Exhausted, my only interest was the bed. It was simple, consisting of a metal frame with crisscrossed iron stripes, each about two inches wide, in place of springs. There were two Army-type blankets and a mattress, the latter very lumpy and thin, in places no thicker than two layers of cloth. It seemed designed to be as uncomfortable as possible, and was.
Though extremely tired, I slept only fitfully. I kept waking, looking around the room, as if to assure myself that it was only a bad dream. But the harsh glare, the stark walls, the locked door, were always there. It was all too real.
Three
The opening of my cell door awoke me. I was surprised to see a little old lady come in. Greeting me in Russian, she set a large tin tea kettle, a cup, and a box of sugar cubes on the table. The guards stood in the doorway, watching.
All appeared curious. I could sense no hostility.
After they left, I poured out some of the liquid, tasted it, found it was hot tea. Although worried about being drugged, my mouth and throat were parched.
As I dressed I realized I felt no ill effects from the shot, which apparently had been for sleep, or perhaps a general immunization given all new prisoners.
The night before, I had been too tired to examine my cell.
The floor was concrete, painted a rusty red, the color extending halfway up the wall. The balance was gray, the ceiling off-white.
At the end opposite the door was a single window. Of opaque glass, reinforced with wire, it opened inward about twenty degrees at the top, providing the only ventilation. Looking at the window up close, I saw it was double. Behind the first pane was a dead-air space of perhaps six inches, probably to retain heat during the winter, then another identical pane. Through it I could see the outline of bars.
Standing in just the right position, I could see out the gap at the top. But my view was limited to a small rectangle including two windows plus a piece of the wall of the building across the courtyard.
As I faced the window, with my back to the door, my bed was on the left. On the right, in the corner nearest the window, was a small table and chair. Along the right wall was a narrow shelf and, below that, pegs on which to hang clothing. There was a light bulb in the ceiling, of the same wattage as the night light over the door.
It was on now, the night light off.
These comprised the furnishings.
Although I could find nothing to indicate it, I assumed the cell was bugged. But it would do little good since I was alone and, so far as I knew, didn’t talk in my sleep.
The guards returned and took me down the hall to the toilet.
There were two tiers in the cellblock, each with sixteen cells, eight on one side, eight on the other. My cell was on the bottom level, the fourth cell on the right as you entered through the doors that separated the cellblock from the rest of the prison. The guards’ desk was in the center of the hall, almost opposite my cell door.
There were two guards on duty. Each wore a pistol. Since they were holstered, I couldn’t see what type.
The floor was carpeted, explaining why I could occasionally hear voices from inside my cell but no footsteps.
The toilet was located under the stairway leading to the upper tier, at the end of the hall opposite the entrance.
Handing me a package, the guards locked me in. Although alone, privacy was absent here too. Like the cell door, this one also had a peephole.
The package contained a small towel, a soap dish and soap, toothbrush and powder, a comb, and some coarse toilet paper.
The toilet itself was of the European, that is, stool, type. There were three wash basins, with very cold and extremely hot water.
The soap had a sweet strawberry smell. I looked for a mirror, to comb my hair, but there was none. Nor had there been one in my new abode.
On being returned to my cell, I noticed a cover over the outside of the peephole. The guards could look in whenever they chose; I couldn’t look out.
Shortly afterward the elderly lady returned with breakfast—a slice of black bread, a boiled egg, and a tiny cube of meat. Having no appetite, I didn’t touch it.
Then the guards took me back to the interrogation room.
Many of the same people were there. And most of the questions were exactly the same as those asked the previous night. But there was a difference. Now the questioning was frequently interrupted for conferences, which were not translated. Although unable to understand the words, I got the distinct impression they were unsure as to what they were going to do with me, and debating the various alternatives. This was later borne out when I was shown the interrogation transcripts. Only this session was missing. For the first time since my capture I began to feel a little bit of hope.
After only sporadic questioning, the interpreter told me I was to be taken for a tour of Moscow that afternoon.
Lunch consisted of potatoes and cabbage soup. I was still not hungry.
Following lunch, accompanied by the interpreter, two guards, a driver, and two officials, I rode out of the prison in the same limousine which had brought me there from the airport.
But the relief I had expected to feel once outside the gates wasn’t as great as anticipated. Surrounded as I was, my only chance for escape would be to make a run for it when we stopped, but we didn’t stop. Still it was good to have the questioning over, even if only temporarily.
For some reason, although I knew better, whenever I thought of the Russian people it was as in Tolstoy’s day, the men bearded, the women in black shawls. The streets of Moscow quickly dispelled this notion. Although the clothing was much more drab than in America, the people looked very much the same.
Our route took us past the Kremlin, Moscow University, a large stadium, an immense ski jump located right in the city. But their enthusiasm was less for these things than for the great amount of construction going on, particularly the rising apartment houses.
Although they didn’t say it, it was clear that housing was scarce.
Their pride in their capital city was obvious. They answered my questions eagerly, as if anxious for me to get the best impression possible. And they had numerous questions of their own, thankfully not about my flight, but the United States. Every aspect of life there seemed to fascinate them.
The mood was definitely easier than it had been, and, sensing it, an idea began to form in my mind. Perhaps I wouldn’t be shot after all. Perhaps they were trying to impress me, both with their city and their kindness, because they were soon going to release me.
Maybe it was fantasy, born out of the desperateness of my situation, but it occurred to me that when the Summit talks took place in Paris on May 16, Khrushchev might bring along a surprise. Taking me by the scruff of the neck, he might say, “Here, Ike, is something that belongs to you!”
I would be a great embarrassment to Eisenhower, but a tremendous publicity coup for Khrushchev. See how humane the Soviets are! You send a pilot to spy on us. Do we shoot him? No, we return him unharmed to his family.
Not a single word indicated that this would happen. But the scene was so real I began to believe it would.
Returned to my cell, I could barely contain my elation, not even minding the thorough search, which was already becoming almost routine.
As the hours passed, the fantasy began to dissipate and depression set in. With nothing to read, nothing whatsoever to do, my thoughts began to close in on me.
Although I still had no appetite and left it untouched, supper was a welcome interruption, as was a trip to the toilet.
But after that I was alone.
It was odd. Earlier, out of boredom and curiosity, I had gone to the door and tried to look out the peephole, to see an eyeball staring back at me. It shook me. Yet, even knowing I was being watched, I felt totally alone, in a way I had never felt before, bereft of family, friends.
No one knew where I was. Quite possibly they presumed me dead. There was nothing anyone could do to help me.
In my mind I had already
reviewed the possibilities of escape. Even if I succeeded in getting the gun away from one guard and disposing of the other, I would still be locked in the cellblock. There were a half-dozen doors, each locked, each guarded, between me and the street. To escape I would need help, and this was when I felt the loneliness most, for there was no one, absolutely no one, who could—or would—offer that help. I couldn’t count on the other prisoners aiding an American spy.
My earliest feelings again became certainty. Although thus far I hadn’t been mistreated, there was no reason to feel this situation would continue, and every reason to expect it wouldn’t.
I had been a fool to think they would believe my lies. They were experts at this sort of thing; I wasn’t even as good as an amateur. Sooner or later they would see through the fictions in my story. Even if they didn’t, the end result would probably be the same: I would be tortured and shot, without anyone outside the Soviet Union even knowing what had happened to me.
The day light went off, the night light came on. I had no idea of the time.
Tying my handkerchief around my head like a blindfold to try to keep out at least a little of the light, I lay down, momentarily expecting the guards to come in and tell me this was not permitted.
But they didn’t. I was left undisturbed.
Though not given to dreams, I had one that night.
I was in The Pound, on my father’s farm, walking down the road toward the house with Barbara, my mother, father, and all five of my sisters, when suddenly I felt a severe pain in my leg. As it grew worse, I began falling back, unable to keep up with them. Slow down, I wanted to yell, but for some reason couldn’t. Finally the pain became so acute I had to sit down on the edge of the road and watch as my family walked away from me, seeming not to know or care that I was not with them.
I awoke. The pain was real. Because of my lying in one position too long, one of the iron strips had pressed through the thin mattress into the flesh of my leg.
When the guards and the little old lady arrived with the tea, I was already up and dressed. I had been anticipating their arrival, eagerly awaiting it, in fact.
She greated me with “Zdravstvuite”, I replied with “Good morning.” Pointing to the tea kettle, I asked what it was called, managing to make myself understood. It was a chuenek.
“Chaenek,” I repeated.
I’d had my first lesson in Russian.
I felt better than the night before. Whether intentional or not—and I felt sure everything my captors did was for a purpose—leaving me alone had a definite psychological effect. It made me anxious to talk to someone, anyone. I’d have to guard against this, I realized.
But it was, in a way, an unnecessary worry. For that morning, May 3, the interrogations began in earnest. Morning, afternoon, evening, averaging eleven hours per day, seven days per week, they were to continue without pause for nineteen days, then, after a single day’s recess, start all over again.
The indecision as to my fate I had sensed on the second day was gone now. As was the friendliness. From this point on everything was quite businesslike, with one objective, to get as much information as possible from the prisoner.
Although the cast occasionally varied, technical experts sometimes sitting in with questions of their own, five people were usually present at the interrogations:
A stenographer. I had expected them to tape-record the sessions. Instead, each word was laboriously transcribed, typed in Russian, then, later, translated and retyped in English. Not too surprisingly, in the process words and phrases changed, whole sentences got lost, meanings distorted. In some instances, intentionally. Thus, questioned about the Defense Department certificate in my wallet and asked if this meant I was an Air Force pilot, my reply, “It means that I was a civilian employee of the Department of the Air Force,” became in transcript, “It means that I served in the United States Air Force as a civilian.” A small but quite important change.
The interpreter. In his mid-thirties, only he “appeared” to know English. I was never sure about the others.
Two majors, Kusmin and Vasaelliev. Both about thirty, my age, which I suppose was more than coincidence. They handled the bulk of the questioning, working as a carefully rehearsed team. I’d read in detective stories of how American policemen would sometimes grill a suspect, utilizing a Mutt and Jeff routine. While one would be impatient and threatening, his partner would be sympathetic and kind, the prisoner naturally hating the former, but warming to and cooperating with the latter. Although I recognized the tactic, this didn’t keep me from succumbing to it, halfway. I hated Major Vasaelliev. But, quite aware that his purpose was exactly the same, I didn’t allow myself the luxury of thinking Major Kusmin meant me well.
A colonel. At one point I asked if I could have an attorney present during the questioning. In the United States, I noted, an accused person has that right. The interpreter had pointed to the colonel. As a representative of the prosecutor’s office, he was present to see that the interrogation proceeded in accordance with the law. Supposedly an observer, the colonel frequently asked questions himself, including some of the most incriminating. Later, examining transcripts of the interrogations, I would find every one of his questions attributed to someone else.
Although present during the first two interrogations, Rudenko was absent from most of those which followed. During one session, which was conducted by a general rather than the two majors, a short, thin, chain-smoking man of about forty monitored the proceedings. Later I learned his name. He was Aleksandr N. Shelepin, his official title chairman of the State Security Committee under the Council of Ministers of the USSR, or head of the KGB.
(Shelepin was head of the KGB from 1958 to 1961, at which time he was elevated to the Presidium. A Khrushchev protégé and one of the premier’s most trusted advisers, later he would betray him, helping arrange his downfall.)
At what altitude was the U-2 flying when the rocket hit you?
About sixty-eight thousand feet, but I’m not sure it did hit me.
It could have been a near-miss.
You were hit on the very first shot. You didn’t see any other rockets, did you?
No, but then neither did I see this one.
How many flights have you made over Russia?
This was my first.
How many?
Just one.
What is your unit called?
Detachment 10-10.
Where is it based?
Incirlik.
Where is Incirlik?
Adana, Turkey.
How many U-2s are there at Incirlik?
Four or five.
How many U-2 pilots are stationed there?
Seven.
What are their names?
I’m not going to tell you that.
We know them anyway, so you might as well tell us.
Fine, if you already know them, then there’s no need for me to tell you.
Did any high-ranking officials ever visit Incirlik?
Occasionally.
Who were they?
General Thomas D. White was one.
Who is he?
I think he’s Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force.
Did he visit your detachment?
No, only the base.
Who were the others?
General Frank F. Everest, Commander-in-Chief of the United States Air Force in Europe.
The others?
I can’t remember anyone else.
Think. Who else?
Cardinal Spellman.
Did he visit your detachment?
No, neither White nor Spellman did. They only visited the base.
What is the name of the commanding officer of Detachment 10-10?
Colonel Shelton.
Who ordered you to make this flight?
Colonel Shelton.
Who was in charge of planning such flights?
All I know about is the one flight I took. Colonel Shelton handled that.
>
Who briefed you?
Colonel Shelton.
Who marked the route you were to follow on the maps?
Our navigator.
What was his name?
Major Dulak.
How many navigators are there in the detachment?
Just one.
How many pilots?
Seven.
What are their names?
I told you I wasn’t going to answer that.
Where did you learn to fly the U-2?
In the United States.
Where in the United States?
A base on the West Coast.
What is it called?
Watertown.
Who was in charge of your training?
A Colonel Perry.
When did you first arrive at Incirlik?
In 1956.
Who was your commanding officer then?
The same Colonel Perry.
What were the names of your other commanding officers?
The only other one I can remember was a Colonel Beerli.
What is this piece of equipment? What does it do?
I don’t know. I told you the pilots were never shown the equipment. (It was part of the radar recording apparatus.)
You said that the purpose of your flight was intelligence. Now—
No. I didn’t say that. I said I presumed that was its purpose. As far as my own knowledge goes, I don’t know that to be the case.
You could surely guess?
Yes, I could. But it would be only a guess.
When you were hit by the rocket, did you radio your base and tell them you were bailing out?
I don’t intend to answer that question.
Why not?
Because I don’t think it to my advantage to do so.
Under Soviet law, complete cooperation, which includes answering all questions truthfully, can be an important factor in mitigating punishment.
That may be so. But I still refuse to answer.
What are the names of the other pilots at Incirlik?
(Silence.)
How many flights have you made over the Soviet Union?
This was my first and, presumably, my last.
The detachment number appeared on my identification; Incirlik was shown on my maps, as well as listed on the U-2 radio channelization chart in the aircraft. The visits of generals White and Everest were parts of well-publicized European base-inspection tours, Cardinal Spellman’s visit only a stop on his regular Christmas tour—all had been written up in Stars and Stripes. Other visitors, unpublicized and of far more interest to the Russians, I left unmentioned. NACA had issued a press release identifying Watertown; it was no longer in use as a training base. As for Detachment 10-10’s commanders, I presumed it would be relatively easy for the Russians to discover their names, if their intelligence didn’t already know them. By crediting each with far more duties than he was actually responsible for—training, planning, operations, intelligence, etc.—I was able to avoid revealing the names of more than a dozen others. Nor was Major Dulak the only navigator.
Operation Overflight Page 11
