Operation Overflight

by Francis Gary Powers

  I had about one hundred dollars in my prison account, he said. They couldn’t give it to me in dollars, only rubles, and I couldn’t spend them outside the USSR, so what did I want to do with them? I asked if the money could be credited to Zigurd’s account; I was told no, and so I asked if I could spend it on souvenirs to take home. I also wanted to obtain a phonograph record. When at Vladimir I had heard a girl singer on Radio Moscow. She had one of the most beautiful voices I had ever heard, and I had developed something of a crush on her. Phonetically her name sounded like Savancova. The record I liked most was her version of Grieg’s Solveig’s Song. They promised to try to get it.

  The mention of my being unable to spend rubles outside the USSR was the closest anyone had come to saying I was to be freed.

  Following a bath, a luxury, since I wasn’t “due” for one for another five days, the colonel explained we had arrived too late for supper. However, since I had money, they could send out for food. Was there something I especially wanted?

  “Meat,” I replied, “and a martini.”

  Laughing, the colonel said they probably couldn’t manage the martini. However, when the meal arrived—two breaded veal cutlets, the most meat I had been given by the Russians—there was a tin cup with it, half full of brandy. It was good and potent, and having had nothing to drink for twenty-one months, I slept well that night.

  Early the next morning, Friday, February 9, the three of us were driven to the airport. En route the interpreter informed me they had purchased souvenirs, but had been unable to find the phonograph record I wanted, which surprised me, since the singer was apparently one of the most popular in the Soviet Union. At the airport a plane was waiting, the only other occupants the two pilots. I’d spent so much time dreaming about escape that the thought pattern was hard to break; I wasn’t checked out on this type of aircraft, but I was sure I could manage it in about one minute, after disposing of the two pilots. Later, when one of them came back and made conversation through the interpreter, I was thankful he hadn’t been able to read my thoughts.

  We were going in the right direction—west.

  Everything was precisely arranged. When we landed in East Germany, a car was waiting. Without any delays we were driven directly into East Berlin. February in Germany is bleak. There was no snow, the leaves were gone from the trees, the grass was dead. Our destination was a “safe” house, but unlike the agency, they made no attempt to make their residences inconspicuous. There were guards all around the outside, patrolling with submachine guns. Every time I looked out a window I could see one. The house, apparently once a private home, was luxuriously fitted. I guessed that it was used for top Russian Communist-party functionaries on their visits to East Berlin. That night supper was served with crystal and silver.

  Earlier the colonel had asked me if there was anything I especially wanted. I observed that I’d like a little more of the brandy. When we sat down at the table, he produced a bottle that either was Hennessey Four Star or an exact imitation. I began to sip my drink, but he said that since I was with Russians I should drink the way they did, and, following his example, I swallowed the whole drink in one gulp. The colonel corked the bottle, saying that we would save the remainder for the next morning.

  “If everything goes well,” he said through the interpreter, “you will be released tomorrow morning and will have a reason to celebrate.”

  It was now official, “if everything goes well.” Curious, I asked why I was being released at this time. He replied that it was a gesture of goodwill. “We wish to show the world how humane the Soviets can be.” I suspected there was more to it, but said nothing.

  The interpreter and I had beds in a room on the second floor. Following dinner, we played several games of chess. I hadn’t realized how much Zigurd had taught me. I beat him several times.

  There was no light in the room. But the door was left open, and there was a light in the hall. There was a guard downstairs, in addition to those outside. The bed was comfortable, but I was so tense that I slept little, dozing off only a few times. So much depended on the next morning. Although the situation looked good, far better than ever before, I kept reminding myself that anything could happen.

  Saturday, February 10, 1962. Up very early, we had the brandy with breakfast. The car arrived shortly after five A.M., and a long drive followed. I noticed that we seemed to be leaving the city and returning to the country. That worried me. I was afraid we were headed back to the airport. I wanted to stay as close to West Berlin as possible. Eventually, however, we drove into what I later learned was the Potsdam section, and after circling one block several times, stopped.

  A well-dressed man, who looked and talked like an American, but I later learned was Ivan A. Schischkin, Soviet consular representative in East Berlin, got into the car and explained the procedure. We were to drive directly to Glienicker Bridge, which spanned Lake Wannsee, separating Potsdam from West Berlin. At 8:20 A.M. we would walk onto the bridge, at the same time a group of Americans approached from the other side. About ten yards from the white line in the center, both groups would stop. Part of our group would then go forward to meet part of their group; we were to remain behind. If all was satisfactory, I would then be escorted forward and across the white line marking the border between East and West.

  “However,” he added with some firmness, “if anything goes wrong on the bridge, you are to return with us. Do you understand that?”

  I nodded. But I decided then that should something of that sort occur, I would run for it. Even if it meant a bullet, I wasn’t coming back.

  It was a cold, dark day, the sky overcast. Even with my heavy coat and Russian fur cap, I felt chilly. We reached our end of the bridge about eight A.M. It was painted a dull green color. Under any other circumstances I probably would have found it ugly, but at that moment it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

  At about 8:15 we got out of the car. The colonel who had accompanied me from Vladimir shook my hand. It was the first such gesture since my capture. We walked onto the bridge, which was devoid of traffic. I carried my suitcases, one of the KGB men the box of souvenirs and rug parcel. I could see, too far away for any of them to be clearly recognizable, a group of men approaching from the other side.

  Following the plan, both groups stopped about ten yards from the center, three men from our side, two from the other going forward to the line. I remained behind, between the colonel and another KGB man. A short distance behind us were armed guards. It would be a long run, and they would have ample time to shoot. That didn’t shake my resolve. I wasn’t going back.

  After a few minutes the colonel left me and walked across the line. At the same time, one of the men from the other side also crossed and walked up to me, grinning broadly. I recognized him as a former acquaintance in the U-2 program. His was the first familiar face I had seen in a very long time.

  “Gee, it’s good to see you,” I exclaimed, shaking hands.

  “You know who I am, don’t you?” he asked.

  “You’re Bill.”

  He looked surprised, then laughed. “No, I’m Murphy. Bill was my boss. You’ve got our names confused.” He was right.

  “What was the name of your high-school football coach?” he asked.

  It was my turn to look puzzled. Then I remembered the Air Force form I had filled out more than ten years ago, with questions to be used in case I had to be identified. The agency had gone to all the trouble of digging it out of my service records.

  For the life of me I couldn’t think of the name. In the excitement, my mind went blank.

  I did better with the names of my wife, my mother, my dog.

  “You’re Francis Gary Powers,” he finally said, bringing the agency’s little guessing game to an end. He had known, of course, who I was all the time. Recrossing the white line, he relayed this information to the others: Identification positive.

  At the same time, the KGB colonel also recrossed the line a
nd rejoined me. I wondered what he had been up to.

  There followed a long delay. Apparently the negotiators were awaiting some word from the other end of the bridge. As minute after minute slowly passed, the distance to the center of the span seemed to grow greater. Glancing over the side of the bridge, I spotted two men in a small boat, on the West German side of the river. Each man was carrying a shotgun, and was dressed like a duck hunter. Their hunting clothes appeared straight out of Aber-crombie & Fitch. I was certain they were agency men, and I added another possibility: diving off the bridge and swimming to the boat.

  While we were waiting, Schischkin, the Soviet consular representative, remarked, “The next time you come to see us, come as a friend.”

  “Next time,” I answered, “I’ll come as a tourist.”

  With a smile, Schischkin replied, “I didn’t say as a tourist. I said as a friend.”

  Suddenly there was a yell from the other end. The negotiators huddled briefly, then nodded to the colonel, who pushed me forward. As I walked toward the line, another man—thin, gaunt, middle-aged—approached from the other side. We crossed at the same time.

  It was 8:52 A.M. on Saturday, February 10, 1962. One year, nine months, and ten days after my capture by the Russians.

  I was again a free man.

  Murphy ran up and slapped me on the back. “You know who that was, don’t you?” he asked, indicating the other man.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Abel, Colonel Rudolf Abel, the Soviet spy.”

  It was the first time I realized that my release had been part of an exchange. The KGB colonel from Vladimir, I now realized, had crossed the line to identify Abel. I wondered if they were friends, and if Abel had remembered the name of his high-school football coach.

  While Abel and the Soviets stood in precise military formation on their side of the border, concluding the negotiations with their counterparts, Murphy and I walked over to the edge of the bridge and began talking with the excitement of two kids.

  I couldn’t help noticing the contrast. The Americans, friendly, excited, making no attempt to hide their feelings; the Russians, rigid, emotionless, totally businesslike.

  Much handshaking followed, everyone talking at the same time, as the American delegation joined us. Getting into a car at the end of the bridge, I was introduced to James Donovan, Abel’s American attorney, who I now learned had arranged the trade. I also learned the reason for the delay on the bridge. They had been awaiting confirmation of the release at “Checkpoint Charlie” of Frederick L. Pryor, a Yale student arrested on espionage charges in East Germany six months earlier.

  Two Americans for one Russian seemed to me an excellent bargain.

  Asking about my wife and parents, I was told they were well and would be greeting me before long. They didn’t know about my release, but would be notified as soon as word was relayed to the President.

  It all seemed very unreal.

  We drove rapidly to Tempelhof Airport, where we were hustled onto a C-47 cargo plane. Destination Wiesbaden. Minutes after we were airborne, a flight surgeon examined me. The air corridor was bumpy, however, and his attempts to extract blood from my arm left it black and blue for weeks. The blood samples were necessary to determine whether I had been drugged. This seemed to be the first question of almost everyone to whom I talked: had I been drugged? They seemed almost disappointed when I told them I hadn’t.

  All my gear had been loaded aboard the plane. My suitcases, a box, and the parcel with the rugs. Checking the latter, I was pleased to find both my diary and journal intact.

  Murphy asked what was in the box. I explained about the souvenirs, mentioning that I hadn’t yet had a chance to look at them.

  It occurred to someone, or maybe several people at the same time, that perhaps we had better examine the box, to make sure the Russians hadn’t planted a bomb. Although I felt this somewhat unlikely, I was as cautious as the others when it was opened. Packed inside were plaster of paris desk sets and paperweights commemorating Sputnik; wood carvings of various animals—horses, dogs, and a frog on a lily pad; a University of Moscow ashtray; dolls that came apart with ever-smaller dolls inside; small figurines, including a ballet dancer; and a very charming beautifully carved little troika. There was no bomb.

  On landing at Wiesbaden, one of the Air force officers gave me a coat to throw over mine, so I wouldn’t attract attention. We quickly walked over to a Lockheed Constellation, belonging to the commanding general of USAF Europe. In less than fifteen minutes we were airborne. The destination this time—the United States.

  As soon as we leveled off, a white-jacketed flight steward asked whether we wanted anything to drink. Donovan ordered a double scotch, I a martini.

  This was my first opportunity to talk to Donovan at any length. I asked him how the exchange had come about.

  He told me that when Abel was sentenced in 1957, he had argued against giving him the death sentence, on grounds that someday the United States might find it advantageous to exchange him for an American. The actual exchange for me, however, had been my father’s idea. He had written a letter to Abel at the federal penitentiary at Atlanta as early as June 2, I960, one month and one day after my capture, broaching the idea of a swap.

  DEAR COLONEL ABEL:

  I am the father of Francis Gary Powers, who is connected with the U-2 plane incident of several weeks ago. I am quite sure that you are familiar with this international incident and also the fact that my son is being currently held by the Soviet Union on an espionage charge.

  You can readily understand the concern that a father would have for his son and my strong desire to have my son released and brought home. My present feeling is that I would be more than happy to approach the State Department and the President of the United States for an exchange for the release of my son. By this I mean that I would urge and do everything possible to have my government release you and return you to your country if the powers in your country would release my son and let him return home to me. If you are inclined to go along with this arrangement, I would appreciate your so advising the powers in your country along these lines.

  I would appreciate hearing from you in this regard as soon as possible.

  Very truly yours,

  Oliver Powers

  Again I had underrated my dad.

  Abel had contacted Donovan, who had obtained permission from the State Department to explore the possibility. It was not until hearing from a woman in East Germany who purported herself to be Abel’s wife that the actual negotiations had begun. Even after Donovan’s arrival in Berlin on February 2, the negotiations had nearly broken off several times, the most recent incident occurring when the Soviets had tried to go back on the original deal, deciding they would release only Pryor for Abel, and keep me. Donovan had refused to go along with this, for which I was very thankful.

  After several more drinks, dinner was served. It consisted of a green salad; a beautiful steak, medium rare; and a potato. I had thought I would never be able to look at a potato again. But this one was baked instead of boiled and was served with butter. It made all the difference.

  One of the pilots came back and told us that word of my release had just been made public in the United States, the radio carrying the official White House announcement shortly after three A.M., EST. That meant my wife and family had been notified. For a long time I thought about their reactions.

  Shortly after Donovan went to bed, the pilot came back to ask if I would like to visit the cockpit. The sight of the instrument panel was in the nature of a homecoming. With a grin, the co-pilot indicated the wheel, saying “Why don’t you take it for awhile, just to see if you remember how?” I was tempted but declined. I spent some time talking to them. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed pilots’ small talk.

  When we landed at the Azores for refueling, nearly everyone else got out to stretch their legs and get a sandwich. I had to stay aboard the plane so as not to be spotted by reporters
.

  It was a sample of things to come. Elaborate security precautions had been put into effect for our arrival in the United States, which were explained to me when we took off again. I was back in the world of cloak-and-dagger operations.

  About six hours later, as we approached the eastern seaboard, I saw the first lights of the United States. Having so few hours before been a prisoner on the other side of the Iron Curtain, they seemed unreal. I still couldn’t comprehend that after twenty-one months of captivity I was once again a free man.

  Which was perhaps best, for, though I was yet to realize it, I wasn’t quite free, not yet. In a sense, I had been released by the Russians to become a de facto prisoner of the CIA.

  FOUR

  USA

  One

  Reporters were watching all the major airports, but particularly Andrews Air Force Base, outside Washington, D.C. Possibly this was because it was here that President Kennedy had met the two RB-47 pilots, though I strongly suspect the CIA had also planted a rumor the plane would be landing there.

  It did. Only it stopped first at Dover, Delaware, where Murphy and I alighted. Then it went on to Andrews, where Donovan and a man of my approximate height and build evaded pursuit by immediately taking off in a helicopter.

  My welcoming committee consisted of agency security men; my first steps on American soil—the runway at Dover—were on a run, from plane to waiting automobile. Though a reporter had been assigned to Dover, one of the agency representatives invited him into base operations for a cup of coffee. By the time he had finished it, we were off the base and en route to a “safe” house on Maryland’s eastern shore.

  Why the tight security? They replied, without elaboration, that the agency wanted to debrief me before exposure to the press.

  That was fine with me. For more months than I cared to remember, I had lived by a set routine. The sudden change, coupled with all the excitement, was exhausting. I looked forward to a couple of days of privacy and rest.