By: Albert Wain

In 2015, while handling an inspection claim for damaged furniture in Buffalo, New York, I met with a client at his home. He was around eighty years old and wore a cast on one arm. As we walked through his condo inspecting the damaged pieces, he explained that he was battling bone cancer in his arm and that his wife of many years had recently passed away.

At one point, he brought me into a room lined with photographs of various aircraft. He told me he was a retired Air Force officer who had flown many combat missions in Korea and Vietnam. This, he explained, was his room of memories. He spoke easily about his time in the military, and it was clear he was enjoying the conversation. When we finished the inspection, I asked if we might sit for a while and visit before I headed out. He smiled and said, “That sounds nice.”

We discussed his wife and the life they had shared, his military service, and I shared a little about my own life as well. Because I’ve always had an interest in the UFO topic — and because he seemed receptive — I decided to ask.

“So,” I said, “have you ever seen anything up there you couldn’t quite explain? A flying saucer or something like that?”

“You mean like a spaceship, or something like that?”

“Yes,” I replied.

He looked up at the ceiling for a few moments, his eyes moving back and forth, then said, “Nope. Not that I recall. Some of the other pilots and I would see these things called contrails and couldn’t figure out where they came from, but no UFOs.”

I was, of course, disappointed and was about to move on to another subject or get ready to leave when his demeanor changed. He stared at me with a look that suggested he wasn’t sure whether he should tell me something — or whether I would even believe him.

“I’ll tell you something that happened while I was with another pilot at an officers’ club in Korea,” he said, “if you’re interested.”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

He told me they had been sitting at a table with two young pilots they met that night, playing pool and drinking beer. As the evening went on, the conversation drifted through careers and the usual pilot talk. At some point, the two young men mentioned that their first assignment out of flight school had been Roswell Air Base.

“My friend and I chuckled a little,” he said, “and one of us asked, ‘Oh, isn’t that where the flying saucer supposedly crashed?’”

Both men went silent. Their expressions turned serious. They looked around the room nervously, then at each other, and back at us. Finally, one of them spoke quietly.

“They were there,” he said. “We saw them.”

They tried to get the young men to explain, to tell them more, but neither one would say another word about it.

“And I guess,” he added, “that’s all I can tell you as well.”

My visit ended shortly after that, and I moved on with my business and with my life. In reflection, I cannot speak to the sincerity of the two young airmen from Roswell. But I will never doubt the sincerity of the story I was told by a very fine older gentleman — and a patriot.