Operation Overflight

by Francis Gary Powers

  Before leaving Moscow, Barbara had been unable to find some of the winter clothing I needed. One of the KGB officials had told her that they wouldn’t hold too strictly to the one-package rule; she could send the remainder upon her return to the United States. On November 5 the package arrived, containing some much-needed winter long Johns, an extra pair of shoes, a puzzle and a bridge game, and various other items. Its value was declared at sixty-seven dollars, the postage $49.54, and the customs duty twelve hundred rubles. There wasn’t anything I needed that much, I decided.

  Except possibly a letter. Although I searched the package, there wasn’t one. It had been nearly a month since I had received her last.

  Representatives of the KGB came about every two weeks. I told them bluntly, “I’m not getting all my mail. The letters from my wife aren’t coming through. You must be stopping them.”

  “No,” they insisted, “we aren’t. But we’ll check and see.”

  They seemed very disturbed that I would even think they would do such a thing.

  During the trial I had stated that I felt no animosity toward the Russian people. This was true. Although I had no fondness for my interrogators at Lubyanka, and I harbored only contempt for the trial team of Rudenko-Grinev, the majority of the people I had met in Russia, from the farmers who captured me in the field to my guards at Vladimir, were friendly and without malice. Ordinary people, they were as curious about me as I about them. Apparently each of us had been led to believe the other monstrous; the discovery that this wasn’t true was a pleasant surprise. A few of the guards had been surly, but they were surly to everyone. By contrast, the Little Major seemed jolly whatever the occasion.

  I could honestly say that while an uninvited house guest of the Russians, I had never met anyone I really hated.

  On November 6 I met the exception.

  That day Zigurd and I were taken to the theater to watch a concert put on by some of the work-camp prisoners. There was a comedy skit—the comedian easily recognizable by his long nose; several of the prisoners were quite talented musicians; and one, a large dark man known as “Gypsy,” did fabulous cossack dances.

  While we were sitting on the bench in the projection room, the prison commander walked in. I glanced at him briefly—I had seen him only once previously, on the day of my arrival—then returned my attention to the show.

  Angrily, with Zigurd acting as a reluctant interpreter, he demanded that I stand at attention.

  All prisoners were required to stand in the presence of the prison commander, he bellowed. No one had told me this. When someone came into the cell, we stood automatically, out of simple politeness, but I’d never given it any thought.

  For a good ten minutes he cursed me, and the United States, with the vilest epithets he could muster, only a portion of which Zigurd repeated.

  It was a small incident, certainly nothing compared to what some prisoners undergo at the hands of their captors, but I reacted strongly.

  Revenge is sweet, and I desperately needed some of that sweetening. But, considering our relative circumstances, I could see no way to accomplish it. Until, that evening, when the time came to write in my diary.

  Zigurd and I were unsure whether our cell was searched when we were out. Several times, before leaving for walks or a movie, we had set traps—a thread stretched between the beds, a drawer open a fraction of an inch. But, on our return, they were undisturbed. I didn’t know whether my diary was being read. But this was one time I fervently hoped it would be.

  For my entry that day I wrote: “Went to a concert put on by prisoners in barracks number 3. Liked it. Whole day spoiled by prison commander. First S.O.B. I have seen in Russia.”

  S.O.B. was in bold black letters and underlined.

  I could visualize the prison commander asking a translator, “What is an S.O.B.?”

  And I could picture the translator trying to explain it to him.

  A daydream, of course. But most satisfying.

  Diary, November 7: “Big holiday here. Sundays and holidays are bad in prison. A person knows other people are celebrating and feels lonely. The radio told of the celebration in Moscow. Twentygun salute, fireworks, etc.”

  In Russia it was the forty-third anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution. Tomorrow it would be election day in the United States and I was eagerly awaiting word of the outcome. Although limited in my news sources, I had followed this election with far greater interest than any previous one.

  From my father’s letters I had received the distinct impression that the Eisenhower administration was anxious to sweep the U-2 incident under the rug. This had come across with some bitterness, since my father, an iconoclast in just about everything, was one of those rare creatures, a Virginia Republican. Shortly after my capture, his attorney, Carl McAfee, had tried to see the President. Failing in this, he had talked to Vice-President Nixon, who assured him that everything that could be done would be done. Perhaps needless to say, my father did not believe this was the case.

  There was one lingering reminder of the U-2 episode. My presence in a Russian prison. For a time I had hoped that Eisenhower would attempt to remedy this before leaving office. Knowing the stand he had already taken, I was sure he would never apologize to Khrushchev for the overflights, but I had hoped that some understanding could be reached wherein both sides could save face. I was far less confident now. Politics being politics, the time to do this would have been before the election, when the Republicans could have derived some political benefit. Now, it seemed, they didn’t want to be reminded.

  According to the highly slanted Russian interpretation of the news, the two candidates differed only in degree, both being committed to continuing the arms race. I knew little as to the issues of the campaign. I did know, however, that Kennedy had said earlier that had he been President when the incident occurred, he would have apologized to Khrushchev; that following my trial he had pronounced the sentence “extremely harsh,” stating that the testimony made clear that Powers “was only carrying out his duty.” And I had heard a little about the Kennedy-Nixon debates. I observed in my journal: “Nixon said that the next President should be a man who was not afraid to stand up to Khrushchev. I don’t know what Kennedy replied to this, but I do know my own opinion. I think we need a man as President who would try to get along with people and not go around with a chip on his shoulder saying ‘I’m not afraid of you.’ We need a man who would try to settle and ease the tension in the world. We definitely do not need a man who thinks he has to stand up to another man and prove to the world that he isn’t afraid, even if he kills half the population of his country proving it.”

  I hoped Kennedy had won. I added, pointedly, that my opinions were formed solely on the limited, edited news available to me. “If I had heard all of the speeches, etc., my opinions might be different.”

  My sentence, I felt sure, could be terminated only by an easing of tensions between the East and the West. I now had a highly personal stake in world peace.

  During the trial Grinev had made a big point of my being apolitical, never having voted in an American election. I was not proud of this fact. I had been away from home since turning twenty-one; while stationed at various Air Force bases and while overseas I had always intended to write home for an absentee ballot, but had never gotten around to it.

  Now, one way of the other, my future could very well depend on the outcome of the balloting.

  I vowed that if —when—I returned to the United States, never again would I miss an opportunity to cast my vote.

  Something had been on my mind since long before the trial. Now, awaiting the election results and knowing that whichever way the balloting went that the Eisenhower years were coming to an end, I gave it more thought.

  I asked myself why, with the Summit so close, had Eisenhower approved my flight?

  I tried to assemble the pieces of the puzzle, those few I possessed. I knew there had been no overflights for months and then suddenly two in c
lose succession. The pilots believed the resumption of the flights was due at least in part to the agency’s fear that Russia was now close to solving her missile-guidance problem. I knew that my particular flight had been authorized on the highest level because my take-off had been delayed until White House approval had been received.

  I also knew the intelligence objectives of both flights were important—but important enough to take this risk at this time?

  One possible explanation occurred to me. At first it seemed farfetched; yet, the more I thought about it, the more sense it made.

  Could Eisenhower have wanted Khrushchev to know of the flights?

  We knew that the Russians had radar-tracked most if not all of the overflights, so the chances were that these last two U-2 flights would not have gone undetected. Might Eisenhower or his advisers have felt it to be to our advantage, psychologically, to have Khrushchev know, to have this very much on his mind when he arrived in Paris for the talks?

  Had the flight gone off as planned, it would not have been mentioned. The two men sitting across the table from each other: Eisenhower smug in the knowledge that we could overfly Russia at will, and Khrushchev not able to do a thing about it; Khrushchev inwardly raging but unable to protest, because to do so would be to admit that his country did not have missiles capable of reaching the planes.

  What a perfect setting for reopening discussions of Eisenhower’s Open Skies Plan!

  In agreeing to what was already the status quo, Khrushchev would have had far more to gain than lose. And Eisenhower would climax his last year in office with a spectacular accomplishment, a major step toward disarmament.

  It was all speculation. And in a sense moot, because the flight had not gone off as scheduled. Yet it interested me. This was one of a number of puzzles I hoped to solve on my return to the United States.

  There was no U.S. election news on the eighth. On the ninth Moscow Radio said the results were uncertain: Kennedy was ahead, but the count was still not final.

  Diary, November 10: “Very glad to hear that Kennedy will be the new President of the U.S. Hope he goes all out for peace.”

  Now all I could do was what I had been doing: wait and see.

  Diary, November 11: “Nothing much happened today. Managed to miss studying Russian. Kept my cellmate talking, and he forgot.”

  I didn’t talk to Zigurd just to avoid studying. He had lived a fascinating life, and whenever he seemed in the mood, I encouraged him to tell me about it. He was as sparing with the details of his underground experiences as I was with my CIA flights. Without ever spelling it out, we respected the fact that some areas would always remain off limits, no matter how much we might trust each other. It was other things, often casually revealed, accidentally glimpsed, that gave me the clearest insights into Zigurd’s character. We were together constantly; one of us was never out of the cell without the other; yet it was a long time before I began to feel I really knew him.

  One morning while we were washing I noticed two small scars on his shoulder. How had he got them? I asked. Later, during one of our walks, he told me. When the Germans conscripted soldiers from occupied countries, they tattooed numbers on their shoulders, to identify them if they deserted. In fleeing from the Germans to the Allied side, Zigurd had realized that this evidence could cost him his life or be detrimental to his ever obtaining employment. Heating a piece of metal red hot, he had applied it directly to the tattoos, in an attempt to burn them off. He wasn’t completely successful. The numbers were obliterated, but the scars remained as evidence.

  Yet there was a deeply sensitive side to him too, that came across when he described the retreat from Latvia—frozen bodies piled like cordwood alongside the roads, and how the sight affected him; or when he talked about the girl from the displaced persons’ camp. They had fallen in love and they had almost married, but Zigurd had hesitated. Too long. Relatives were found abroad who offered to sponsor her. She was now either in the United States or Canada, he was not sure which. He thought of her often, with guilt, knowing that because of him they had lost their chance for happiness. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how he must have hurt her. And now suffered himself because of it.

  In prison such thoughts and feelings have a way of assuming monstrous proportions, until they dwarf all else.

  Gradually, as I began to know Zigurd better, I came to trust him. If a “plant,” he had a most unenviable job, living the life of a prisoner. Though always interested in my stories about flying, he never inquired into details. Only once did he touch on something of a sensitive nature—asking how high the U-2 flew. This is the first question people usually ask even today. I suspect I could have told him ten thousand feet and he would have been impressed.

  The memory of the girl haunted Zigurd. But something even deeper troubled him. I knew only that in some way it concerned his parents. But a long time passed before he told me about it.

  Once a year each prisoner was photographed, and the pictures were sent to his relatives as evidence that he was neither dead nor being mistreated. Our turn came in November. There was a regular photographic studio in one of the barracks, and although there was no “birdie,” we were told to smile, so the people back home could see how happy we were. I tried but was less than successful.

  While at Adana I had worn my hair fairly short. In prison I’d let it grow, intending to comb it back. Instead it just stood straight up. With only a small piece of mirror, I didn’t realize how funny it looked, until seeing the prints.

  But Zigurd was immensely proud of his new head of hair. And only then did he stop wearing the beret.

  Diary entry: “Barbara’s birthday. One year I have no gift for her. Wrote a letter this morning, at least started it, wishing her a happy birthday. Will mail it later in the month. Got books from the library, had already read two. Read The Iron Heel by Jack London.”

  As a boy I’d read many of London’s books, but none of his socialist works. It gave me an entirely different perspective on the man.

  November 18: “Still no mail from the U.S. Temperature this morning -24°C. Have put on long underwear. Must remember to thank Barbara for the clothes she sent. Cabbage for supper.”

  Something was definitely wrong with our radiator. Even wearing all the clothes we had, fur cap with ear flaps down, we were literally freezing. For days we had complained to the guard; he’d feel the radiator, look puzzled, tell us the radiators in all the other cells were working, then, as if that settled the matter, do nothing. Except to bring in a thermometer, which only made us feel the cold all the more. On the morning of November 21 he checked it; the reading in our cell was below zero Centigrade. With that, something was done. Later in the day workmen arrived and installed an electrical outlet near the door. And the following day the Little Major personally delivered the electric heater from his office, an act of kindness I’ll never forget.

  November 23: “Still no mail from the U.S. today. Prison officials (KGB) checking for me on this end.” Again potatoes for supper, but with roast meat and apples Zigurd’s parents had sent, which made all the difference.

  Zigurd’s parents had a small plot of land with an orchard. In season they sent apples, onions, and garlic. Zigurd would take the garlic and put it in the meat, not for flavoring but because he had read somewhere that garlic would preserve meat. Whether it did or didn’t, I wasn’t sure. By the time we received the apples they had usually begun to rot. But what we could eat tasted marvelous. They were the only fruit we received.

  In the order of their frequency of appearance, I dreamed of: desserts—banana splits, coconut-cream pie, anything made with eggs or ice cream; meat—all kinds, but hamburgers especially; and greens—I’d never known how much you could miss a salad.

  November 25: “Still no letters. Mailed two today, one to Barbara and one to Mother. Russian studies going very slowly. Can’t get in the studying mood. Potatoes two times today.”

  In my letter to Barbara I told her my r
eaction to the election: “I am glad that Kennedy won. I sincerely hope he turns out to be a good President and puts the good of the people above all other considerations.” I asked her to send newspaper clippings of any of his speeches relating to foreign policy. I was particularly anxious to obtain a copy of his forthcoming inaugural speech, as soon after he made it as possible. I wanted to see if there were any indications of his attitude toward Russia.

  November 26: “Wind blowing this morning. Makes it seem very cold. One letter from Mother. Took thirty-four days to arrive. Something wrong. Started trying to read a Russian story. Constant use of dictionary and many questions.”

  Boredom was the greatest problem. It was compounded when we lacked books, but even when we had them I was often restless. I could read for only an hour or two at a time. Then I’d put the book aside and work on envelopes for another hour. Then read awhile again, then pace the cell awhile. I’d do a few pushups, a little exercise, as much as space would permit, careful to make as little noise as possible, so as not to disturb Zigurd if he was reading. I’d try reading some more, or, if we both felt like it, talk.

  After a while we developed a sensitivity to each other’s moods. Respecting the need for silence was important. Equally important at times, and there were many such, was realizing when the other needed cheering up.

  Zigurd was involved in one activity I wasn’t. Before my arrival he had made several carpets. He’d been working on one when I arrived, but only after we had exhausted all the obvious subjects of discussion had he taken it up again. Watching him work, I asked questions, as much to make conversation as from curiosity. To me needlework had always seemed a woman’s occupation. But in Latvia, on long winter nights, with little else to do, whole families engaged in handicraft. Zigurd had turned to rugmaking only after being sent to Vladimir, however. One of the Latvian magazines his mother sent contained some patterns. Drawing vertical lines over the pages of a ruled notebook, he had made graph paper, then transferred the pattern onto it. His mother had sent burlap bags, wool and needles. And from there he had found his own way.