Operation Overflight

by Francis Gary Powers

  I didn’t commit my worst fears to paper, not wishing to give them that much reality.

  An explanation for the missing embassy package occurred to me. Maybe the money in my account had run out, and Barbara, being in the hospital, had been unable to replace it. The thought that the embassy would stop the package for this reason did nothing to help my frame of mind. But this still didn’t explain the absence of mail and the missing newspapers.

  I put a request through the authorities to check, to see if they could learn what had happened.

  The November embassy package never did arrive for a simple reason: Somebody had forgotten to send it.

  I felt more relief than anger. Like my hopes, my fears were constructed of little pieces of circumstantial evidence. There was now one less piece.

  On December 8 I received two letters from Barbara, one having taken thirty-five days to arrive and the other thirty-eight. In the last, dated October 25, she said she was ready to go home, only Dr. Thigpen didn’t agree. She was now assigned to a private room in an open ward; however, still not allowed matches.

  Knowing that Barbara was alive, even if still in the hospital, was a great relief. And at least there she would be properly cared for.

  On December 11 the colonel brought me the bad news. Journal: “There will be no work camp for me. I was told that a law or decree had been passed by the Presidium in the early part of May, 1961, in which the sentence of several crimes, mine included, naturally, cannot be mitigated by any court, but only by a pardon from the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet itself. This decree has been in effect since May and was approved on the fifth of December, twenty days after my application was tendered.

  “The only chance I have of getting a mitigation of my sentence is by a pardon from the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet. This is very unlikely, because they have not even bothered to answer the pleas that my wife and parents submitted to them in my behalf more than a year ago.”

  Secretly, in the back of my mind, I had hoped for more from the work-camp application than I had confided in the journal. There was always the possibility—although admittedly remote—that in reviewing my sentence the court might decide to extend clemency. Thus my disappointment was compounded.

  However, the colonel’s attitude wasn’t entirely negative. He wasn’t sure it could be arranged—he would have to check further—but it was possible that if I did have visitors from the United States that provision might be made for my being allowed to spend a longer period of time with them.

  I grabbed onto this as if it were a life raft. Even if it could only be a short visit, just a few days, perhaps Barbara and I could solve some of our problems, one way or the other. I wrote her to this effect, urging her to consider making the trip.

  That same day I heard from Barbara’s mother that Barbara had been released from the hospital late in October. However, she had gone back several days later with a bad case of flu.

  There was a single letter from Barbara on December 21, written November 19, when she was still in the hospital. There was no mention of what her plans were once she was released, except that because of the conflicts with her mother she would have to find a place by herself. I wasn’t too happy about that. There would be no one to look after her.

  My second Christmas in the Soviet Union was even rougher than my first. There were few cards; people have a tendency to forget. There were several presents, including a beautiful pair of woolen mittens knitted for me by Zigurd’s mother. But there was little in the way of encouraging news. With what seemed my last hope frustrated, and no prospect of release in sight, I slipped into a deep lethargy. Though he tried his best, Zigurd was unable to pull me out of it. For hours I would sit staring at the floor, saying nothing. Nor did a letter I received on December 27 from one of Barbara’s relatives do anything to brighten the holiday season, even though it contained the news that she was now out of the hospital.

  Earlier I had written asking for details about her illness, and how her commitment had come about. I had wanted to know everything. Now I was almost sorry I had asked.

  Written late in November, the letter stated: “Truthfully, her trouble is loneliness, guilt, and nerves. She is still drinking, and of course I can understand your feelings, for she has not been all that she should have been, or should be.”

  “… guilt … not all she should have been, or should be …”

  I was left with the words and with whatever implications my imagination could put to them.

  Now the memories came back. And no effect of will would exorcise them. I could no longer suppress the truth, or make excuses to avoid facing it.

  Shortly after our marriage I had been sent on temporary duty to Eglin AFB, Florida, for gunnery training. To celebrate our third-month anniversary—July 2, 1955—Barbara was going to drive down and join me. The second was the Saturday of the long July Fourth weekend, and only after considerable effort had I been able to obtain a motel reservation. She was to arrive late Saturday afternoon, the drive taking three to five hours. She didn’t arrive until the following afternoon, with the excuse that she had stopped and visited some girl friends at a cabin on the beach and they had persuaded her to stay overnight.

  I knew Barbara well enough to sense when she was lying, and I sensed it then. Yet, not knowing the girls, there was no way to check her story. Nor, to be frank, did I wish to. At that point I had only a suspicion, and because I loved her, it was not one I wanted to pursue.

  The residue was doubt, a small seed, but, together with others, enough to make me think twice about accepting the job with the CIA, because of the long separation it entailed. Prior to our marriage, we had broken our engagement several times, usually following arguments when I found Barbara dating others.

  When Barbara arrived in Greece in the fall of 1956 I was very pleased. That she was determined we be together, even if only on occasional weekends, was a hopeful sign. This feeling did not last long, however. On my visits to Athens there were “incidents.” But again only suspicions, nothing definite. Unexplained telephone calls. Looks and remarks exchanged in bars. Obvious contradictions in stories she told me. Arguments often resulted.

  Not long after this, Richard Bissell, the CIA’s deputy director of plans, and one of the key figures behind the overflight program, visited Adana. Barbara would have to leave Greece, he told me. Her presence there, when other pilots weren’t allowed to bring their wives over, wasn’t good for morale. This, at least, was the excuse he gave. Having talked to other pilots, knowing that none at that time planned to bring over their families, I felt there was something more Bissell wasn’t telling me, that perhaps something was going on in Athens that I didn’t know about. Since Barbara did not wish to return to the United States, and only a short period of time remained on my contract, a job was found for her at Wheelus AFB, Tripoli, Libya.

  This meant I could see her far less often. There were, however, unscheduled flights, ferrying T-33s over for repairs. I picked up these whenever the schedule permitted.

  My unexpected, and unplanned, arrival late one afternoon turned some of my suspicions into certainties. Going to the women’s quarters, where Barbara was staying, I asked one of the girls if she was there. Yes, she replied, but I had better not go up to her room as she was getting ready to go out, and her date had already arrived.

  I went up. And hastened her date’s departure. In the argument that followed, I noticed that Barbara was trying to conceal a letter sticking out of her purse. Aware that I’d noticed it, she grabbed it and ran into another room, locking the door behind her. I kicked down the door and took the letter from her. It was from an Air Force officer in Athens, informing her he had decided to divorce his wife, and could she arrange to divorce me they could be married.

  By the time I had finished reading it, the Air Police arrived and placed me under arrest. When Barbara attempted to retrieve the letter, they confiscated it. Taken before the base authorities, we had no choice but to explain the whole mess. Aft
er some remarks on my temper, it was suggested that if we wished to resume our argument we do so off base, and I was released. Although Barbara demanded that they return the letter to her, it was handed to me.

  Tearfully Barbara explained that the letter was as much a surprise to her as to me. Though she had had dinner with the man on several occasions, and had provided a listening ear for his marital problems, he had given no indication of his real feelings for her.

  I wanted very much to believe Barbara.

  Yet, on my return to Adana, I began to have misgivings. In all fairness to her, she could be telling the truth. Unable to live with such uncertainty, at the first opportunity I flew to Athens. Knowing some of the places Barbara had frequented, I asked questions. And received answers, more than I had anticipated, and not at all those I wanted to hear.

  In August, 1957, I took Barbara back to the United States, with the idea of obtaining a divorce.

  It is difficult to explain, especially to oneself, why one tries to save a marriage when it has obviously gone bad. In our case, although there were no children, there were several complicating factors. One was an earlier divorce in my family, which had determined me never to go through anything similar. Another was my feeling that I was more than a little responsible for the situation, leaving Barbara alone so often. From almost the start of our marriage there had been a series of separations, necessitated at first by Air Force assignments, later by my work for the agency. When the agency decided to extend the overflight program, and, as incentive for the pilots to renew their contracts, permitted families to be brought to Adana, I decided that if we were together and not separated maybe we could salvage our marriage.

  Maybe. I was not at all sure. It was not a matter of forgetting. I knew I could never do that. But, with a sincere effort on Barbara’s part, and with the separations behind us, perhaps we could make a fresh start, a new beginning. It wouldn’t be easy, I knew.

  I had never confronted her with what I had learned in Athens. Perhaps that had been a mistake. If so, it was not the only one. Another was underestimating the extent of the problem, believing it could be so simply solved. At Adana there had been more incidents—nothing definite enough to precipitate a break, only strong suspicions, but enough of these to leave the marriage very shaky, even if it hadn’t been for the increasing problem of her drinking.

  This was the situation when I took off from Peshawar, Pakistan, on May 1, I960.

  It was time I grew up and faced the truth I’d avoided much too long. I had hoped that with her hospitalization everything would change. But obviously nothing had. With her release she had begun drinking again, and stopped writing.

  There was only one alternative now. To end it, for the sake of both of us. But in my present situation there was no way to do that. Again my utter helplessness overwhelmed me. It was compounded by still another realization. I had clung to the marriage for so long, hoping to save it, when all evidence indicated it was beyond saving. I’d done the same thing with each and every prospect of early release, when all evidence indicated there was little hope.

  Had I deceived myself about being released too?

  January 1, 1962. Although I dutifully wrote in my journal that I was hopeful the new year would see me free I saw little likelihood of that happening. Tensions were building over the Berlin question. In the past I had foolishly drawn hope from all sorts of unlikely circumstances, but I was not now optimistic enough to believe that I had a chance if my release depended on the settlement of the Berlin issue.

  Occasionally there would be days when my depression would dissipate temporarily. More often than not it was due to Zigurd, who understood what I was going through and did his best to help.

  One day we had an argument. Zigurd maintained that people can dream in color. I insisted they couldn’t. At least I could never remember dreaming in anything except black and white.

  But I was wrong. That night I dreamed of a large banquet. The colors of the food and wines were as vivid as any could be.

  Unfortunately, I awoke before I ate or drank a mouthful.

  She was quite plain: I was sure her interest in me was professional, nothing more; yet I realized I was counting the days between the nurse’s visits.

  Powers, you’re being a fool, I told myself. Zigurd warned you, when he told you about his cellmate. Yet now you’re letting the same thing happen to you.

  Once I recognized the symptoms, the attraction vanished. But the story of the boy who ate his tin plate no longer seemed incredible.

  Journal, January 28: “I have written Barbara only once this month, because I am trying to stick to the resolution I made to write only when she writes. … I must admit I am becoming more and more afraid of what the future holds for me. Am I man enough to face all the things I may have to face, including a divorce? Divorce, much as I hate the idea of it, is fast becoming the only answer to Barbara’s and my problems. I must truly admit I do not know how well I will face up to things. I hope it works out so that I am proven wrong in all my thoughts. But that hope is slim.”

  When I took up the journal again on January 31,1962, the subject was the same. There was still no letter from Barbara. She had written once in mid-December, then nothing after that. And there was no news, of any sort, from which I could draw even the slightest hope of release.

  I closed the entry: “I am a nervous wreck because of this, and as hard as I try, I cannot keep from thinking about it. I need help badly! But who can help?”

  Those were the last words I wrote in the journal.

  Fifteen

  At about 7:30 on the evening of Wednesday, February 7,1962, Zigurd and I were just returning from our evening trip to the toilet when we noticed the KGB colonel from Vladimir and the interpreter walking down the corridor ahead of us. They stopped outside our cell. It was an odd time for a visit, enough in itself to alert us that something out of the ordinary had happened.

  Following us inside our cell, the colonel asked me, “How would you like to go to Moscow tomorrow morning?”

  “Fine,” I replied, still unsure.

  “Without guards,” he added.

  Then I knew. But I couldn’t be positive. My hopes had been aroused so often, only to have them wither and die, that I couldn’t face the prospect of another disappointment. “Why?” I asked. “What’s happening?” But he would tell me nothing more.

  Zigurd was exuberant. It could mean only one thing. Hadn’t he told me from the start that I wouldn’t have to serve the full ten years?

  Not until the guard brought in two suitcases and informed me I should spend the evening packing did I really believe it.

  I was going home!

  Yet my excitement was saddened by the realization that Zigurd was not, that he still had eight of his fifteen years to serve, with his earliest chance of parole nearly three years away. But he was as happy as if it had been his own release.

  Having few possessions, it took me only a short time to pack. I made a large parcel of the three carpets, the only product of my imprisonment, except for memories. In between the carpets I slipped the diary and journal, hoping the Russians would overlook them. Anything I felt he could use, such as books, pipes, tobacco, I gave to Zigurd.

  We couldn’t sleep, but talked all night. We promised to write, to visit each other someday, although, I’m sure, we both realized the likelihood was remote. We exchanged home addresses and photographs. Across the back of a photo of himself taken some years earlier in Germany he wrote, “To my friend and cellmate 9-9-60, 8-2-62. Zigurd Kruminsh.”

  September 9, I960—February 8, 1962. I had been in Vladimir for seventeen months.

  Shortly after six A.M. the guard brought the items which had been held for me, including my wedding ring. I hadn’t been allowed to wear it in either prison.

  With the arrival of my escorts, we said our good-byes. Because it was not easy, we made them brief. I felt as if I was leaving a part of myself behind. And in a sense I was, for Zigurd was now sp
eaking with a pronounced Virginia accent.

  Walking across the courtyard to the gate, I looked at the window of cell number 31.

  Contrary to rules, Zigurd was standing on the cabinet, looking down at me from the window at the top.

  Emerging from the other side of the administration building, I climbed into an automobile with the colonel, the interpreter, and a driver, and we rode away from Vladimir Prison. I didn’t look back.

  The colonel kept his promise. When we reached the railroad station and boarded the train, there were no guards. We had the whole compartment to ourselves, until, at one of the many stops, two peasant women got on, sitting toward the end of the car. But they paid no attention to me, and, I must admit, I was little interested in them, spending most of my time staring out the window at all the open space. It was a beautiful day, there was still snow everywhere, and finally, trees. Trees!

  But it was the slowest train I had ever ridden. I thought perhaps it was my imagination, until the interpreter explained that winter thaws were causing the ground to shift, and we had to travel slowly for safety’s sake.

  I tried to question the colonel, but apparently he was under orders to tell me as little as possible. Thus far, no one had actually stated that I was to be released. But I would permit no other thoughts to enter my mind.

  It was late afternoon when we reached Moscow. A car was waiting at the station. I had guessed I would be driven directly to the American Embassy and turned over to officials there, but I guessed wrong. Instead the car followed a familiar route, one I had not been anxious to retrace.

  Once again I drove through the gates of Lubyanka Prison.

  I was taken to my old cellblock, to a cell two doors from the one I had formerly occupied. I was now able to confirm one of my suspicions: there were beds softer than the torture rack they had originally given me. This one had two mattresses.

  Only then did the colonel inform me that we were going to East Germany the following morning.