The Norport Anomaly — The Williams Account

By Richard Hardenburg

Steve Williams, the son of the late Colonel James Williams—a highly decorated veteran of the Great Second War—contacted our editorial office after reading about the Norport Anomaly. We agreed to meet at the Noir Café in downtown Norport.

I was curious. Colonel Williams is a well-known hero of the city, and I couldn’t help but wonder how his legacy could possibly be linked to the strange incident that had emerged from a scientific article published by a professor at the University of British Salmoa.

“How does your father’s story converge with the Norport Incident?” I asked.

“My father served with distinction and gallantry during the Great Second War,” Steve began, “and was awarded the Lionheart Cross—the highest honor—for his bravery and leadership in combat. He served as a lieutenant in the 2nd Rangers, right here in Norport, where his battalion was deployed to defend the west coast in case of an enemy invasion. When I read your article, I remembered a passage in my father’s war diary.”

As he spoke, Mr. Williams produced a journal that showed visible signs of damage. The cover was charred, the edges burned, and dark stains blotted the pages.

“My father’s blood,” Steve clarified, noticing my curiosity. He handed me the journal carefully, saying, “I want you to read what he wrote on December 7th, 1942.”

The pages were brittle with age, the pencil writing faint in places. There were sketches, notes, and diagrams—some scarred by time and burn marks. As I searched for the date, a small object slipped free: the discolored petals of a Lily flower.

“My mother,” Steve said softly. “Her name was Lily.”

He smiled faintly, and I nodded. Then, with his permission, I turned to the entry dated December 7th, 1942.

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Lieutenant James Williams — War Diary
December 7th, 1942

0445 hr.
It is cold and dark. Last night’s snow is sticking. Here comes the company commander—I might not have time for coffee.

2020 hr.
What a day. How do I begin? Everyone’s still on edge.

Commander Thompson met with me early today and said enemy scouts had been spotted down the coastline by Bravo Bulldog Company of the Marines. They couldn’t engage them—lost contact. Thompson believed the scouts were coming our way and stated clearly they needed to be neutralized. All units were put on alert. Whatever appeared by the treeline on the west side of town—my sector—was to be treated as hostile.

At 0510 hr., I ordered Sgt Ramos to take two riflemen, the .30-caliber Browning gunner Corporal Nowak, and plenty of ammunition. Their task: set up the Browning in the church bell tower behind our position and open fire at first sight.

Behind the church, the 3-inch mortar platoon was ready to support us. The west flank of the city was secure.

We waited more than two hours, eyes fixed on the treeline, searching for the smallest movement.

At 0752 hr., I made a round to warn the guys and told them to keep their eyes peeled, as the enemy were professional soldiers, not to underestimate anything.

At 0754 hr., with the first light of day, Ramos shouted: “There they are!”
Then the Browning opened up—hell on earth. I glanced back toward the church tower and saw the muzzle flashes—beautiful, I thought.

Ahead of us, tree branches and snow exploded upward, mud flying everywhere.
“Fire, goddamn it! Let them have it!”

The mortars joined in, raining destruction across the front.

At 0759 hr., Captain Thompson’s voice broke through the chaos: “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” It took nearly thirty seconds to halt the barrage. The air was thick with smoke and gunpowder. Everyone was shaken, but unharmed.

Then Thompson came to me and asked, “What were you shooting at?”

I turned toward the church tower. “Ramos! What were you firing on?”

For a moment, no answer. Then Ramos called back, voice uncertain: “Lieutenant… they were there, right in front of your position.” He turned to Nowak. “Tell him!”

Nowak muttered, “Yeah. Didn’t you see them?”

Thompson frowned. “There was nothing there, Ramos. Nothing!”

Ramos climbed down from the tower, frustrated, his M3 slung over his shoulder. He crossed our line toward the trees. “They were right here,” he said, jabbing at the ground with his index finger, as if dotting every word.

We spent the entire day searching the area. No enemy. No footprints. No sign of engagement.

Captain Thompson wasn’t angry—but he looked deeply unsettled.

---

When I lifted my eyes from the journal, Steve said quietly, “Sgt Ramos served with my father in several campaigns. Bravery didn’t begin to cover him—I swear CAM must have run out of medals. Every time something strange happened, he’d squint and ask, ‘Lieutenant, did you see that tank? It was coming right at us, right?’ And my dad would just shake his head and laugh, ‘Yeah… you did not take the wooden nickel!’ The whole thing's in his journal.”

Sometimes, journalists are presented with stories that resist explanation. This was one of them. To seek answers, I reached out to Professor Marino-Albernas, who has been studying Sasquatchus anonymus.

“I know that incident,” the professor said. “It’s the only recorded combat operation in Norport where no enemy was ever found. Military psychiatrists at the time dismissed it as stress, no fault of the troops.”

He paused before continuing.

“I can’t dismiss it so easily. We’re currently investigating S. anonymus—a species potentially capable of manipulating the refractive index of its surroundings through neurometabolic processes. In theory, it can alter how light interacts with molecular structures, effectively rendering itself—or other entities—invisible. It’s possible, as a working hypothesis, that Sergeant Ramos observed them from a refractive angle that revealed what others could not see. The same might have occurred with the Marines: they saw them one instant, and the next, they vanished—but they were still there.”

He leaned back. “Science still has much to uncover.”

As Mr. Williams and I parted ways, I couldn’t shake the feeling that what his father saw wasn’t madness or illusion. Perhaps, as the professor suggested, the invisible still move among us—waiting for the right light to reveal them.