Outer Space to You Page 3

  As I walked down a street toward a curio shop I had spotted, a taxi pulled over to the curb and the driver addressed me in Spanish.

  I replied in perhaps the worst Spanish on earth that I did not speak the language and his look showed me he hastily agreed. Then he said something else and pointed at a man in the back seat.

  I am afraid the novelty of the occasion quite nonplussed me. Much to my later chagrin I remember the first thing that struck my mind were some of the stories related in the bull sessions back at camp.

  The man had long blond hair which hung over his shoulders. His skin appeared suntanned. The first quick observation showed that he was taller and heavier than the average Mexican.

  He spoke to me in English quite pleasantly, though I remember he had a slight Mexican accent.

  “I have something to tell you. Would you get in the cab?” he asked, but I demurred, making the excuse I had to find my buddies and go back to camp; and at the same time I walked on. As I turned he smiled and merely said, “All right,” again quite pleasantly.

  When I told the others about it, there were many guffaws; and for several days I was the butt of much good-natured ribbing.

  But upon reflection I wondered if I could have made a mistake. I remembered the discs, and again many of the things the girl had told me.

  Could this have been some of “our people” who she had promised would seek me out:

  “...They will always be around...watching out for you...guiding you.”

  But I never saw the man again.

  Maneuvers moved us from place to place and finally we arrived at Camp Cook, in California, where a lot of scuttlebutt had it we were being readied for shipping out. I wangled a leave of absence and went to Abilene, Texas, to see my first born—my son, Robert. My wife and baby were staying there with relatives, and we had a happy reunion.

  A few days after I returned, another happening in the chain of events, which would finally change my life completely, occurred. As I was walking on the camp grounds I heard someone call my name.

  I looked around, but saw no one familiar. I thought I must be mistaken.

  As I continued walking, a man in khaki uniform approached me from the opposite direction, and I again heard my name called out.

  It seemed to be coming from his direction, though I could not figure why because I did not know the man.

  He was of average height, and apparently muscular and well built.

  All the while I was puzzling over what he wanted with me and the peculiarity of the voice—not so much the voice as of my confusion about where it was coming from. It seemed to be coming from his direction, yet it was not audible. Later I was to learn the sound was not audible but a projected mental sound which I only thought I heard.

  A stab of memory quickened my mental processes as I realized this was telepathic communication, for I had heard the sound not with my ears but with my mind.

  I stopped in my tracks. Was this the kind of man the girl had spoken of—someone from another planet? This sudden realization that such a thing was possible stunned me for a moment and for a brief second or two I was even afraid—though it was an occasion I had long hoped for and longingly expected.

  Then he greeted me, speaking audibly, pronouncing my name and extending his hand. I stood there staring at him with, I am embarrassingly afraid, a very blank look on my face. Slowly I raised my hand and took his.

  I suspect the first space man I met did not gain an impression that earth people had firm handclasps, because mine was very weak.

  Then he smiled, put a gentle pressure on my hand, and I suddenly felt warmth glowingly permeate my entire body.

  Then I returned the handshake, grasping the handclasp with my other hand as I again realized some of the same feelings I had experienced long ago on the rock in the woods.

  As that scene came flashing across my mind again in what seemed a whirl of stimuli, he picked up my thoughts.

  “Yes, Howard, I know of the contact you had with one of our people when you were very young, and you will see her again in the future...”

  I looked up with what must have been an obvious appearance of joy and met his eyes. He smiled knowingly.

  He was a fine looking man. Although there was something definitely unusual about him, he could have passed—and did—for an ordinary G.I. The singularity of the man probably was not because of the finely chiseled features and the luminous, almost liquid quality of his eyes, but in the communication I felt. I could sense that the man was kind, wise, emotionally and spiritually developed beyond anyone I had ever met.

  Although a kind of reserve he wore as if a part of him set him apart from an ordinary person, I somehow accepted with no surprise the emergence of an underplayed, yet natural sense of humor.

  “I know about your Juarez contact,” he said; and it was confirmed that the man in the taxi had been one of the space people.

  He chuckled.

  “We told him he should cut his hair. I have, you know. It’s difficult even for us to keep up with you folk and learn just how you think.”

  I apologized for goofing up the contact, but he waved away my remonstration. He realized that army regulations encouraged caution in such areas, and that Juarez was not the best place in the world for an interplanetary meeting.

  Then I stood open-mouthed in amazement as he related, in a matter-of-fact manner, things I had never dreamed could happen.

  Many Mexican people knew about what I termed “flying saucers” and had been contacting the occupants of the craft.

  “Long before the time of the Conquistadores,” he added, “we made contact with the Aztecs. We helped these people in many ways, and it is too bad the conquerors came in war instead of good will and friendship; for there were many things the Aztecs could have taught them. Instead they withheld these secrets, and these perished with the civilization.”

  Some of the secrets had to do with the use of sound and light to produce power and run machinery, though my new friend didn’t elucidate. He remarked that gold discs which were sent back to the Queen of Spain contained such secrets, but the Spaniards were interested only in melting down the gold. I gathered from his conversation that the discs were some sort of sonic instruments used for levitations when turned to the frequencies of individuals using them.

  Other civilizations received the use of marvelous instruments, and these were used for peaceful purposes. But as in the case of the Aztecs, the secrets were destroyed or forgotten when warlike races invaded.

  “Thus it happens, over and over again, Howard. You’d think we’d give up—we won’t.”

  The man in Juarez was a visitor from a planet (he did not say what planet) who came to contact remnants of his own people still living on earth—descendants of an ancient race which originally came here from his own planet.

  The surprises kept coming. He suddenly told me that my outfit would be leaving for Hawaii soon, and that I would be put on detached service with special duties which would give me more free time for certain tasks I was to perform. He said I would have a contact in Hawaii and would be given further instructions.

  Another person in our camp had also been contacted, he said. I asked him who.

  “An Army officer,” he replied, without giving the name. Sensing my curiosity, he added. “It makes no matter; you and he will not meet.”

  A few weeks later we shipped out to Hawaii.

  3. Hawaii Contact

  The “G.I.’s” predictions proved remarkably accurate.

  After being sent to Hawaii, as he had promised, I was taken out of the tank crew and transferred to Battalion Headquarters and made a battalion draftsman; and, as predicted, I did work on detached service with the Navy.

  As we had parted I could not help thinking that these people from other planets seemed to know the past, present and future. Again he had sensed my thoughts and smiled, terminating the conversation with another handshake, and walked away.

  Most everything he had told me
had already come true, except the contact he promised, and this I impatiently awaited, almost breathlessly.

  It was a strange, wonderful feeling, to meet these people. Somehow, as unimportant and weak as I felt in their presence, there was still the knowledge of kinship I couldn’t help sensing.

  So it was that one early evening after work I did not hesitate to accede to a strong impulse to visit a section of cavern area a few miles away.

  I “borrowed” a jeep and took off.

  I didn’t know exactly where I was going, excepting for the general area. It seemed I was being led.

  Near the caverns I stopped, then pulled the jeep off the bumpy, dirt road, and walked through the dense underbrush toward the caves.

  I knew I would meet one of the space people. Ordinarily I would have been fearful of being alone in such a wild place. But the thought of the meeting erased all of my natural apprehensions.

  Suddenly I halted as I saw a figure ahead of me. Through the underbrush I could see it was a female form.

  As I walked closer I discovered she was a beautiful woman with long dark hair and dark eyes.

  She was dressed in a sort of flowing outfit of pastel shades. Under a kind of flowing tunic, translucent and pinkish, she wore loosely fitted pajama-type pantaloons.

  She stood about 5’ 6”, with the dark, wavy hair falling over her shoulders and the tunic floating gracefully around the shapely contour of her body. The warm, moist air of the tropical evening seemed to caress her finely molded features.

  I stopped in my tracks, staring at her in uncontrolled admiration, until she extended her hand and called out my name.

  Although I shall always remember the girl on the rock with a special kind of memory, this girl, too, exuded the same expression of spiritual love and deep understanding. Standing in her presence I was filled with awe and humility, but not without a strong physical attraction one finds impossible to allay when in the presence of these women.

  She immediately sensed that part of my feelings and also my embarrassment at knowing that she sensed them.

  “Oh, Howard,” she almost chided, “it’s only a natural thing, I feel it myself. It flows from you to me as from me to you.”

  But many other men under similar circumstances would not react in the same gentlemanly manner as I did, she remarked, as I could detect an undercurrent of good-humored jest in her words.

  Then she grew more serious.

  “That is one of the reasons you were chosen out of many thousands for contact with my people and the enlightenment you will consequently receive.”

  Again she read my thoughts.

  “Oh, to be sure, Howard, if you weren’t a gentleman, I would have the proper defense. So many people’s egos are greater than their humility. But yours isn’t.”

  Again I was taken aback with amazement at the knowledge of these space people.

  “I know about the little Portuguese girl and what you did. It was a wonderful thing to do, Howard, and it showed you as the real man that you are.”

  I am always sensitive to praise, though I deeply enjoy it. I shyly lowered my head and turned a bit red as usual. She referred to the little blond girl on which some of my aggressive buddies tried to force their unruly attentions. I had stepped in, suddenly brave enough to fight a mountain lion, managed to extricate the young woman and had taken her home. Her family had greatly appreciated the gesture and had received me into their family as an intimate friend.

  “In other words, I think you’re ‘passing,’ Howard! Isn’t that the way you say it in school?”

  I was again overjoyed. I was so afraid that, feeling so powerless and inconsequential in the presence of these people, they would think me as inferior as I myself imagined.

  “You have been observed closely, as you now realize. You will be trusted and have further contacts.”

  She also made predictions. Our outfit would go to Okinawa, would arrive there between April 1, and 5, 1945.

  My abhorrence of war she easily picked up telepathically.

  “I know how you feel, and it is most admirable. You cannot think of killing a living soul. But yet you cannot understand why you yet help play such a role. You will be contacted on Okinawa, and you will be told much more about this.”

  I hesitated to ask her if I might be killed, but it was on my mind.

  “Oh no, don’t worry—but be careful! You will have some narrow escapes.”

  The average person with whom I talk about these contacts does not realize that the space people, though far superior to us physically, mentally and in spiritual developments, are still much like us. Often little gasps of amazement come when I tell of intimate conversations, and the warm humor of the visitors. They would probably stand sanctimoniously before the space people, afraid they might say or think something wrong—until, of course, they received the same feeling of ease I did immediately, even at the first meeting.

  At such a meeting one knows innately that one’s every thought is bared under powerful telepathic observation. And with such knowledge one suddenly realizes he cannot hide anything, and becomes completely honest, both with himself and the visitors. It is a refreshing, cleansing feeling, which carries over into everyday dealings with one’s fellow men.

  The conversation with the beautiful girl was so fascinating I hoped I hadn’t annoyed her with too many questions. I learned, for one thing, she was from Mars. As to meeting her again, she wouldn’t state firmly; instead she explained we might meet again, and I would have to know by my inner feelings whether it was really she.

  Suddenly I realized the sun had set, and as I looked toward the horizon, still bright with a hundred shades of red, then back at her, she smiled, and extended her hand.

  We said goodbye and I walked back to the jeep. It was dark by the time I arrived back at camp.

  4. A Narrow Escape

  True to the girl’s prediction, we landed on Okinawa the first week of April, 1945, and into a reign of horror she had charitably spared my anticipating.

  It is an indescribable feeling to board an LST and head for an enemy shore. As our small boat neared the beach, I steeled every nerve in my body, not knowing when the fury of enemy resistance would be unleashed.

  At that climactic moment the briefing we had just received on board ship held little comfort—but we hoped they were right! Our aircraft had given the island a saturation bombing of such thoroughness and intensity our officers believed that all organized surface resistance had been smashed. And even as we neared the beach our naval vessels riddled the island with concentrated shell fire.

  I had the feeling our landing had been too quiet. And I was right. The Japanese were still there—in force. They were really “dug in,” hiding in caverns and concealing themselves in outlying areas.

  If I had ever thought of war with a connecting glamour, that idea was soon gone. War on Okinawa was a grim, horrible thing, without a vestige of glamour, parading and glow some people may associate with it. This was guerilla warfare, without any actual front, with hand-to-hand fighting.

  The Japanese had not lost their power to retaliate. One evening after a rather quiet day, our bombing and strafing planes were returning to the airstrip when a Navy Hellcat, the last plane in, flew in low, without attempting to land. Suddenly it opened fire on us. We hit the ground and took whatever cover we could find as it sprayed the area with machine-gun fire.

  We were surprised and aghast. Had one of our own pilots gone mad? We later discovered a Japanese pilot had somehow gained control of one of our planes and had managed to slip in on us and make the daring attack, which did great damage.

  The enemy kept us constantly harrassed by shelling us from a nearby island which they still held. The shelling did little real damage and was done I suspected, mainly as a psychological weapon.

  One day as I was patrolling near the air strip one of the shells fell short and hit pretty close to me. I heard it coming and flattened, and thought I had escaped injury.

 
As I got to my feet I felt something stinging in my right eye. I put my hand to my eye and managed to pick out something with my fingers. It was a piece of shrapnel.

  I stumbled to the hospital area and received treatment, but the eye became infected and finally went blind.

  I was hospitalized in a large tent near the camp where busy doctors and nurses worked hard and skillfully at all hours; but they could not prevent the infection from spreading to my other eye. I was completely blind.

  Something happened in the hospital tent that I have often wondered about. Perhaps I can never be certain.

  During the first week there a kind, soft-spoken woman came to my bed, and began talking with me.

  When I asked her if she were a nurse, she didn’t reply directly, but said she was not really assigned to my section.

  “You are one of the persons I have come to see.”

  I detected a reluctance in her voice to tell me much about herself, and did not press any more questions.

  She must have known a lot about me. She called me by name, though I figured she could have obtained that easily from the hospital records or the doctors in charge. She offered to write letters home for me, which I declined, not wishing my family to know I was hospitalized. [When I returned home I found that my wife had known almost the exact date I lost my sight. She had told her family, “I know what happened to Howard. He’s blind!”]

  She assured me my sight would be restored, and, surely enough, it came back gradually. When I first saw my soft-spoken friend, I noted an attractive woman with wavy brown hair, dark eyes, and fine white teeth. She was dressed in an army nurse’s uniform.

  Although I suspected she was one of the space people, she never made herself known directly. Near the time of my release she said that I would soon meet a very interesting person. I assumed it would be another contact.

  I never saw her again after that day on which she said that.