I enjoyed the real life drama that was taking place around me. One of these days, if I ever get to the point where I can stop being a UFO Investigator, I might sit down and write several books about the incidents. In many respects, I doubt seriously that you could go through much of that without splitting your sides in laughter.

At the end of three months I had managed to save enough money to begin phase two, which was to leave California without notice and head eastward to the farm my mother had bought several years previously in Virginia, and where she had recently moved when she and my step father had retired. During the second week in November, just after I got my pay check from the restaurant, I informed the managers that I was quitting without notice. I then went back to the Hudson House and packed my bags telling everyone that I had to return to Arizona for an emergency in the family and walked to the bus station where I then caught a bus for Virginia.

During the next eight years I spent a fairly quiet life. The first year I lived on my mother's farm, working and helping her and my dad to remodel the farmhouse. During this period my step-father was forced to return to work in Saudi Arabia as a construction engineer on a project there. I personally think it was because my mother was turning him into a lunatic, but in any case I spent most of the year alone with what at the time appeared to be the mad woman of chalet (or something like that). In any case she made me slightly crazy.

After about a year, she and I more or less got tired of each other, and one day I told her that I didn't think that I would make a very good farmer. Her reply to that was, "Ok. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out". I left that day and moved into Lynchburg, Virginia, which was the closest town to the farm, and as it happened was the home of Liberty University and Gerry Falwell. Whom I later came to victimize on a fairly regular basis when I went into late night radio.

During the next several years I quietly disassociated myself from UFO's and research into that field, eventually divorcing my wife and remarrying a second time. The marriage lasted about three months and ended rather nastily when she awoke one morning to inform me that she was pregnant and she didn't want to be, and that I was a royal pain in the ass, and that she didn't want to be married anymore. Not a real confidence booster. Especially in light of the fact that we had dated each other for the better part of a year and a half before I asked her to marry me, and we discussed the fact that I couldn't handle a second loss of this nature.

Oh well . . . so much for promises and love. Needless to say I more or less fell apart at the seams for a while and went on a six month toot that would have made W.C. Fields proud. Eventually however, I did get my shit back together again. By this time I was working at a radio station in Crewe, Virginia and writing articles for the local weekly newspaper. She had the baby and tried to hit me for child support, and circumstances being what they were I am probably one of the few men in this country to be crazy enough to stand in front of a judge and tell him that he'd see me pay "that woman" $200.00 a month in child support, when he saw christ walk on earth for a second time, and get away with it.

During the two years that I lived in Crewe, things were more or less quiet with the exception of one incident. The house that I lived in was just two blocks away from the local police department. The town used to be a railroad terminal station, but when the railroad cut back it more or less died on it's feet and there were only about nine hundred people living there and the town employed only two cops. Both of which reminded me slightly of Barney Fife and Gomer Pyle. I never realized that there really were those kind of people in the world.

I was at home that night watching the television and had gotten up to get a soft drink from the kitchen. By this time I had sworn off alcohol of any kind, having learned a valuable lesson during my divorce from my second wife. When I came back into the living-room I tripped over my shoe laces of all things, and fell face forward onto the floor. As I fell, some one started firing automatic weapons fire into the front of the house.

The gun fire went on for watch seemed to be an eternity, but in reality was only a few minutes, but later estimates by the local sheriff's department and state police stated that at least several thousands of rounds were emptied into the front of the house. Due to the construction of the house, a concrete foundation wall about three feet high is what apparently saved my life.

At first the law enforcement agencies thought that it might be something that my ex- father in-law decided to do since I was not budging on inch on the child support thing, and he had the reputation of being slightly radical when it came to his daughters. They weren't able to prove anything though and the investigation more or less was dropped. In the meantime I decided it was a more healthy idea to find different lodgings and quietly disappear again.

This time I moved to Blackstone, Virginia where I went to work for a gentleman by the name of George Walker, who owned a cattle farm and raised Angus Cattle. I worked for George for several months until I stepped down from a tractor one day and ruptured the ligaments in my right knee and had to have surgery. It took me several months to recover from that, and of course George's insurance paid for everything, so I had an extended vacation whether I wanted it or not. During this time I recovered and did a little writing for the local paper.

It was at this time my mother contacted me and told that she had gone to a farm auction to buy a pig and fatten it up for the home farm's freezer. The wind was apparently blowing, she heard pig, 20, and assumed that she was bidding on a pig for twenty dollars. She raised her hand to bid and found out latter that she bought the pig farm for $20,000.00. Would I be interested in coming out and helping her and dad get it in operation??

After laughing hysterically and falling out of my chair, I informed her that she would see me working on a pig farm when pigs grew wings. She kept after me for about three months until finally I gave in. She got me with the bit about having to go into the hospital for surgery and how she was going to need help. Take a bit of advice guys. Watch out for that one. I found myself shoveling pig shit for six months by hand. The only good thing that came out of that was I met my third and present wife, and had the clearest sinuses I've had in thirty-eight years Phewww!

I met my third wife Valerie and her children, when I went to find a part time job at the local radio station in Brookneal, Virginia. This one was more or less a whirlwind courtship. Neither of us was really interested in getting married, and found ourselves living together more for economy than anything else. Valerie had conned me into starting to go to church with her and after several months it came time for what the Baptist church referred to as revival. Somehow or other Valerie and I were volunteered to invite the visiting minister and his wife and our minister and his wife for dinner. Some how or other we found ourselves walking down the aisle the morning of the dinner.

I still think that I was had, but in the end it was the best thing that happened to me. During the past three years Valerie has been supportive of my work and has stood by me all the way. That doesn't mean there haven't been a few interesting moments, but all in all it hasn't been bad at all.

Shortly after our marriage I went to work at a radio station in Lynchburg called WLVA, which had the distinction of being one of the oldest radio stations in the country. Having once again told my mother that I was not a farmer and my nose couldn't take anymore, I went to work for WLVA and was able to win several awards for my production work and my nightly radio talk show. I might add that one of my favorite things to do was to take pot shots at Gerry Falwell, who may be greatly loved by the masses outside of Virginia, but who in reality gave the term hemorrhoid a new meaning, and is not thought to highly of in Lynchburg.

It was during my tenure at WLVA I began to receive rather cryptic messages from my father in the mail telling me that some "Asshole" (not my words) was pestering the shit out him and his secretaries, and that I had "damned well better do something about it!"


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As it turned out the "Asshole" was John Lear, and he wasn't really an asshole at all. Unfortunately, my father misinterpreted John's persistence and desires to get in contact with me, and didn't really give him a chance. And to be perfectly honest, I, at the time wasn't really interested in contacting John because I had finally reached a point in my life where everything in my life was going well, and I was happy.

During the course of the next several months I received several more terse messages from my father but did nothing about them. Then one night while working at the radio station I happened to see a story on the Associate Press Wire Service concerning Walt Andrus, Founder and Director of MUFON. The story seemed to be extremely out of character for Walt from what little I knew of him, and it was of such a nature that I could no longer ignore the possibility of coming back into the investigative field of UFOlogy.

After giving it a great deal of thought I contacted Wendelle Stevens at his home in Arizona. Needless to say, Wendelle damned near had a heart attack when he heard my voice on the phone. Playing catch up for thirty or so seconds and finding out that I had a prominent part in a recent book published by Bill Steinman and himself, I agreed to read the book and asked him not to let anyone know that I was alive and well contrary to the belief that I had been killed, until I had a chance to think things through. He agreed and sent a copy of the Book "UFO Crash at Aztec" for me to read.

Within the next few days the book arrived and I sat down to read it carefully. As I read it, it became apparent to me that other evidence had come to light that substantiate everything that I had been saying all along for the past twelve or so years. It was then that I made the decision to contact John Lear.

When I called the number that had been forwarded to me by my father, I represented myself as Bill English's lawyer, saying that he was overseas and had asked me to contact him and find out what he wanted. John was very pleasant on the phone and explained that he want to talk to "Bill" about his viewing of 'Blue Book Report #13'. I then asked what he wanted to know and he explained that he was investigating the claims and needed more information concerning them. I told him that I would pass the message on and let Mr. English know.

I then waited several more days before contacting John. This time as myself. We talked and he asked if he could meet me in Virginia to talk with me. the rest you already know from Chapter one of this document.

Very shortly after John's visit, WLVA began to experience severe financial difficulties and there were forced to release much of the production and air staff, so I lost my job. It was at this point that my wife and I decided that it was now necessary for my to once again become active in the investigative fields. We had the money and opportunity to move so we came to Alamogordo, New Mexico for a number of reason. The first being, oddly enough, that I was born here. The second reason was because it was the last place I visited while actively investigating before my disappearance. I had unfinished business here.

Since our return here I have been quietly investigating the Black and Horn incident, trying to gain evidence to verify what took place that night on the Missile Range. So far without much luck, but in the meantime I, and my associate Dick Shefler have founded UFINET, UFO News and Information Service which is devoted to cooperation with other Investigative Organizations and Investigators. Admittedly, there are a certain few that are giving me an ulcer because of the crud that is being said about myself and some of the material that is going out, but all in all we have met with a great deal of success.


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Here is the story . . . make what you will of it, and form your own opinions, but certainly don't believe everything that you've read. As I have said before, the material I viewed in the Grudge/Blue Book Report #13, could have been false information designed to mislead those of you trying to get at the truth. However, based on the other information that has come to light over the past ten years, I doubt it. I present the story of what I saw with this possibility in mind and relate only what I had happen to me.

Since 1977 there have been a total of what appeared to be fifteen attempts against my life. Like many of you I find it difficult to believe that if the government wanted me dead they would have failed in their efforts. Which leaves open several possibilities. The first and most unlikely being that they are complete incompetents, and the second being that the attempts are an effort to motivate me into certain directions. As it is I am making an effort to let the public know that whatever is going on, it is happening and that we need more evidence and information before we even know what questions to ask in order to obtain the answers that we as investigators so desperately need.

Form your own opinions about this report I have written, but whatever you do, stay open to the possibilities and examine the world around you carefully before you become locked into a narrow minded view of the world around you.

Bill English


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