Operation Overflight

by Francis Gary Powers

  With the outbreak of the war, flights were stepped up, photo interpreters on the alert at Adana to process and study films the moment a plane returned. It would be safe to say that American intelligence probably possessed a clearer overview of the entire war than many of the battlefront commanders. Within hours we could verify or disprove the intelligence reports of the combatants.

  After the war, flights continued, but on a random basis, chiefly to watch for new military buildups along the borders.

  Nor were we interested only in Egypt and Israel. If there was a trouble spot in the Middle East, the U-2s observed it. If a spot turned hot, we’d overfly it, frequently. Once it had cooled down, there would be only occasional missions, to watch for unusual activity. We checked on Syria, whether there was an outbreak of hostilities or not, to keep an eye on its critical oil pipelines. Iraq, another trouble spot, received periodic attention, as did Jordan. Saudi Arabia was of lesser interest. However, since it was along the way, we overflew it also, our route taking us over both the capital, Riyadh, and Mecca. Skirmishes between the Greek and Turkish Cypriots were silently witnessed, as was the heavy fighting between Lebanese Army troops and Moslem rebel forces in 1958. During 1959, when disorders broke out in Yemen, I flew a mission there. It was a memorable flight, not only for the distance covered—it was about as far from Turkey as the U-2 could fly and return—but also because I encountered several varieties of trouble en route. One was a violent thunderstorm, the worst I had ever seen, which obscured our objective. For a while I was unaware whether I could fly above it, it extended so high. The other occurred on the way down. My flight line called for me to remain over the land side of the Arabian coast; on looking in my mirror, however, I saw condensation trails behind the aircraft, until that time unheard of at our altitude. Realizing I could be spotted from the ground, I moved out over the Red Sea, over what I presumed could be claimed as international waters. Then, by slowing down, I managed to climb a little higher to see if the contrails would go away. To my relief, they did.

  These were the “special” missions. They began in the fall of 1956 and continued into I960. If any of the U-2 flights merited the label “milk runs,” it was these. Such flights lacked the tension of the overflights. No one was shooting at us. Presumably no one was aware of our presence. Had we been forced to crash-land, we could always explain that we had been flying over the Mediterranean and had come down in the closest place, a believable story so long as the equipment and photographic films weren’t examined. Fortunately, there were no crash landings.

  The primary mission of the U-2s was overflying Russia. This was the enemy, the greatest threat to our existence. In importance, the overflights—infrequent as they were—outranked anything else we did, and were the major reason for our presence in Turkey. The border surveillance and the atomic sampling, though vital, were secondary. Although they made up the bulk of our flying, in intelligence value the “special” missions took last place.

  In terms of propaganda value to the Russians, however, the order was exactly reversed. We were fairly sure they knew about most if not all of the overflights. What they had no knowledge of were the “special” missions. Of all the information I withheld, this was the most dangerous, because of what the Russians could do with it.

  It requires little imagination to conceive the devastating effect on America’s foreign relations had Khrushchev been able to reveal that the United States was spying not only on most of the countries in the Middle East but also on her own allies.

  After considerable thought, I decided that unless Prettyman worded his questions in such a way as to indicate prior knowledge of the subject, I would mention neither this nor other sensitive matters.

  This was part of the problem. The other part was psychological. The debriefings had been informal, held in the “safe” houses with people I knew had been cleared by the agency. During these, I had been completely honest in my replies, withholding nothing; yet, even then, I had often found myself hesitating before giving answers. For twenty-one months my interrogators had been the Enemy. Almost automatically, a question put me on the defensive. Although the board of inquiry was held in a conference room in CIA headquarters with several friends, including Colonel Shelton and another pilot, among the dozen or so persons in attendance, the semiofficial nature of the proceedings put me once more in this frame of mind. It was a hard habit to break.

  After the first several questions I found myself disliking Prettyman; since he was a not unkindly-looking, white-haired old gentleman, this was probably due in large part to my preconditioning. I wasn’t evasive. When asked why I had told the Russians my altitude, I answered that sixty-eight-thousand feet wasn’t my correct altitude, told him what my actual altitude was, and explained what I had hoped to accomplish with the lie. But then neither did I go out of my way to educate him in all aspects of the U-2 program.

  I’ve often wondered, in the years since, whether I made the right choice.

  Prettyman, on the other hand, did nothing to put me at ease. Some of his questions bordered on the accusative. Several times he indicated, less in actual words than manner, that he had doubts about my responses. On one of these occasions, after some question so minor I’ve now forgotten it, I finally reacted angrily, bellowing, “If you don’t believe me, I’ll be glad to take a lie-detector test!”

  Even before the words were out of my mouth, I regretted saying them, I had sworn, after the first polygraph examination, that I would never take another.

  “Would you be willing to take a lie-detector test on everything you have testified here?”

  I knew that I’d been trapped. From the way he quickly snapped up my offer, I felt sure that he had purposely goaded me into making it.

  What could I reply? I wanted very much to say no, as emphatically as possible. But to do so would be the same as admitting I had been lying. Which was not true.

  “Yes,” I replied, most reluctantly.

  Shortly after that the hearing was concluded. It had lasted only part of a day, but had accomplished what I was now sure was its principal objective. The agency could tell the press that Powers had volunteered to take a lie-detector test.

  That evening the agency brought Colonel Shelton and the other pilot out to the “safe” house for dinner. It was a jolly time, with lots of reminiscences.

  I apologized to Shelton for using his name so freely, explaining that I had wanted to minimize the number of people compromised. He said he had realized what I was up to when he learned he was running the detachment all by himself. Still I could not help feeling sorry for having placed the burden on him, especially when he described the desolate base to which he had been ostracized.

  It was an easy, relaxed evening, in a sense the first such since my return to the United States.

  The polygraph test was no easier the second time around. If anything, it was worse, because you anticipated. Still, some of the questions caught me off guard:

  “Do you have any funds deposited in a numbered Swiss bank account?”

  “Did anything happen in Russia for which you could be blackmailed?”

  “Are you a double agent?”

  Fortunately, the polygraph operator—the same man who had given me my initial test in the hotel room in 1956—was an expert. He could tell the difference between a reaction activated by anger and one caused by a lie. Because I did react, strongly, to the implications behind such questions.

  Excepting only breaks for coffee and lunch, I was “on the box” the full day. When the last electrode came off, I made no vows. I’d done that once. Superstitiously, I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  As before, I wasn’t told whether or not I had “passed.”

  Since my return there had been mounting pressure for a public hearing before Congress. I had hoped the Prettyman report, when released, would clear up all doubts, but realistically I knew it wouldn’t. Having been subjected to a series of official cover stories, which, one after another, ha
d been exposed as fiction, the American people would not be inclined to accept the CIA’s assurances that I was “clean.” Therefore I wasn’t too surprised when I was told that arrangements had been made for me to appear in an open hearing before the Committee on Armed Services of the United States Senate on March 6. The Prettyman report would be made public shortly before this. In addition, the DCI, John McCone, would appear before the committee, in closed-door session prior to my appearance, to brief the senators on those aspects of the incident which were still classified. The President had already stated that I would reveal only that information “in the national interest to give.”

  Nervous as I was before crowds, I was not looking forward to the hearing, except that it would mean the end of my ordeal and, hopefully, the slanders, which I knew deeply hurt my family. They had been forced to live through the stigma of having people brand me a traitor. Barbara, however, had no intention of staying for my “vindication” or whatever might result. She wanted to go home to Georgia. Over the past several weeks she had grown increasingly restless. The reason was obvious—my insistence that she cut down her drinking, and the security measures in effect at the “safe” house, made it impossible for her to get all the liquor she wanted. Against my better judgment, I agreed to the trip, promising to meet her in Milledgeville after the Senate hearing and a brief homecoming visit to The Pound.

  The latter was to include a community-wide celebration, during which I was to be awarded the American Citizenship Medal by the Veterans of Foreign Wars. That this had been planned long before the people of Virginia knew whether I had or hadn’t been cleared was a welcome vote of confidence.

  “STATEMENT CONCERNING FRANCIS GARY POWERS.”

  Released to the press just prior to the Senate hearing, my “clearance” consisted of eleven typewritten pages. It began: “Since his return from imprisonment in Soviet Russia, Francis Gary Powers has undergone a most intensive debriefing by CIA and other intelligence specialists, aeronautical technicians, and other experts concerned with various aspects of his mission and subsequent capture by the Soviets. This was followed by a complete review by a board of inquiry presided over by Judge E. Barrett Prettyman to determine if Powers complied with the terms of his employment and his obligation as an American. The board has submitted its report to the director of Central Intelligence.

  “Certain basic points should be kept in mind in connection with this case. The pilots involved in the U-2 program were selected on the basis of aviation proficiency, physical stamina, emotional stability, and, of course, personal security. They were not selected or trained as espionage agents, and the whole nature of the mission was far removed from the traditional espionage scene. Their job was to fly the plane, and it was so demanding an assignment that on completion of a mission, physical fatigue was a hazard on landing.”

  It took the CIA just two paragraphs to get itself off the hook, to gloss over the fact that we were almost totally unprepared for the possibility that one of the U-2s might go down in Russia.

  What followed interested me greatly.

  “The pilots’ contracts provided that they perform such services as might be required and follow such instructions and briefings in connection therewith as were given to them by their superiors. The guidance was as follows:

  “a. If evasion is not feasible and capture appears imminent, pilots should surrender without resistance and adopt a cooperative attitude toward their captors.

  “b. At all times while in the custody of their captors, pilots will conduct themselves with dignity and maintain a respectful attitude toward their superiors.

  “c. Pilots will be instructed that they are perfectly free to tell the full truth about their mission with the exception of certain specifications of the aircraft. They will be advised to represent themselves as civilians, to admit previous Air Force affiliation, to admit current CIA employment, and to make no attempt to deny the nature of their mission.

  “They were instructed, therefore, to be cooperative with their captors within limitations, to use their own judgment of what they should attempt to withhold, and not to subject themselves to strenuous hostile interrogation. It has been established that Mr. Powers had been briefed in accordance with this policy and so understood his guidance.”

  My actual instructions, obtained only after I had brought the issue to the fore, were much more concise: “You may as well tell them everything, because they’re going to get it out of you anyway.”

  There was no indication in the wording that I had failed to heed this suggestion or gone far beyond what I was required to do.

  “In regard to the poison needle,” the statement continued, “it should be emphasized that this was intended for use primarily if the pilot were subjected to torture or other circumstances which in his discretion warranted the taking of his own life. There were no instructions that he should commit suicide and no expectation that he would do so except in those situations just described, and I emphasize that even taking the needle with him in the plane was not mandatory; it was his option.”

  I was glad to have that on record. And I was not displeased by what followed.

  “Mr. Powers’ performance on prior missions has been reviewed, and it is clear that he was one of the outstanding pilots of the whole U-2 program. He was proficient both as a flyer and as a navigator and showed himself calm in emergency situations. His security background has been exhaustively reviewed, and any circumstances which might conceivably have led to pressure from or defection to the Russians have also been exhaustively reviewed, and no evidence has been found to support any theory that failure of his flight might be laid to Soviet espionage activities.”

  Though I was unaware of it at the time, that last statement was open to question. As will be noted, there did exist some rather astonishing circumstantial evidence which indicated that my flight may have been betrayed before I even lifted off the ground.

  As for the exhaustive review of my background, I had learned of this during the debriefings, from one of the men conducting the investigation. “I’ll bet we know more about you than you know about yourself,” he remarked, adding, “The amazing thing is how clean you came out. I’ve been doing this sort of thing for a long time, and you’re the closest to Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy, I’ve seen.” I think he meant that as a compliment.

  The statement then reviewed at some length the details of my May 1, I960, flight, concluding: “In connection with Powers’ efforts to operate the destruct switches, it should be noted that the basic weight limitations kept the explosive charge to two and a half pounds and the purpose of the destruct mechanism was to render inoperable the precision camera and other equipment, not to destroy them and the film.”

  That was a bit vaguer than I would have liked. Since there was so much criticism on this point, I’d hoped that the agency would make it very clear that even had I activated the switches, the plane itself would not have been totally destroyed.

  The statement then concluded that the one hypodermic injection I had been given probably wasn’t truth serum but a general immunization shot; that despite repeated requests to contact the American Embassy or my family, I had been held incommunicado and interrogated for about one hundred days. Paraphrasing me, it observed: “He states that the interrogation was not intense in the sense of physical violence or severe hostile methods, and that in some respects he was able to resist answering specific questions. As an example, his interrogators were interested in the names of people participating in the project, and he states that he tried to anticipate what names would become known and gave those, such as the names of his commanding officer and certain other personnel at his home base in Adana, Turkey, who would probably be known in any case to the Russians. However, they asked him for names of other pilots, and he states that he refused to give these on the grounds that they were his friends and comrades and if he gave their names they would lose their jobs and, therefore, he could not do so. He states they accepted this positi
on. It is his stated belief, therefore, that the information he gave was that which in all probability would be known in any case to his captors.”

  That bothered me. All the emphasis was on those few questions I had refused to answer. Of far greater importance were the many questions I had answered—incorrectly. The doors I had closed with a simple “I don’t know,” the blind alleys up which I had led them when it looked as if they were getting too close to the truth.

  Except for the single example of the names of the pilots, there was no indication that I had withheld information from the Russians.

  I could understand why the information I held back couldn’t be specified. If mention was made that I had lied about the altitude of the U-2, for example, the Russians might reexamine the whole subject and possibly—through radar plots of this and other flights—determine what the actual altitude had been, thus, conceivably, someday placing the life of another pilot in jeopardy. It was the same with the number of overflights and their targets, my atomicweapons training, the “special” missions, and so on.

  Nothing would have been compromised by making the simple statement: “In the opinion of the experts who debriefed him, Powers withheld information vital to the security of the United States.” Just that and nothing more would have made all the difference.

  I was not interested in being proclaimed a hero. I had done only what I felt was right. But then, neither did I like the implication left by this vague, evasive wording. As a “clearance,” it was smudged, equivocal.

  I read on, as the report now approached its summary judgment:

  “All the facts concerning Mr. Powers’ mission, the descent of his plane, his capture, and his subsequent actions, have been subjected to intensive study. In the first place, Powers was interrogated for many days consecutively by a debriefing team of experienced interrogators, one of whose duties was to evaluate Powers’ credibility. They expressed the unanimous view that Powers was truthful in his account. Secondly, an intensive inquiry was made by government officials into the background, life history, education, conduct, and character of Powers. This team included doctors, specialists in psychiatry and psychology, personnel officers, his former colleagues in the Air Force and on the U-2 project. All these persons were of the view that Powers is inherently and by practice a truthful man. Thirdly, Powers appeared before a board of inquiry and testified at length, both directly and under cross-examination. The board agreed that in his appearance he appeared to be truthful, frank, straightforward, and without any indicated attempt to evade questions or color what he was saying. In the board’s judgment, he reflected an attitude of complete candor. In the fourth place, when during his examination before the board a question was raised as to the accuracy of one of his statements, he volunteered with some vehemence that, although he disliked the process of the polygraph, he would like to undergo a polygraph test.”