Operation Overflight: A Memoir of the U-2 Incident

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.

I didn’t know then that the “couple of days” would end in being over three weeks, and that few of those days would be restful.

We arrived at the “safe” house, Ashford Farms, a private estate near Oxford, Maryland, about five A.M. After several hours’ sleep I awoke to a pleasant realization. My irregular heartbeat had disappeared. Thinking back, I realized I hadn’t noticed it since crossing the bridge.

Other discoveries followed. The bathroom had hot and cold running water. And a toilet with a seat. And a mirror. And all sorts of other marvelous conveniences, including a scale. From the tight fit of my pants I had assumed that, despite the limited diet, I’d gained weight in prison. Before my capture I’d weighed between 175 and 180 pounds. Stepping onto the scale, I found I now weighed 152. A loss of twenty-three to twenty-eight pounds; the extra two inches around the middle was due solely to lack of exercise.

Following a large breakfast, only a small portion of which I could eat, photographs were taken, for release to the press. This time there was no need to tell me to smile. I grinned all over the place. Then I saw another doctor—a psychiatrist. Had the Russians drugged me? No, not to my knowledge. Had I been brainwashed? No, at least not in the sense that we usually define brainwashing. How was I feeling now? Extremely nervous. I had felt so since learning I would see Barbara and my parents after lunch. He gave me some tranquilizers, the first I had ever taken. They helped.

My mother and father arrived first. It was a very emotional, though jubilant scene. While in prison I had often wondered whether I would see either of them again. They looked very much the same as when I had seen them in Moscow, although worry had obviously aged them. Our conversation was dominated by family news, everyone so busy asking questions that there was hardly time to listen to the replies.

Barbara and her brother, the Air Force chaplain, arrived shortly afterward. I had anticipated and feared this moment. At Vladimir, during the last long period when Barbara hadn’t written, I had reached a decision: to obtain a divorce upon my return to the United States. It was as firm as any decision could be, yet I knew that seeing her again, in entirely different circumstances, my resolve might be shaken.

She had changed most of all. Bloated, her face puffy, her eyes heavily lidded, at least thirty pounds overweight, she was almost unrecognizable. Despite thick makeup, it was apparent her dissipation had taken a terrible toll.

I had loved Barbara, and, at times, I had hated her too. Now both emotions were gone. All I felt was pity, and all I wanted was to help her, if she would let me. I had no illusions. Our marriage was dead. It had died while I was in Vladimir Prison. Only the form remained.

We talked a long time that night. She was vague as to the details of her life while I had been in prison, her only explanation for the absence of letters that there had been nothing to write about. Her main complaint was that she had not been warned that I was going to be released. I wondered why she felt a warning necessary, and started to ask, but then stopped myself. In that way lay more pain. And I’d had more than enough of that. The questions, and the answers, could wait until both of us were strong enough for them.

I did learn a few things, one especially surprising. Upon return to the United States, following my trial, she had been interrogated by the CIA. Their first question: “Mrs. Powers, are you sure the man you saw in Moscow was your husband?”

Although assuring them he was, she still sensed their skepticism.

I could see them covering all possibilities. But this, as far as I was concerned, was nothing more than wishful thinking on their part.

It was not to be the last time I was to encounter evidence of this reluctance to accept obvious facts.

I awoke once during the night, panicked by the blackness. Then I remembered where I was and gratefully slipped back into sleep. With this, as with other things, I had anticipated a long adjustment, but after that, sleeping without a light never bothered me again.

It was like a series of aftershocks following a major earthquake. All at once I realized: I have all kinds of room! I can go outside whenever I want to! I’m not limited to a walk area of twenty by twenty-five feet!

Perhaps a taste of freedom whets the appetite, making you want more.

Barbara was permitted to stay at the farm, but her brother left the same day he arrived. The second morning my parents returned to The Pound. Soon after they left, Murphy and I took a walk around the yard in front of the house. Ashford Farms was a large estate, at least sixty acres, surrounded by a high wire fence guarded by German shepherds and, I presumed, more than a few agency employees. Like the house itself—a two-story, beautifully furnished Georgian structure—the estate was roomy but secure. Aside from my family, everyone I came in contact with was agency. Even the meals were cooked by one of the agency men.

“Murph,” I said, as we tramped through the snow, “I get the impression that I’m almost a prisoner here. Tell me something. If I wanted to leave right now—just pack my bag and walk out— could I do it?”

After a moment of quiet thought, he replied, “I don’t think so.”

I didn’t know how they could stop me. But at that time I wasn’t particularly anxious to find out. Extremely nervous, still trying to adjust to my changed situation, I wasn’t in any hurry to face the world, especially the press, not quite yet. I became even less so after reading American newspapers and watching TV for the first time in twenty-one months. The exchange dominated the news. Much of what was said stunned me.

While imprisoned I had been protected by my isolation and my correspondents. I had seen no American newspapers, and in the letters I received there was no hint of censure. More than that, I had often drawn strength from the knowledge that the American people were behind me, that they understood what I was going through.

The criticism hit me with a sledgehammer blow.

“A HERO OR A MAN WHO FAILED HIS MISSION?” read the headline on the New York Sunday Herald Tribune.

The American people demanded answers to certain questions, the paper said. Among them:

“Why, knowing that neither he nor the U-2 should fall into unfriendly hands, didn’t he blow himself up, and the plane?

“Why didn’t Powers use the poison needle he had on hand? Or the pistol he had with him?”

Apparently a great many people were under the impression that I had been under orders to kill myself, come what may. But, as I had attempted to make clear in the trial, I had no such orders. I was to use the destruct device—which wouldn’t have destroyed the plane, only a portion of the equipment—if possible. Under the circumstances, it had not been possible. I could understand why, not having been in the cockpit with me, some people might doubt my story. But when it came to the poison needle, there shouldn’t have been any doubt. Since carrying it was optional, suicide was obviously optional too.

Now I understood what was behind the Hutchins remark in Time about Nathan Hale and me.

It bothered me that this criticism was apparently long-standing, and that the CIA—although it would have been very easy to do so, without in any way jeopardizing security—had made no attempt to set the record straight by stating exactly what my instructions were. Instead they had let this misapprehension, damning as it was, continue undisputed.

Much was made of the fact that Abel had not testified during his trial, while I had. But no one pointed out that our law gave Abel the right to remain silent, while under Soviet law I had been denied that luxury, the refusal to testify in itself being considered incriminating.

Five words from my trial testimony had been emphasized almost to the exclusion of all others: “deeply repentant and profoundly sorry.” At the time, I had been sure the American people would understand that this was the only defense I had. But obviously they hadn’t. Those words were emphasized throughout all accounts of the trial.

The criticism went far beyond that, however. Comparisons were made between my conduct and Abel’s following capture, the implication being that while Abel had revealed nothing about his mission, I had “spilled my guts,” “told everything.”

I knew better. The other pilots knew better. As did the agency, the President, the Secretary of State, and, I presumed, quite a few others. I could see why this particular misapprehension hadn’t been corrected. To do so, while I was still in prison, would have placed me in additional jeopardy. Also it would have made the Russians reconsider everything I had told them, and quite possibly give them clues to what I hadn’t told. Although obviously disturbed by the implication that I was some kind of traitor, I felt sure that now I was no longer in Russian hands, the truth would out.

Yet some of the information I had withheld was so sensitive as to make me wonder if it could ever be made public. And, thinking about this, I became vaguely uneasy.

One story, featured in all the papers and on TV, bothered me more than any other. “U.S. ‘UNWISE’ IN SPY SWAP,” read the headlines. “RUSSIANS GOT BEST OF DEAL, SAYS LAWYER.”

William F. Tompkins, a former assistant U.S. attorney general, and the prosecutor of Abel, was quoted as saying: “It’s like trading Mickey Mantle for an average ballplayer. We gave them an extremely valuable man and got back an airplane driver.”

That made me angry. Not because I put a high value on myself, but because it ignored the fact that the United States had gained the release of two Americans by freeing one Russian. (Actually, the count rose to three. Later, Marvin Makinen, a University of Pennsylvania student serving an eight-year sentence for espionage in a Soviet prison in Kiev, was released as a result of negotiations begun by Donovan.) To my mind, this was the same kind of irresponsible criticism that followed President Kennedy’s statement that he was “grateful” for the release of the two RB-47 pilots.

Too, although Abel had once been an important Soviet agent, of what intelligence value was he now, either to us or the Russians? If he hadn’t betrayed his espionage apparatus after nearly five years of imprisonment, it seemed unlikely he would do so in the future. And should he still possess secrets he had not yet communicated to his government, they would be equally dated. Apparently Tompkins wanted him to serve his full thirty-year sentence, as fit punishment for his crime. A perfect example of a prosecutor’s mentality, of which I’d had more than enough in Russia.

I was pleased to discover that Tompkins’ attitude wasn’t quite universal. Asked about the swap, former President Harry Truman had said, “I guess that’s a fair trade.”

Several of the TV news programs reviewed the U-2 incident, from May 1, 1960, through the exchange. Watching them, I learned for the first time many details of what had happened following my capture.

From talking to an agency friend I had known in Turkey, I learned something else I had wondered about: what had happened in Adana when word was received I hadn’t arrived in Bödo.

The party for the communications chief who was returning to the States had gone on as scheduled.

I had figured as much. Once one of those parties got started, only an act of God could stop it. This one, I now learned, had lasted three days.

What I couldn’t have guessed, however, was that the 10-10 detachment hadn’t pulled out until August. As inconceivable as it seemed, despite Khrushchev’s charges, my letters, the statements from my interrogations, the photographs the Soviets had released, the agency was apparently not totally convinced that I had actually been captured and was still alive—until the Russians brought me to trial!

Aside from a brief statement that I was in the United States, appeared to be in good physical condition, had seen my family, and was undergoing questioning at an undisclosed location, the White House remained silent about the exchange. That day, however, there was a report in The New York Times which said that following my interrogation a board of inquiry would be convened by the Central Intelligence Agency “to investigate the circumstances of the capture of Francis Gary Powers by the Soviet Union and the crash of his U-2 reconnaissance plane in the Ural Mountains.”

I asked one of the agency men what that meant. Don’t worry, he told me. That’s just to get the press off our backs.

When will the debriefing start? I was anxious to get it done. It would begin the following day, he said, and would take place at Ashford Farms.

Despite reassurances from Murphy and others, I couldn’t shake the feeling that all at once I was on trial again.

The debriefing didn’t take place at Ashford Farms. Late that night, Monday, February 12, one of the agents received a telephone call. Hanging up the phone, he said: “Some reporter’s on to our location. We’re going to have to move. Better get packed.”

Although there was a blizzard outside, we climbed into several cars and, with more speed than caution, drove off the estate. Later I learned that reporters had succeeded in following us for a few miles but lost us in the snow. There were, in the papers, two different accounts of how Ashford Farms had been compromised. One was that an astute Associated Press stringer, suspicious, since its recent sale, of the estate’s new tenants, had put it under surveillance. Another had it that the draperies in the background of the photos released by the CIA were identified by someone who had visited Ashford Farms on a previous occasion.

Our destination was another of the agency’s “safe” houses, this one near Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. It wasn’t an easy trip. Barbara was desperate for a drink. I’d tried to get her to talk to the doctor at Ashford Farms, but she had refused to do so. I’d then tried to keep her from drinking, but she had begged so pathetically that I’d let her have beer. It tore me apart to see her suffer. It was obvious that she was sick and needed help. This she vehemently denied. Contrary to what I might have heard from the rumormongers, she said, she did not have a drinking problem. It was nerves, she went on, that was all. Given a couple of days, she would pull herself together and be fine.

Debriefings started the next afternoon. Present in addition to agency representatives was Clarence L. “Kelly” Johnson, designer of the U-2. I had seen Johnson on one previous occasion, at Lockheed early in the program, but had never met him.

“Before we start,” Johnson said, “I want to tell Mr. Powers something. No matter what happens as a result of this investigation, I want you to know that if you ever need a job, you have one at Lockheed.”

That vote of confidence meant more to me than I could ever say.

With that the debriefings began. Johnson had the first question:

“What happened to my plane?”

I told him, describing the orange flash, the slight acceleration, and the erratic manner in which the aircraft behaved after that. He asked a number of technical questions. After I had answered, he stated his satisfaction with my explanation.

From Johnson I learned of another Khrushchev trap. Following his announcement that he had the pilot and the plane, the Soviet premier had released a photograph of “the captured U-2,” a mass of twisted wreckage. To the casual viewer, it seemed inconceivable that the pilot could have survived the crash. But Johnson was not a casual viewer. He knew every rivet in the U-2, and after studying the photograph, announced that the plane just wasn’t made right, a judgment confirmed when the real wreckage was put on display in Gorky Park.

What had Khrushchev intended with the fake photo? The most likely possibility was that he hoped to convince Eisenhower the pilot was dead, meaning there could be little actual proof of espionage, and thereby baiting him into yet another public lie.

The Russians had set still another trap, I later learned from people in the agency. Immediately after my disappearance, there was a report of a strange plane with an incredibly long wingspan being seen parked off the runway at Svedlovsk, undamaged and intact. Still later, there were reports that a man resembling me had been seen drinking, carousing with assorted females, and otherwise living it up in various Communist cities. The purpose, apparently, was to make the United States think I had landed my plane and defected.

When Johnson had finished his questions, the agency men began asking theirs. The first session lasted several hours.

At night, after the debriefings, I’d read the papers and watch TV. I didn’t want to. Yet I had to know what was going on.

“Powers served his country badly,” Martin B. McKneally, national commander of the American Legion, told the press. “We are left with the impression that there was more of the mercenary in him than the patriot.”

John Wickers, another American Legion official, said: “I view the exchange with astonishment and disgust. Powers was a cowardly American who evidently valued his own skin far more than the welfare of the nation that was paying him so handsomely.”

It was easy to dismiss such statements as the product of ignorance, which they were, for none of these people was aware of what my orders were, or that I had, on my own initiative, gone far beyond them. But it didn’t make such remarks sting any the less.

Led by Tompkins, the lynching bee ranged from a syndicated sob sister who described me as a “tower of jelly… who will, when the chips are down, go to any length to save his own neck” and who offered the unsolicited advice that Powers should “save his money and find a nice, pleasant spot outside the U.S. in which eventually to live and spend it,” to Senator Stephen Young, Democrat , Ohio, who said, “I wish that this pilot—who was being paid thirty thousand dollars a year—had shown only ten percent of the spirit and courage of Nathan Hale. If it is up to me, I am going to make sure that he never flies for the U.S. government again.”

Much of the criticism focused on the amount of my pay, the argument apparently being that I had been paid this “fantastically high amount” to kill myself before capture, which I had failed to do. Under the subhead “Mercenary,” one paper reported, authoritatively, that in addition to my twenty-five-hundred-dollar monthly salary, I had received a ten-thousand-dollar tax-free bonus for every flight. Had this been true, and had my major concern been money, I would have been quite happily retired long before May 1, 1960.

None of the accounts mentioned that twenty-five hundred dollars per month was less than the captain of a commercial airliner received for considerably less hazardous work; that the mechanics in the U-2 project and the technical representatives of the various companies which supplied cameras, film, and so forth ended up earning nearly as much, and in some cases more, than the pilots. The pilots were government employees, and as such subject to both federal and state income taxes. The mechanics and technical representatives were not federal employees. If they remained outside the country eighteen months or more, as most of them did, they paid no taxes, greatly increasing their take-home pay. Nor did they mention that the pilots who never made an overflight were paid exactly the same amount as those who did.

It was my “fifty-thousand-dollar” back pay that concerned them most, however. Should I be allowed to receive it?

“Our recommendation would be no,” Newsday editorialized. “He was hired to do a job, and he flopped at that job. He left his U-2 behind, substantially undamaged, so the Reds could copy or improve upon it. Under the circumstances, back pay would be laughable. He is lucky to be home again. Anything he can contribute about the Russians will be willingly received. But he is no hero, and he should not be regarded as one. The White House is eminently right in not bringing him in for a meeting with the President….”

Actually, to set the record straight, the amount of my back pay was not $50,000, but approximately $52,500, or $2,500 per month for twenty-one months.

Again unmentioned was that a total of $10,500 or five hundred dollars per month, had already been paid to Barbara while I was in prison. And that the walloping tax bite would further reduce the amount to less than half the total—or about twenty-two thousand dollars.

In addition, because there was no provision for accumulating it in my contract, I also lost the money ordinarily paid for unused leave time. Fortunately I still had my savings, from the earlier portion of the program.

According to newspapers, one of the major reasons for holding the board of inquiry was to determine whether I should receive my back pay. This was not true. Arrangements regarding payments had been made in my contract, and no one from the agency had indicated differently.

The papers didn’t stop at twisting the “facts” to make their case. In more than one instance, they manufactured them.

“The life of pilot Powers is important,” said an editorial in the Dallas Morning News, which I saw sometime later, “but so are the many lives which may have been lost as a result of his failure to follow orders.”

As far as I knew, no deaths had resulted from the U-2 incident.

“It has been reported,” the editorial continued, “that at least two U-2 pilots blew themselves and their planes up when they ran into trouble. These are the real U-2 heroes, and Powers should not be allowed to join them until he has given a good explanation of why he failed to do the same.”

This too was a complete lie. A number of pilots—including close personal friends—had lost their lives in U-2 crashes. But not one had involved the destruct device, which was carried only on missions over hostile territory. To this date—and over the years I have remained in contact with several people involved with the U-2—the destruct device, for all the publicity it has received, has never been used. Not once.

Yet surely some who read that editorial believed it, felt I was not only a traitor but also a murderer.

After reading such nonsense, I was thankful the agency was keeping me from a face-to-face encounter with the press. It might have made headlines of a different sort.

Not all the fictions were a result of “imaginative reporting.” Some person or persons in the government had been responsible for the dissemination of more than a few. One was the story which had bothered me so much in Russia. I now learned that the editor of an aviation journal had stated on an NBC-TV White Paper on the U-2 that he had been assured by totally reliable government sources that the U-2 had not been hit at sixty-eight-thousand feet but, suffering an engine flameout, had descended to thirty-thousand feet, at which point it was shot down. U.S. intelligence knew this, he said, because (1) I had radioed this information; and (2) the entire flight had been tracked on radar. The story was certainly a nice plug for the effectiveness of our radio and radar. The only trouble was, both claims were not only not true, they were also not possible.

My early suspicions were not certainties. There were some people in the government absolutely refusing to accept the fact that Russia had surface-to-air missiles capable of hitting high-flying aircraft.

It wasn’t until much later, in 1965, with the publication of President Eisenhower’s memoirs, that I was to learn how far up the chain of command this misapprehension apparently extended.

“HERO OR BUM?” asked one newspaper. “Many questions need answering, not the least of which involve Powers’ own conduct,” noted another. “Should he, like Nathan Hale, have died for his country?” queried Newsweek.

I stopped reading the newspapers and news magazines. Yet it wasn’t that easy. For by this time I had heard, from several people in the agency something even more disturbing. Negotiations for the Abel-Powers trade had begun under William P. Rogers, Eisenhower’s attorney general. The current attorney general, Robert F. Kennedy, had opposed the trade. Moreover, he had said that upon my return to the United States he personally intended to try me for treason.

For God’s sake, why? I asked the people from the agency. As the President’s brother, he was certainly aware of the true facts of the case, including the importance of the information withheld.

There was no clear-cut answer, only conjecture. Rumor had it that, reacting to criticism of his appointment as attorney general when he had never actually practiced law, Robert Kennedy had wanted to “prove himself” with a spectacular trial.

I felt there must be more to it than that.

They were the experts. They knew what was important and what wasn’t. Yet as the debriefings continued—we had by this time moved to a third “safe” house, near McLean, Virginia, not far from Hickory Hill, the Kennedy estate—I couldn’t help feeling disappointed by their lack of thoroughness, the questioning being neither so intensive nor the queries so probing as I had anticipated.

It seemed to me that some of the information I possessed— concerning what I had observed on the May 1 flight and subsequently during my interrogations, trial, and imprisonment—was of intelligence value. For example, that the KGB had asked me some questions and not others seemed significant, as did whether the question was general or specific, was in the nature of a “fishing expedition” or indicated prior detailed knowledge. Such things, I felt, were important clues as to how good their intelligence was, and, though only bits and pieces, might be helpful in constructing a composite picture of the extent of their knowledge.

But the agency apparently felt otherwise. In this, as with other areas I thought important, they showed little interest.

They were far more concerned about what I had told the Russians regarding some of their other clandestine operations, and greatly surprised to discover that quite often I knew little or nothing about them.

There were many questions I felt should have been asked—but weren’t. Yet when I attempted to volunteer information, often as not it wasn’t appreciated. For example, while being questioned about the KGB officials with whom I had come into contact, I was shown a photograph of Shelepin, head of the KGB, and asked if I could identify him. But when I volunteered that it was Rudenko, not Shelepin, who appeared to be the “big wheel” in the interrogations, the man to whom the others deferred, they quickly passed on to something else. Maybe this wasn’t important. Yet, for a comparable example, if in the interrogations of a Soviet spy FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover played a superior role to Attorney General Robert Kennedy, I suspect the KGB would have been greatly interested in that fact.

One of the reasons I had kept the journal was to record things I felt might later be of use to the agency. When I told them about the journal, however, they expressed no desire to see it. I had assumed they would be interested in the fate of their former agent Evgeni Brick. From their reactions I got the distinct impression that they couldn’t have cared less. I had presumed they would communicate my information regarding Zigurd Kruminsh to the British, since he had been a British agent. If they did, there was no follow-up.

From the start, it was obvious they believed my story. The “Collins” message had gotten through. As had the repeated references to my altitude. And, from the simple fact that certain things hadn’t happened which would have happened had I told the Russians about the “special” missions, they realized I hadn’t told everything. I was pleased that they believed me. Yet I remained disappointed in the debriefings. It may be that the information I possessed was worthless. The only way to determine that, however, was to find out what I did know, then evaluate its importance or lack of it. Instead they seemed to have decided in advance what they were interested in, which—to me, at least—seemed a rather faulty intelligence practice. And considering the questions, I couldn’t help discerning an obvious pattern behind them: that the agency was not really interested in what I had to tell them; their primary concern was to get the CIA off the hook.

Two

If true, this was not the first attempt to pass the buck, to pin the blame elsewhere. Shortly after my return, on coming into contact with several former participants in Operation Overflight, I heard a most disturbing story.

When I had failed to appear at Bodö, Norway, the ramifications had hit Washington like a burst of flack. I had gone down somewhere in Russia: there could be no other explanation. Yet, because number 360 had a fuel-tank problem, this didn’t necessarily mean I had been shot down, and, since Russia was a very large country, it could be that the plane wouldn’t be found. In any event, it was unlikely the pilot was still alive.

A contingency plan was hastily drawn up, for use in the event the Russians should have the wreckage of the plane and decide to make an issue of it.

The plan was quite simple. One of the higher-ranking agency representatives at Adana, a man whom we’ll call Rick Newman, would confess to overzealously taking it upon himself to order me to make the flight, with no authorization whatsoever. Thus, by blaming a “gung-ho” underling, the President and the CIA could evade admission of responsibility.

The reason for their settling on Newman and not Colonel Shelton was obvious: they needed a civilian, so the Russians couldn’t term it a military operation.

As preparation for putting the plan into effect, Newman was secretly flown from Turkey to Germany and hidden in the basement of the house of our agency liaison there, to make sure he couldn’t be reached by reporters.

The plan, however, had one basic flaw: it presumed that I was dead. Alive, with no prior knowledge of the cover story, anything I said would in all likelihood contradict their version.

With Khrushchev’s announcement on May 7 that the pilot was “alive and kicking,” it should have been obvious the plan would have to be scrapped. Yet at six P.M. on the seventh, some dozen hours afterword reached the United States of Khrushchev’s speech, the State Department released the cover story, approved by the President, that although a U-2 had probably made an intelligencegathering flight over the Soviet Union, no authorization for such a flight had been given by authorities in Washington.

The first three paragraphs of James Reston’s lead story on the front page of The New York Times, May 8, 1960, give the details:

Eventually, of course, the plan was abandoned, with President Eisenhower’s unprecedented admission that he had personally authorized the overflights, but not before several alternate plans had been considered, including Central Intelligence Agency Director Allen Dulles’ offer to resign and assume the blame.

I heard the story from several people in the agency. One was Newman himself, who laughed as he recounted how he had hidden in that basement for several days.

Newman had a wife and three children. Although presumably there would have been some financial compensation—perhaps his retirement with a better pension than otherwise—they would have had to live the rest of their lives under the stigma that he had recklessly precipitated an action which wrecked the Summit Conference and conceivably could have launched a nuclear war.

It was not an easy laugh.

Nor did I laugh in return. For, in a sense, the plan called for two scapegoats, as the flight could not have taken place without my concurrence.

On hearing the story, I was glad, for the sake of everyone concerned, that the plan had been abandoned.

What I didn’t realize, until much later, was that this was only half-true.

According to the newspapers, retired Federal Appeals Court Judge E. Barrett Prettyman had been chosen to conduct the board of inquiry. The hearing would be held “in-house,” closed to the press and public, in CIA headquarters in Washington.

A few days earlier, I was taken to 2430 E Street to meet Allen Dulles. By this time Dulles had been replaced as Director of Central Intelligence (DCI) by Kennedy appointee John A. McCone. He was still in the process of moving out of his office, however.

It was an odd meeting. Dulles greeted me with a bemused look. We shook hands. He commented wryly that he had heard quite a bit about me. I told him how pleased I was to be back in the United States. He replied that he had read the debriefing reports: “We are proud of what you have done.”

Later, wondering why the meeting had taken place, I guessed it was simply because Dulles wanted to meet the spy who had given him so many headaches.

I had a problem, which became clearly obvious just as I was to appear before the board of inquiry. With few exceptions, most agency personnel I had come into contact with since my return home were people I had never met previously. Most of them—such as the security men who kept me in “protective custody” at the “safe” houses—had no connection with the U-2 program. This meant that they were not cleared for such information, and I couldn’t discuss the more sensitive aspects of the operation with them.

I knew nothing about Prettyman himself. It had been reiterated, a number of times, that the hearing was merely a formality, in order to give something to the press, that, insofar as the agency itself was concerned, I had already been completely “cleared.” Obviously it would help my case, put me in a far more favorable light, if I could reveal exactly what I had withheld from the Russians. Yet some of it, such as that portion pertaining to the “special” missions, no hint of which had ever appeared publicly, was still political dynamite. Any leak, even at this late date, could have tremendous international repercussions.

“How much should I tell Prettyman?” I asked one of the agency representatives. His suggestion: “Use your own discretion.” It was not exactly a carte-blanche reply.

Obviously the “special” missions were not to be mentioned: those missions that began on September 27, 1956, in Turkey, when Colonel Perry instructed me to fly over the Mediterranean, watch for and photograph any concentration of two or more ships.

The assignment, the first of many such “special” missions, gave me an increased respect for the effectiveness of American intelligence. In July, 1956, Egypt had seized the Suez Canal. In late September, a full month before the first shot was fired in the Sinai, the United States was aware not only that Israel intended to invade Egypt but also that preparations were being made for France and Great Britain to come to her aid.

The ships U.S. intelligence was looking for were British, French, and Israeli.

I flew the mission, going as far as the island of Malta, and returning, caught sight of several ships and photographed them. From the air I could not identify the registry; however, later, when the photographs had been developed and studied, I was told the mission had been successful. Although I was in a very real sense spying on the vessels of three friendly nations, I felt no compunctions about my action. In our atomic age, any war, no matter how isolated, how small, how seemingly insignificant, could blossom into a nuclear holocaust. It seemed to me then—and still does—far more important that we know exactly what was going on and do nothing about it, as in this case, than plunge in and try to do something, with no real idea of what was happening, as had been the case on more than a few other occasions.

After that the “special” missions became frequent occurrences. Because I had done so well in navigation during my training at Watertown, Colonel Perry assigned me many of these flights. A great number of them during this period were over Israel and Egypt. On such missions I would usually first overfly Cyprus, at that time still under British rule, with cameras on, primarily to see if a fleet was being assembled there, then on to Egypt and Israel. One does not realize, until seeing it from the air, just how small Israel is. A few passes, a few miles apart, and it could be photographed in its entirety. By comparison, Egypt is a mammoth presence.

On these missions several places merited special attention. The Suez Canal, of course, was one. Another was the Gulf of ’Aqaba, then as now a source of contention. Here, in close proximity, Israel, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt all had ports, Israel’s port being its only link with the Red Sea. Another was the Sinai Peninsula. There are few more desolate places than the Sinai. Against it, the deserts of the American Southwest look like oases. For miles and miles there is absolutely nothing but bleakness.

Yet, on a flight on October 30, 1956,1 looked down and spotted something. Black puffs of smoke—what must have been the first shots fired in the first daytime battle of the Sinai campaign.

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 1960. 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, had 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, 1960, 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 position. 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.”

The word “like” was definitely an exaggeration.

“That test was subsequently duly administered by an expert, and in it he was examined on all of the factual phases which the board considered critical in this inquiry. The report by the polygraph operator is that he displayed no indications of deviation from the truth in the course of that examination. In the fifth place, a study of the photograph of the debris of the plane and other information concerning the plane revealed, in the opinion of experts making the study, no condition which suggested an inconsistency with Powers’ account of what had transpired. The board noted the testimony of Russian witnesses at the trial in Moscow which dealt with the descent and capture of Powers and with technical features of the plane and the incident.

“The testimony was consistent with the account given by Powers. Powers was able to identify a spot near a small village where he thought he had landed. This location checked with prior testimony given by Powers as to physical features, directions, and distances, and also corresponded with earlier independent information not known to Powers that certain of the persons who captured him lived in this same small village. Some information from confidential sources was available. Some of it corroborated Powers and some of it was inconsistent in parts with Powers’ story, but that which was inconsistent was in part contradictory with itself and subject to various interpretations. Some of this information was the basis for considerable speculation shortly after the 1 May episode and subsequent stories in the press that Powers’ plane had descended gradually from its extreme altitude and had been shot down by a Russian fighter at medium altitude. On careful analysis, it appears that the information on which these stories were based was erroneous or was susceptible of varying interpretations. The board came to the conclusion that it could not accept a doubtful interpretation in this regard which was inconsistent with all the other known facts and consequently rejected these newspaper stories as not founded in fact.”

Finally the bogus story was laid to rest. Yet there was not a hint as to who had perpetrated this fiction in the first place. Or why.

The final paragraph of the statement read:

“On all the information available, therefore, it is the conclusion of the board of inquiry which reviewed Mr. Powers’ case and of the director of Central Intelligence, who has carefully studied the board’s report and has discussed it with the board, that Mr. Powers lived up to the terms of his employment and instructions in connection with his mission and in his obligations as an American under the circumstances in which he found himself. It should be noted that competent aerodynamicists and aeronautical engineers have carefully studied Powers’ description of his experience and have concluded on the basis of scientific analysis that a U-2 plane damaged as he described would perform in its descent in about the manner he stated. Accordingly, the amount due Mr. Powers under the terms of his contract will be paid to him.”

“POWERS CLEARED BY CIA,” the headlines would read.

Yet I wondered.

Three

There’s been a change in plans,” one of the agents informed me excitedly. “You’re going to the White House before you go to the Senate. You have an appointment with the President.”

Nervous enough before, I was doubly so now. The newspapers had made much of President Kennedy’s greeting the two RB-47 pilots but “snubbing Powers.” This meeting, I realized, could do much to allay the criticism. It also meant that the attorney general had apparently gotten the message. The likelihood of my actually being brought to trial was, I felt, quite remote. Still, that it had even been considered bothered me.

We were awaiting the arrival of the limousines to take us to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, when another message came through. One of the agents gave me the news. “The White House called. The appointment has been canceled.”

Why? He didn’t know; there had been no explanation.

With my appearance before the Senate to begin in just a couple of hours, I hadn’t the time to worry about it. To mask my disappointment, I told myself that maybe it had been postponed until after the hearing. But I didn’t really believe that. Something had happened.

I wished they hadn’t brought it up in the first place.

Thoughtfully, the chairman of the Committee on Armed Services, Richard B. Russell of Georgia, had provided the agency with a list of questions he would ask me at the start, to put me at ease. Then I would be asked to describe exactly what had happened on my May 1 flight. Beyond that I’d be on my own; the committee members were free to ask whatever questions they wished.

CIA Director McCone had given his closed-door testimony that morning, at the same time the chairmen of the House and Senate Armed Forces committees had jointly released my CIA clearance, thus providing groundwork for my testimony.

As we drove to the Old Senate Office Building, I scanned the list. What part of Virginia are you from? Where did you attend grammar and high school? Where did you go to college? I was admittedly shy; the mere thought of appearing before a large crowd frightened me. This little bit of prebriefing was helpful, and I was thankful to Russell for being so considerate.

We made it out of the automobile and into the building without being spotted. But as we were walking down the corridor to the Senate caucus room, one of the TV reporters recognized me. Within seconds the cameras were focused and questions were coming from every direction.

I thought: This is the first time I’ve ever been on TV! But, before I could panic, I remembered: No, it isn’t. There was Moscow. You should be a seasoned performer by now.

Powers can’t make any statement at this time, my escort insisted, trying to hurry me past. Would I talk to them after the hearing ended? I promised to do so.

There were about four hundred people in the Senate caucus room. Including Chairman Russell, fourteen senators were present: Harry Flood Byrd, Virginia; John Stennis, Mississippi; Stuart Symington, Missouri; Henry M. Jackson, Washington; Sam J. Ervin, Jr., North Carolina; Strom Thurmond, South Carolina; Robert C. Byrd, West Virginia; Leverett Saltonstall, Massachusetts; Margaret Chase Smith, Maine; Francis Case, South Dakota; Prescott Bush, Connecticut; J. Glenn Beall, Maryland; and Barry Goldwater, Arizona.

As I sat down at a table, facing them, someone handed me a model of the U-2, and I held it while the flash bulbs snapped. Promptly at two P.M. the chairman called the hearing to order.

Chairman Russell began: “That will be all for those cameras. I will ask the officers to see that rule is enforced and that no further pictures are taken. If you need any additional policemen for that purpose, we will summon them.

“The Armed Services Committee, through the Central Intelligence Agency, has extended to Mr. Francis Gary Powers an invitation to appear in open session this afternoon.

“Before we hear from Mr. Powers, the Chair would like to make a very short statement concerning the circumstances of this hearing.

“The Chair believes it can be fairly stated that this committee and its subcommittees have attempted to deal with subjects involving the Central Intelligence Agency and, indeed, all matters affecting the national security, in an unspectacular manner.

“Accordingly, to some, it may appear that this hearing in the caucus room, under these circumstances, is somewhat uncharacteristic of the proceedings of this committee.

“In this instance, however, the correction of some erroneous impressions and an opportunity for Mr. Powers to reveal as much of his experience as is consistent with security requirements make it apparent that a hearing of this type at this time is not only in the national interest, but is in the interest of fair play for Mr. Powers….

“Mr. Powers, after having been subjected to a public trial in Moscow, you should feel no trepidation whatever in appearing before a group of your fellow citizens and elected representatives. I hope that you feel just as much at ease as you possibly can.

“I understand from Senator Byrd that you are a Virginia boy. What part of Virginia are you from?”

After the initial questions, Chairman Russell asked me to tell, in my own words, exactly what had happened on May 1.1 did, describing the prebreathing, the last check of the maps, my final instructions from Colonel Shelton, and the delayed takeoff—but omitting mention that this had been occasioned because we were awaiting White House approval. Then I described the flight itself, seeing the jet contrails below and realizing I had been radar-tracked, the autopilot trouble, the route—but again omitting certain things, such as how I made my radio fixes, that this would be the first time a U-2 had overflown Sverdlovsk. Although I was accompanied by Lawrence Houston, general counsel for the Central Intelligence Agency, there had been no prior briefing by the agency on what I should or should not say. Apparently by this time it was presumed I knew what was and wasn’t sensitive. All I could do was guess, hoping some of these matters had been earlier covered by McCone.

Interrupted only for occasional clarification by Russell, I then described in considerable detail the orange flash and what had followed, up to my final unsuccessful attempt to activate the destruct switches. From the faces of the senators I couldn’t tell whether or not they believed me. All I knew was that I was telling the truth.

I went on to tell of my descent and capture, the trip to Sverdlovsk, the bringing in of my maps and assorted wreckage, the questioning, my decision to admit that I was employed by the CIA, the trip to Moscow, Lubyanka Prison, and the interrogations. Realizing that I had been talking for what seemed a very long time, I paused and observed that they probably had many questions.

Russell had several. I had been vague as to time. Didn’t I have a wristwatch? No, I replied, explaining that because of the difficulty of putting it on over the pressure suit, I didn’t wear one. Had I ever experienced a jet-plane flameout? Yes, and there was no comparison.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: Has there ever been any other occasion when you were in an airplane and were the target of a ground-to-air missile or explosive or shell of any kind?

POWERS: Not that I know of.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: YOU have never seen any ground-to-air missile explode?

I replied that I hadn’t, although I had seen motion pictures of such happenings, adding, “I am sure that nothing hit this aircraft. If something did hit it, I am sure I would have felt it.”

I’d had twenty-one months to think about this question and was convinced—as were “Kelly” Johnson and others—that the plane must have been disabled by the shock waves from a near-miss. Had it been a direct hit, I doubted seriously whether I would be here testifying before the Senate.

While I was talking, one of the Senate pages handed me a white envelope. I slipped it into my pocket and promptly forgot it.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: I wish you would clear up the matter of the needle, Mr. Powers. Were you under any obligation to destroy yourself if you were captured?

POWERS: Oh, no. I don’t remember exactly who gave me the needle that morning, but they told me, “You can take it if you want to.” They said, “If something does happen, you may be tortured. Maybe you could conceal this on your person in some way, and if you see that you cannot withstand the torture, you might want to use it.” And that is the reason I took the needle. But I could have left it. I wasn’t told to take it.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: DO you have the instructions that you received that morning and that you usually received before you—

Russell stopped abruptly, realizing he had almost mentioned my other overflights.

He was referring to the three paragraphs in the CIA clearance regarding what I was to do in the event of capture. On his instructions, I read them into the record.

Russell then questioned me about the red-and-white parachute I had seen. Earlier, when this had been brought up during the debriefings, one of the agency intelligence men had told me there was evidence indicating that in their attempt to get me the Russians had also shot down one of their own planes. I wasn’t told the source of this information, only that from contacts within Russia they had learned about the funeral of a fighter pilot who presumably had piloted the aircraft.

This fit in with what I had suspected.

However, since this was an area which might be sensitive— involving, as it did, our intelligence apparatus within Russia—and because, too, my information on this was secondhand, I didn’t mention it to the committee. I did observe that the second chute was not a part of my equipment.

We came now to my treatment after capture.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL- Did they threaten you at any time when they were examining you?

POWERS: There were no definite threats, but they didn’t let me forget that this crime was punishable by death. Anytime they would mention it was seven to fifteen years or death, and they wouldn’t let me forget that.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: Did you ever manifest any reluctance in answering the questions that they asked you, or did you answer them immediately?

POWERS: I refused to answer several of their questions. I showed reluctance on many.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: Pardon?

POWERS: I showed reluctance on many, some that I couldn’t see how they could be of any interest to them at all, but I was just reluctant in answering all questions.

I was caught in a trap, and not one of my own making. I wanted to say more, but couldn’t. I had no idea how much McCone had told the committee. I could only hope he had made clear that important information had been withheld.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: That was not exactly in conformity with your instructions there to cooperate with your captors, was it?

POWERS: Well, you shouldn’t go overboard with this cooperation….

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: YOU were quoted in the press as having stated at your trial that you had made a terrible mistake in flying over Russia and apologized to the Russian people and would never do it again. Was that a misquotation, or did you make that statement at your trial?

POWERS: NO, that wasn’t a misquotation. I made this statement on the advice of my defense counsel, and also because it was easy to say I was sorry, because what I meant by saying that, and what I wanted them to think I meant, were quite different. My main sorrow was that the mission failed, and I was sorry that I was there, and it was causing a lot of adverse publicity in the States. But, of course, some of these things I couldn’t say in that statement.

Russell then questioned me at some length about my imprisonment, the food, whether I felt my cellmate was a plant, how I was treated generally.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: I can’t refrain from saying that the Russians were much more gentle with you than I would ever have expected they would have been to one who was taken under those circumstances.

POWERS: It surprised me also. I expected much worse treatment than I received.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: I rather think you got off somewhat better than a Russian spy would in this country under the same circumstances.

POWERS: I really don’t know.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: It might depend on where he happened to land. Undoubtedly he would have a rough time in the section of the country from which I come.

Russell then turned the questioning over to the other senators. White-haired Senator Saltonstall from Massachusetts, looking every bit the formidable New Englander, led off.

SENATOR SALTONSTALL: Mr. Chairman, Mr. Powers, I think I only have one or two questions. I have listened with interest to what you have said. I have listened to what Mr. McCone has told us, what he has given out in unclassified information, and I have listened to the chairman. My question would be this: Did I understand you correctly that when you were coming down in the parachute you threw away your instructions and threw away your map?

POWERS: No, I had no written instructions with me, but I did have a map, and I tore that up in very small pieces and scattered it out in the air as I was coming down.

SENATOR SALTONSTALL: So that your instructions were in your head, so to speak?

POWERS: Yes.

SENATOR SALTONSTALL: Now, did you have a briefcase or something else in which these other things, your special food, and these other things, were that they looked through afterward?

POWERS: Yes, I had what we call a seat pack. In this seat pack was a collapsible life raft, some food, some water, matches, several other items necessary to, say, live off the land or survive in an unpopulated area.

SENATOR SALTONSTALL: In other words, nothing except survival kit?

POWERS: Yes. There were also some cloth maps for escape and evasion.

I was anticipating another question, and what came next caught me completely off guard.

SENATOR SALTONSTALL: Mr. Powers, I will just say this: After listening to Mr. McCone and after listening to you, I commend you as a courageous, fine young American citizen who lived up to your instructions and who did the best you could under very difficult circumstances.

I managed to say “Thank you very much,” but my voice choked. I was deeply moved by his response. Excepting only the private remarks of Allen Dulles, this was the first commendation I had received since my return.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: Senator Byrd?

SENATOR BYRD: The chairman has very ably covered the ground, and I will not ask any questions. I do want to join with Senator Saltonstall in expressing my opinion that this witness, Mr. Powers, has made an excellent presentation. He has been frank, and I am also very much gratified that Mr. McCone has testified before the committee that so far as he knows no action has been taken by you which was contrary to your instructions or contrary to the interests of this country.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: Senator Smith?

SENATOR SMITH. Mr. Chairman, my questions have been covered, thank you.

Senator Stennis then questioned me regarding Grinev, my defense counsel, inquiring: “He rendered you a valuable service, did he?”

POWERS: Well, I really don’t know. I never did trust him any more than the rest of them.

SENATOR STENNIS. I mean by that he gave you information and talked to you, and you think you were better off at the trial than you would have been without his aid. What about that?

POWERS: I really don’t know.

SENATOR STENNIS: You have understood, I suppose, that at the time this occurred there was some publicity here, not a great deal, but some, that was not altogether favorable to you. Did you know about that?

POWERS: I have heard about this since I—

SENATOR STENNIS: This is just a prelude for my saying this—that it is with satisfaction that I learn that you have been fully exonerated by the men who most know how to judge what you did, what the facts were, by your superiors and those who employed you. Not only that, but they found that you have discharged all of your obligations to your country, and it is with satisfaction to us here, and I think to the American people, to learn that, to know it is true. I know it makes you feel mighty good.

POWERS: There was one thing that I always remembered while I was there and that was that “I am an American.”

SENATOR STENNIS: You are an American.

POWERS: Right.

SENATOR STENNIS: And proud of it?

POWERS: Right.

There was a spontaneous burst of applause from the audience which lasted several minutes. It more than made up for the applause that had greeted my ten-year prison sentence in Moscow.

After asking several questions about the wreckage of the plane, Senator Case brought up the subject of the timing of the flight. I was hoping the senators could enlighten me on this, for I was as curious as anyone else as to why approval had been given so close to the Summit. But, aside from my bringing out that weather conditions had determined the particular day, we got no closer to an answer.

Senator Symington, who had once visited Incirlik but had been denied information on Detachment 10-10 because he lacked the proper “need-to-know” approval (a refusal that greatly impressed him with our security), followed with a number of technical questions about the explosion. What did I think caused it, the former Secretary of the Air Force asked. I observed that the Russians had “stressed many, many times that they got me on the very first shot of a rocket, but they stressed it so much that I tend to disbelieve it.”

I had been told, during the debriefings, that intelligence sources within Russia had claimed a total of fourteen rockets had been fired at me. Whether this was true or not, I didn’t know. I did suspect, however, that there had been more than one.

SENATOR SYMINGTON: IS there any possibility that you were hit twice, once at a higher altitude, say, a near-miss, and again at a lower altitude?

POWERS: No.

I made that “No” as emphatic as possible.

SENATOR SYMINGTON: You did your best to destroy the plane, but, because of the gs on you at the time, you were just unable to reach the controls; is that correct?

POWERS: Yes, that is right.

SENATOR SYMINGTON: Mr. Chairman, I would like to join you and other members of the committee in commending Mr. Powers for the way he handled himself in this unfortunate episode. I have no further questions.

SENATOR BUSH: Mr. Chairman, I have no questions, but I also would like to say, having heard Mr. McCone’s reports today and having listened to Mr. Powers’ remarkable story, that I am satisfied he has conducted himself in exemplary fashion and in accordance with the highest traditions of service to one’s country, and I congratulate him upon his conduct in captivity and his safe return to the United States.

Senator Jackson then asked me whether the Russians had attempted to indoctrinate me in Communism. I replied that there had been no direct attempt as such, but that the only news I received came from Communist sources. He also asked me to describe my release, which I did, noting that not until I had stepped across the line did I learn that it was an exchange, with Abel involved.

SENATOR JACKSON: Mr. Chairman, I want to conclude by saying that I associate myself with the remarks previously made here. I think it is quite clear from what we have heard this morning and now that Mr. Powers has lived up to his contract.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: Senator Beall?

SENATOR BEALL: Mr. Chairman, I have no questions. I do want to associate myself with you and the balance of the committee in commending Mr. Powers for the very intelligent way he has handled himself. I was at the hearings this morning, and I am convinced that he has been very frank with us, and I congratulate him.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: Senator Thurmond?

SENATOR THURMOND: No questions, Mr. Chairman.

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: Senator Goldwater?

SENATOR GOLD WATER: I have no questions.

Following some queries regarding Soviet justice and the absence of the jury system in Russia, Chairman Russell asked: “Any further questions by any member of the committee?” There were none.

Of the fourteen senators present, seven—Saltonstall, Byrd of Virginia, Stennis, Symington, Bush, Jackson, and Beall—had gone on record as stating their belief that I had lived up to my obligations, both insofar as my CIA contract was concerned and as an American. Chairman Russell, though he had made no statement, had indicated his agreement by the manner of his questioning. (Following the hearing, he told reporters that he agreed I had lived up to the terms of my contract.) Whatever the personal opinions of the remaining senators—Smith of Maine, Thurmond, Ervin, Byrd of West Virginia, Case, and Goldwater—they had declined to state them publicly. Later, however, on opening the envelope handed to me during the hearing, I found a Senate memorandum. Written in pencil, it read: “You did a good job for your country. Thanks. Barry Goldwater.”

CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: I will ask all the policemen to please see that Mr. Powers and his CIA escort are able to get out before the rush. Will all of you please keep your seats.

They disobeyed his instructions, however, bringing the hearing to an end with a standing ovation.

Looking at my watch, I realized the hearing had lasted only ninety minutes. It had seemed much longer.

As my two escorts and I were attempting to make our way through the crowd of well-wishers, Senator Saltonstall brought over two of my sisters. They were the only members of my family who had been able to attend the hearing; this was the first time I had seen them since my return to the United States. Our reunion was brief, however. The moment we reached the hall, a bevy of reporters descended upon us.

“What are you going to do with your back pay, Mr. Powers?”

“Spend it.”

“How?”

“Slowly.”

Before I could answer any more questions, or talk further with my sisters, my escort rushed me out of the building.

As for what followed, Time summed it up concisely: “Then he disappeared into a waiting government car—leaving behind him a persistent feeling that some of his story remained untold.”

Following the Senate hearing, I checked into Georgetown University Hospital for rest and a complete physical examination. With little else to do, I resumed reading the newspapers. With few exceptions—Wallace Carroll of The New York Times, for example, wittily described the hearing as “hominy all the way,” glossing over the fact that it was not a Southerner but a Yankee, Saltonstall of Massachusetts, who had taken the lead in commending me—accounts of the Senate hearing were mostly favorable.

I had the feeling it had turned out much better than some people— possibly including President Kennedy—had anticipated.

What was behind the canceled meeting with the President? By now it was obviously a cancellation, not a postponement because some urgent matter had taken priority. Perhaps the President had not wanted to steal the Senate’s thunder, as he would have done by greeting me prior to the hearing. Yet, if that were the case, why had the appointment been scheduled in the first place? It was more likely that the decision to cancel the meeting was political: not sure which way the hearing would go, perhaps Kennedy had not wanted to risk identifying himself with what might have turned out to be the losing side.

Personally, I was pleased with the hearing, not so much because I had been “vindicated,” but because it was now over and I could resume my life. Yet I knew the committee’s response wouldn’t satisfy everyone. The senators had been briefed by McCone; the public hadn’t. They didn’t know what was being withheld, if anything. Until such time as the whole truth could be told, doubts would remain, and the hearing itself would appear to some to be a “whitewash.”

I had been looking forward to the time in the hospital, since it would give me a chance to think about my future. Now that I had the chance, however, I found it difficult to make plans. Despite the threat of Senator Young, I had learned there would be no difficulty about my returning to the Air Force. Yet I didn’t want to go back in immediately, at least not until after the publicity had died down and I could slip back into the routine as just another pilot. I briefly considered Kelly Johnson’s offer; but I had no idea what my job would be, nor did I know how serious his offer had been. The agency had suggested that, until making up my mind, I could work in the new CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia. My duties were unspecified, except that I would probably be spending a portion of my time in the training section. That appealed to me for one reason: I had been almost totally unprepared for capture. If I could help others to better equip themselves for what they might encounter in similar circumstances, the experience wouldn’t have been wasted. The drawback, however, was that I would be grounded. And I doubted if I could ever be happy in anything other than a flying job.

And there was my marriage. That too called for a decision. I evaded that, also, by telling myself I couldn’t leave Barbara now, not when she seemed to need me most. Had I faced the facts squarely, I would have been forced to admit that the continual arguments comprising most of our time together were helping neither of us.

My problems were by no means unique. Like any returning veteran, I needed time to adjust, wasn’t anxious to make any big decisions, at least not yet.

I left the hospital with all my problems intact. As for the checkup, it had only revealed what I already knew, that one souvenir of my sojourn in Russia was a bad stomach condition which I would probably have for the rest of my life.

Ironically, most of the foods I had dreamed about eating while I was in prison in Russia, I now couldn’t have.

This particular souvenir caused me trouble until 1968, at which time—after Lovelace Clinic and others had failed to alleviate the condition—a private physician prescribed medication that immediately relieved the pain. Only during the past two years have I been able to eat salads, corn, and sundry other foods I so missed. The condition remains, however; one day off the pills, and the symptoms come back. Imprisonment may be an effective method of diet, but I don’t recommend it.

Two men from the agency drove me to The Pound. I had expected they would remain, but to my surprise they returned to Washington. I was finally on my own.

Lonely I was not. My sisters, their husbands and their children, plus more relatives than I knew I had, attended the homecoming. Some eight-hundred people crowded into the National Guard Armory at Big Stone Gap, Virginia, to witness the VFW award ceremony. There were two high-school bands. Beside me on the platform sat my mother and father. This was really their day. More than any other single person, my father could claim credit for effecting my release, by first suggesting the trade for Abel. I was immensely proud to see him receive his due.

On my own initiative, rather than instructions from the agency, I had decided if possible to avoid the press. However, when it’s raining, the roads have turned to mud, and cars are stuck outside your front door with no one else to help pull them out, what can you do? Too, they had gone to the trouble of driving all the way to The Pound, and it seemed unfair not to see them. One, Jim Clarke of radio station WGH, Newport News, Virginia, arrived about eleven o’clock the night of the award ceremony. Most of the family had already gone to bed exhausted. After some persuasion, I consented to tape an interview which was broadcast a few days later. As with the other reporters, I told him little more than I had told the Senate. Although Clarke was pleasant and did his best to put me at ease, his interview had one bad aftereffect. At one point I stated I “thought” I had seventy seconds on the destruct device. As mentioned earlier, not all of the timers worked uniformly, some with a variance of as much as five seconds either way. Tired after the long emotional day, my mind blanked. I couldn’t remember exactly how accurate this particular timer might have been.

Later, at least one reporter picked up that qualifying word and used it to resurrect the whole conspiracy theory first proposed by the Soviets, that is, that the pilots weren’t sure they had a full seventy seconds; they were afraid the CIA had rigged the device to explode prematurely, killing them too.

After that I refused all interview requests. I felt—with some justification, I believe—no small amount of resentment toward at least some members of the fourth estate, particularly those who had presumed to try me in absentia before all the facts were in and when there was no way I could defend myself.

While in The Pound I saw McAfee, my father’s attorney, and asked him about the two-hundred-dollar fee demanded for an interview with Kennedy. McAfee refused to identify the person, however. He would say only that it was someone in the White House. I had no choice but to leave it at that.

From The Pound I went to Milledgeville, Georgia, to pick up Barbara. By this time I had decided to accept the CIA’s offer, at least until such time as I could make up my mind as to what I wanted to do.

I had been in Milledgeville only a short time before I sensed a strong hostility toward Barbara there. She explained it was because she was a “celebrity”; people resented her fame. But I felt something else on coming into contact with residents: pity, not for Barbara but for me. It was as if everyone knew something I didn’t and felt sorry for me. I didn’t like that a bit. Fortunately, our stay was brief. On returning to Washington, we found an apartment in Alexandria and I went back to work for the CIA, grounded in the first nine to five job I’ve ever had in my life.

Since my return I had received a great deal of mail, some sent in care of my parents, but much of it directed to me at the CIA. Of several hundred letters, only a few were critical. Most were warmly congratulatory. I heard from friends not seen since boyhood, pilots I’d last seen in the service. The majority, however, were from people I had never met, many from mothers who had prayed for my release. And there were some surprises, among them a letter from Cardinal Spellman, thanking me for coming to his defense during my trial.

As surprising were the large number of offers to buy the rights to my story. On reporting to work at the agency there was a whole sheaf of telegrams and urgent telephone messages. One book publisher, wasting no time on preliminaries, offered a flat $150,000 advance.

Thus far my side of the story hadn’t been told. Because of national security, I realized it might be years before some aspects could be made public. However, there was much that could—no, should— be known, if for no other reason than to avoid repeating the same mistakes in the future. For mistakes had been made, bad ones. The U-2 incident was an almost classic textbook case of unpreparedness. Too, the story told the American people was heavy with lies and distortions. This seemed a good way to set the record straight. I made inquiries within the agency as to whether there would be any objection to my writing a book about my experiences. I realized it would take some time for the request to travel up the chain of command, but was prepared to wait.

At the same time, I also asked if I could write to my former cellmate. The answer came back quite promptly. Negative. It would look bad if anyone found out you were writing someone inside Russia.

Though I abided by the decision, it was less for this reason than another. I didn’t want to cause Zigurd any trouble. And there was just a chance that by writing to him I might do so.

Admittedly, my previous experience with the agency had spoiled me. I had been part of a select, smoothly functioning team of experts who had a job to do and did it, with a minimum of fuss. As such, I had seen only glimpses of the actual organizational structure of the CIA. They were enough, however, to convince me that things had now changed.

By this time both Dulles and Bissell had left, the latter offering his resignation as deputy director of plans just seven days after my release. Bissell had survived the U-2 episode, but not the Bay of Pigs, becoming just one of the scapegoats for that tragic fiasco. Controversy over it was still raging within the agency. The plan had been good but poorly executed. It never would have worked. Kennedy was responsible for its failure by withdrawing air support. Kennedy had never authorized air support in the first place, therefore couldn’t have withdrawn it. So the arguments went.

Although a year had passed, everyone still seemed to be searching for someone else on whom to pin the blame.

Maybe I was naïve. Maybe it had always existed without my noticing it. But politics now seemed to dominate the agency, almost to the exclusion of its primary function, collecting intelligence. Everything had to be justified, especially in the light of how it might appear in the press. Decisions were avoided because of possible backlash if they proved wrong (though this was not new to me with my military background). Concern appeared to be less with what the facts were than with how such information would be accepted. And it takes little insight to realize that when intelligence is shaped to be what its recipients want to hear, it ceases to be intelligence.

In part, I was witnessing a vast organizational shake-up, due to President Kennedy’s vow to restructure the agency following the failure of the Cuban invasion. In a world of secrets, the least kept was that John McCone, although an astute businessman—according to the General Accounting office, his California shipbuilding company had turned a hundred-thousand-dollar investment into forty-four million dollars during World War II—knew little about intelligence. He was a political appointee, and, I now learned, Robert Kennedy’s personal choice as successor to Dulles. According to rumor, he was not the first choice. Although I found it difficult to believe—it has since been brought out in other accounts—Robert Kennedy had apparently wanted to take over as director of Central Intelligence, in addition to being attorney general, the idea being scotched because it would have lent fuel to the argument that the Kennedys were attempting to create a dynasty.

If true, it would provide another possible explanation for the story that he had wanted to try me. Powers could be made a symbol of the failure of the old order.

Maybe the shake-up was long overdue. Maybe the CIA had acquired too much independent power and needed to be brought under closer control of the President. I only knew what I saw— bureaucratic chaos. Divided loyalties. Jockeying for favor. A half-dozen people doing jobs previously done by one. Paperwork increasing at such a rate that one suspected the task of collecting intelligence could be dropped, with the paperwork alone sufficient to keep everyone occupied.

Undoubtedly only a portion of this was due to McCone. Perhaps what I was witnessing was simply that the CIA, having outgrown its youthful exuberance, was suffering the middle-age spread that seems to be the lot of most government agencies.

Admittedly I saw only part of the whole picture. But it bothered me.

Another thing also bothered me. Even within the agency many people were unsure of my exact status: had Powers been cleared, or hadn’t he? The people at the top knew, but hadn’t let the word filter down. I encountered no animosity, but I did find a great deal of puzzlement. The CIA clearance, with its evasive wording, had raised almost as many doubts as it had laid to rest.

My attitude toward this remains today much as it was then. I knew what I had and hadn’t done. I did not feel I had to clear my name. Nor did I feel I had to justify my conduct to anyone. People would have to accept me as is. Those who couldn’t, I wasn’t interested in having for friends. Fortunately, over the years the former have predominated.

Yet this did not mean that I was happy at having been placed in this position.

I enjoyed my work with the training section because I felt it was important. The tricks the Russians used in their interrogations, the difficulty of improvising a workable cover story, the decision of how much to tell and how much to withhold, how to avoid being trapped in a lie, how best to cope with incarceration—these were only a few of the problems we explored. I also read the accounts of other prisoners, pointing out where my experiences differed or were the same. And I consulted with the people in psychological testing to give them clues as to what to look for in screening certain covert personnel.

It was satisfying work—later I learned that a number of my suggestions had been incorporated into the training program for certain personnel—but I was also aware that it was temporary, something to do until such time as I could make some decisions. Not all of them concerning my future employment.

Nothing had changed with Barbara, except to grow worse. Again there were the suspicions: unexplained absences from the apartment; charges on the phone bill for long-distance calls I thought were in error but had been made to an unfamiliar number in Georgia; constant pleading to be allowed to go back there for a visit, although, estranged from her mother, she could never provide a good explanation for the necessity of such a trip. And the certainties: bottles under the bed, in closets, in dresser drawers. One night in April, following a familiar argument, in which I insisted that if she couldn’t stop drinking by herself she would have to have medical aid, she swallowed a whole bottle of sleeping pills. I rushed her to the hospital, just in time.

Following her recovery, I tried to get her to remain in the hospital for treatment of her alcoholism. But she refused; she still would not admit she was an alcoholic. I had hoped this close call would bring her to her senses, make her realize she needed competent help. It didn’t. Upon her release the situation remained unchanged. In May she simply packed a bag and returned to Georgia.

On returning from a trip to the West Coast, I stopped in Phoenix to see some friends. While deplaning I was paged to contact TWA for a message. Few people knew my itinerary; so I knew it was something out of the ordinary. Checking with TWA, I was given a local number to call; on calling it, I was given still another number, this one in Washington, D.C. The CIA agent who answered informed me that Barbara and a male companion had been in some kind of trouble at a drive-in restaurant in Milledgeville. Refusing to leave when asked to do so by the management, they had caused such a scene that police had to be called. By some means, word of the incident had reached the CIA. The situation had been resolved, but the agency felt I should know what had happened.

On arriving in Milledgeville, I laid down the law. She had to have medical help, had to leave Milledgeville, and had to stop seeing certain people, including her male companion. I was going back to Washington, I told her; if she wanted to accompany me, it would have to be under those conditions. Otherwise I was going alone and would take whatever action I deemed necessary. Believing this was just another empty threat, Barbara chose to stay in Milledgeville.

In August I returned to The Pound, ostensibly for a visit but really to think things through. When I did, I was forced to admit there was no helping Barbara, not without her agreement; that in continuing the marriage I was only holding onto the shell of what was and what might have been; all else was ashes—had been for a long time. Before returning to Washington, I took off my wedding ring.

Georgia was still my legal residence. Not long after this I returned to Milledgeville to consult an attorney. While there I asked the questions avoided since my return. The answers confirmed my worst suspicions while in prison. But now it no longer mattered. I filed suit for divorce. The decree became final in January, 1963.

In May, 1962, I was given verbal permission to write the book. I was not informed as to who made the decision, but I was sure the request had gone all the way up to McCone, since no one else would be willing to take such responsibility.

Consulting with an attorney, I went through the offers, finally deciding on a joint proposal advanced by the publishing firm Holt, Rinehart and Winston and the Saturday Evening Post. Negotiations began and had reached the contract stage when, in early July, I was informed, again verbally, that upon reconsideration it had been decided that a book at this time would not be advantageous either to me or to the agency. While they could not forbid me to publish the book, they strongly suggested that I not do so.

Word had filtered down through several levels. However, it was clear that the decision to grant permission had been vetoed by someone higher up than McCone. That left few possibilities.

A good amount of time and money had been spent on the negotiations, and a number of people inconvenienced. I didn’t like that. Neither did I appreciate the implication that I might be adversely affected if the truth were told.

Yet I also felt something else, something perhaps only a person who has spent time in prison can fully comprehend. I was deeply grateful to the agency and to the government for effecting my release. They could just as easily have left me in prison until May 1, 1970, had I lived that long. In a sense, each day of my freedom before that time I owed to them.

That that freedom was to be qualified, however, that silence was the price I would have to pay for it, was not a pleasant realization. Especially when I suspected that the chief motivation behind the decision was political, the fear that what I had to say might embarrass the agency.

I spent the weekend of the Fourth of July trying to decide what to do.

On July 6 I wrote the following letter:

I had been muzzled. It was only then that I began to have doubts whether the story would ever be told.

Four

My decision to leave the Central Intelligence Agency was motivated by three factors:

1. Suppression of the book, to which I had reluctantly acquiesced. Already one book, the first of several on the U-2 incident, had appeared, its authors, so far as I knew, having made no attempt to contact me.

2. The obvious fact that I was just killing time. Though I had my own office, with the implication that I could stay on at the agency as long as I wished, I had run out of meaningful work.

3. I was itching to fly.

With nearly twelve years of service, and only a little more than eight to go until retirement, I couldn’t afford not to go back into the Air Force. Yet I still wasn’t ready to lead a regimented life: I wanted to be able to go where I pleased, do what I wanted to do. On checking with the Air Force, I was told there was no hurry as to a decision; I could take my time.

One of my friends at the agency knew “Kelly” Johnson and offered to call him to see if the job at Lockheed was still open. Johnson suggested I fly out to California and talk to him. In September, 1962, I did so.

I was about ready to say I was interested only in a flying job when he asked: Would you like to be a test pilot?

I suspect that at one time or another this has been almost every pilot’s ambition: I knew it was mine. I said I would.

Flying U-2s?

The answer was written across my face in a big grin.

On returning to Washington, I submitted my resignation to the CIA, and reported to work at Lockheed on October 15, 1962.

By this time the U-2 had proven itself again. While at the agency, I had kept abreast of developments in the program, and was aware that Air Force pilots, under the command of SAC, were making overflights of Cuba. I also knew that late in August a U-2 had spotted a number of Soviets SAMs, probably similar to the one that brought me down. What no one knew for certain, however, until a U-2 returned from its overflight along the western edge of Cuba on October 14 and its photographs had been processed and studied, was that sites were being built for medium-range ballistic missiles capable of reaching targets in the United States.

We were to pay a high price for our intelligence on the Cuban missile crisis. While overflying Cuba, USAF Major Rudolph Anderson was shot down by a Soviet SAM.

With his death, no one could any longer doubt that Russian missiles were capable of reaching the U-2’s altitude.

My work at Lockheed was as an engineering test pilot. This consisted of test-flying the planes whenever there was a modification, a new piece of equipment installed, or the return of an aircraft for maintenance.

Getting back into the tight pressure suit was an odd sensation— uncomfortable as ever. But there was one improvement. It had been found that an hour of prebreathing prior to flight would suffice. Again I was back in the high altitudes. Perhaps needless to say, my insurance premiums rose even more astronomically.

Except for a few close calls, I thoroughly enjoyed the work. Two times hatch covers blew out. One knocked a hole in the wing and in the tail. The other jammed the canopy so I couldn’t get out. But each time I managed to make it back. And, while I was working at high altitudes, where the aircraft was most temperamental, there were, I’ll frankly admit, occasions when I was scared. But my confidence in the U-2 remains unshaken. It was and still is a remarkable aircraft, one of a kind.

I only wish there were more of them around.

In 1963 I received the first of what was to be a number of rude awakenings.

You’re going to have to make up your mind, Powers, the general said. If you want to go back into the Air Force, you’ll have to do it soon.

With nearly twelve years toward retirement—

Five and a half, he corrected me. Your time in the CIA won’t count.

On joining the U-2 program in 1956 I had signed a document, cosigned by Secretary of the Air Force Donald A. Quarles, promising me that upon completion of service with the agency I could return to the Air Force with no loss of time in grade or toward retirement, my rank to correspond with that of my contemporaries. This had been a major factor in my accepting employment with the CIA. The same was true of the other pilots, all of whom had signed the same document. A number of them had already returned to the Air Force under those conditions.

The general knew this. But there had been too much publicity about my case. Although they would let me reenlist at comparable rank—an old captain, or a new major—they would have to renege on their promise regarding my CIA service counting as time toward retirement.

I was being penalized for doing my duty, for having spent twenty-one months in a Russian prison!

He was sorry, but that was the way things were.

I could have fought it, I suppose. However, as with my agency contract and numerous other documents I had signed, the CIA retained the only copy. To contest this, I would have to use other pilots as witnesses. Some of them, I was quite sure, wouldn’t lie. But it would be damn rough on them. My attempt to obtain what I had been “guaranteed in writing” might mean the Air Force would penalize them, too.

The agency knew me well, perhaps too well. They were gambling on my not causing a fuss, for just this reason. And, in this instance, they read me right.

The general also informed me that for the same reason I wouldn’t be allowed to receive the Distinguished Flying Cross, awarded to me in 1957.

The second disillusionment came in April. Compared to the broken promise regarding my Air Force service, it was decidedly minor. (Many of my contemporaries in the program have retired or will become eligible for retirement in 1970 as lieutenant-colonels or better, at six to seven hundred dollars a month for life.) Yet, indicative of a pattern, it was in its own way decidedly important.

On April 20, 1963, at a secret ceremony which took place in the Los Angeles area, a number of the pilots who had participated in the U-2 program were awarded the Intelligence Star, one of the Central Intelligence Agency’s highest decorations.

There was one exception. Francis Gary Powers hadn’t been invited.

“Kelly” Johnson and a couple other people who worked with me attended. They were very secretive about it, however, because they had been instructed not to let me know what was going on. I knew all the time, from pilot friends with whom I had kept in contact.

It was more than a slight, more than the failure to receive an award. It was confirmation of what I had half-suspected for some time, but didn’t really want to admit. I was, to borrow from John LeCarré, the spy who was to stay out in the cold. Things began fitting into place: the agency’s failure to clear up the misconceptions regarding my orders, and by so doing lending credence to the criticism; the canceled White House visit; the smudged clearance.

It wasn’t too difficult to deduce the reasoning behind it. I could almost hear the discussion:

The public is already down on Powers because they think he told more than he should. We can’t divulge what he withheld. Since he’s already been made the scapegoat, why not leave it at that? Otherwise there will be questions. The agency has been under enough fire already. This will divert the criticism.

Conjecture, of course, but I suspect it’s fairly close to what happened.

As to who made the decision, I have only suspicions. As to when it occurred, it must have been sometime prior to the issuance of the clearance. That the Senate hearing went as favorably as it did was, I believe, a surprise to almost everyone concerned.

I was to be the scapegoat.

And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

Ironically, not all of the pilots who received the award had made an overflight of Russia.

While working at Langley I had met a very attractive and intelligent agency employee named Claudia Edwards Downey. Sue, as she was known to her friends, had been one of the agency people with initial doubts about Francis Gary Powers. She managed to overcome them. One of my earliest impressions of her wasn’t exactly favorable: she had spilled a cup of hot coffee on me. Our romance blossomed over the wires of the Bell System. My monthly telephone bill had grown so large, in fact, that we decided there was only one way to reduce it. On October 21, 1963, Sue resigned from the agency and we were married October 26, in Catlett, Virginia. It was the beginning, without qualification, of the happiest part of my life.

After spending about six months in an apartment, we purchased a home in the Verdugo Mountains, its panoramic view including Burbank airport’s north-south runway. This meant that I was only five minutes from work and Sue could watch my takeoffs and landings. The same day we made the down payment, I was informed that Lockheed was moving its testing facilities to Van Nuys airport.

But we liked the house—and have been especially fortunate in having neighbors who have become good friends.

On August 17, 1960, the Russians had given me a trial for my thirty-first birthday present. On my thirty-fifth birthday, in 1964, the California courts granted me permission to adopt Claudia Dee, Sue’s seven-year-old daughter by a previous marriage. I’ve never had a nicer birthday present.

And on June 5, 1965, we celebrated the birth of a son, Francis Gary Powers, II.

Fame—fortunately, as far as I’m concerned—is a fleeting thing. People forget the face first, then the name. There were still occasional requests for interviews; but thanks to the public-relations department at Lockheed, I was able to fend them off. While it was never possible to forget completely all that had happened, Sue and I were able to build a new life independent of the past.

But there were occasional reminders.

Two worth noting occurred in 1964, one very disappointing, the other not.

I had a great deal of respect for James B. Donovan, the New York attorney who had arranged my exchange for Abel. Not only was I indebted to him for my release, I was tremendously impressed when shortly afterward he successfully negotiated the release of 9,700—yes, 9, 700—Cubans and Americans from Castro’s Cuba. Since my return we had had little contact. I had sent him a sugarcured Virginia ham; over cocktails on the plane taking me home after my release, we had, in jest, agreed that a Virginia ham would be the “fee” for his services. We had also exchanged Christmas cards. Beyond that, however, I’d heard nothing until publication of his book on the Abel case in 1964.

In describing our conversation on that plane ride, Donovan observed: “Powers was a special type, I thought. People at home had been critical of his performance when downed and later when tried in Moscow. Yet, in charity, suppose you wished to recruit an American to sail a shaky espionage glider over the heart of hostile Russia at 75,000 feet [incorrect] from Turkey to Norway. Powers was a man who, for adequate pay, would do it, and as he passed over Minsk would calmly reach for a salami sandwich. We are all different, and it is a little unfair to expect every virtue in any one of us.”

I might not like that—and of course didn’t—but if that happened to be Donovan’s impression of me, I couldn’t fault him for saying it. I could, however, for the sizable number of errors in his story. Two of these bothered me very much, both concerning that same return flight.

“I went up to the cockpit,” Donovan writes, met the colonel piloting the plane, and heard American news broadcasts about the exchange on Glienicker Bridge.… The colonel and his crew shook my hand and were more than friendly. I noticed they avoided Powers.”

Inviting me up to the cockpit and asking whether I wanted to fly the plane wasn’t exactly avoiding me. In fairness to Donovan, he had gone to bed before this happened, and possibly wasn’t aware of what occurred, but he must have been aware that we exchanged friendly remarks at various other times during the flight.

I didn’t appreciate the picture he was painting. And there was more.

In relating portions of our conversation, he quoted me as saying: “I thought more about politics and international things than I ever did before. For example, it just doesn’t make sense to me that we don’t recognize Red China and let her into the United Nations.” To which Donovan adds the comment, “It did not seem a proper occasion on which to discuss the point.”

The implication was obvious. Powers came back spouting Communist propaganda.

My recollections of the conversation differ somewhat, and I think that Murphy and others present will bear me out on this.

Donovan had been entertaining us with details of his negotiations with a KGB official. At one point the official had told Donovan, “You should study Russian.” Donovan replied, “In my country only the optimists study Russian. The pessimists study Chinese.” The KGB official, he said, didn’t perceive the humor.

We did, however, and laughed appreciatively. Donovan then asked me whether the Russians had ever discussed the Red Chinese with me. I replied that they had never brought up the subject in conversation; in reading the Daily Worker, however, and on listening to radio news as translated by my cellmate, I had heard them occasionally bemoan the unfairness of excluding China from the UN. However, I added, both my cellmate and I agreed that that was probably the last thing in the world the Russians wanted.

In the same spirit of charity extended to me by Donovan, I will only say that his recollections of our conversation are hazy.

Later there was a letter. Negotiating to sell his book to Hollywood, he was willing to offer me twenty-five hundred dollars for use of my name and story. Permission wasn’t necessary, he said, but he had personally arranged this for me. As an extra added incentive, he might also be able to arrange for me to play myself in the movie, should I so desire.

I was tempted to reply that since the mercenary Powers had passed up sixty times that amount by deciding not to write his book, he was placing a rather high price on my vanity.

But I didn’t.

I was, and remain, grateful to him for the part he played in my release. But I also want to keep the record straight.

My first meeting with former CIA Director Allen Dulles seemed preordained, one of those meetings decreed by fate. The second meeting, while not a surprise, did catch me off guard.

In March, 1964, the Lockheed Management Club hosted a dinner at the Beverly Hilton Hotel. Chief speaker was Dulles. Sue and I were there, to hear our former boss. We entered the room just behind Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, who were escorting Mr. and Mrs. Dulles. Spotting me, Mrs. Johnson said, “Oh, Mr. Dulles, I believe you know Francis Gary Powers.”

It was not a name he was likely to forget.

His greeting was most cordial, as was mine. I had never considered Dulles responsible for the role into which I had been placed; that decision, I believe, had occurred during the reign of his successor.

After acknowledging his introduction, Dulles departed from his prepared speech: “I want to say, too, as I start, that I am gratified that I can be here for another reason, because I would like to say to all of you, as I have said from time to time when the opportunity presented, that I think one of your number—Francis Gary Powers— who has been criticized from time to time, I believe unjustly, deserves well of his country. He performed his duty in a very dangerous mission and he performed it well, and I think I know more about that than some of his detractors and critics know, and I am glad to say that to him tonight.”

Dulles’ talk was taped. Later “Kelly” Johnson had his remarks transcribed and a copy sent to me.

In April, 1965, I was asked to come back to Washington to be awarded the Intelligence Star.

My first reaction, quite frankly and quite bluntly, was to suggest they shove it.

We made the trip, however, for several reasons. It was less than two months before the birth of Gary, and would be the last opportunity to visit our families for some time. Following the ceremony, there was to be a dinner at Normandie Farms, Maryland, with a number of friends from the early days of the U-2 program in attendance, many of whom, including Bissell, I hadn’t seen in years.

I’m not sure why, having once declined the opportunity, it was decided to make the presentation in 1965. By this time McCone had submitted his resignation, and a Johnson appointee, retired Vice Admiral William F. Raborn Jr., was scheduled to be sworn in as DCI in little more than a week. Perhaps it was felt that this was a bit of leftover business to be gotten out of the way before the new DCI took over. At any rate, although the ceremony was impressive, it was cheapened for me not only by what had preceded it, but by the realization that the presentation was worded in such a way as to commend me for my “courageous action” and “valor” prior to 1960. Apparently it was felt the Virginia hillbilly wouldn’t catch such a subtlety, or notice, when I examined the scroll accompanying the medal, that the date on it was that of the earlier ceremony, April 20, 1963.

Word of the secret ceremony leaked to the press. The accounts were wrong in one particular, however. Instead of the actual April date, they said it occurred on May 1, 1965, the fifth anniversary of my flight.

That was, I’m quite sure, the last thing the agency wished to commemorate.

As is probably obvious from my account, I’m patient, unusually so, and always have been. While some might consider this a virtue, I think of it as a fault. But it’s the way I am, and try as I might, I haven’t been able to change it.

For a time I put thoughts of the book aside. My work, my family, our friends, were more than enough to fill my time. Too, more than a few of my recollections were not pleasant. I was not anxious to relive them.

And no man, even in the privacy of his innermost thoughts, likes to admit he has been used.

Meanwhile, other books dealing with the U-2 incident continued to appear, among them Allen Dulles’ The Craft of Intelligence, Harper & Row, 1963, which related the story of the exposure of the Russian bomber hoax; and Ronald Seth’s The Anatomy of Espionage, E. P. Dutton, 1963, which considered the U-2 flights in relation to the whole broad spectrum of intelligence-gathering.

In his chapter on the U-2 story, Seth did something a great number of others hadn’t. He studied the trial testimony, concluding: “Indeed, throughout the whole of his trial, [Powers] comported himself with a dignity and spirit which might have been found lacking in many another. All the way down the line, Powers was badly served—by his President and others who ought to have known better, by faulty intelligence which led him to believe that he was invulnerable, and by attempts just before the trial to accuse the Russians of having brainwashed or drugged him.”

One book of special interest was Lyman B. Kirkpatrick’s The Real CIA, Macmillan, 1968, for its glimpse of what happened in the inner chambers of the agency when realization dawned that I hadn’t made it to Bodo. It caused, according to Kirkpatrick, former executive director of the Central Intelligence Agency, “one of the most momentous flaps that I witnessed during my time in the federal government.”

Kirkpatrick’s account is not wholly uncritical of the handling of the affair. With remarkable understatement, he notes: “It was fairly obvious that the unit of the CIA that was responsible for the cover story had not thought the matter through very carefully.” He continues: “To my knowledge nobody has ever yet devised a method for quickly destroying a tightly rolled package of hundreds of feet of film. Even if Francis Powers had succeeded in pressing the ‘destruction button,’ which would have blown the plane and the camera apart, the odds would still have been quite good that careful Soviet search would have found the rolls of film.”

Yet this mistaken assumption—that the plane would have been totally obliterated, all evidence of espionage destroyed—apparently was believed at the highest level, by the President himself.

Kirkpatrick was in California at the time of Khrushchev’s shattering announcement. Cornered by reporters, his single comment was, “No comment.” He notes: “Later I was pleased to learn that one of the newscasters, in commenting upon the episode, characterized my statement as the only intelligent one made by the government during the event.” With that I am inclined to agree. From a strictly selfish viewpoint, my interrogations would have gone easier had there been a little less talk.

Kirkpatrick concludes: “The development and use of the U-2 was a remarkable accomplishment, and the fact that it came to the end of its starring role over Russia on May 1, 1960, should not dim the achievements of the men who made it possible…. Francis Powers, and the others who flew the plane, also deserve full credit for their courage and ability. Powers conducted himself with dignity during his interrogation and trial and revealed nothing to the Russians that they did not already know. Upon his return to the United States in 1962, after he was exchanged for Rudolf Abel, a review board headed by Federal Judge E. B. Prettyman went into the minute details of his conduct while a prisoner and found that he had conducted himself in accordance with instructions. He was decorated by the CIA.”

You could write a whole book between some of the sentences of that paragraph.

The most surprising account, however, appeared in 1965: Waging Peace: The White House Years 1956-1961, Doubleday, its author former President Dwight D. Eisenhower.

In the chapter entitled “The Summit That Never Was,” Eisenhower describes how he received the news on May 1. By way of preface to this astonishing paragraph, Brigadier General Andrew J. Goodpaster was White House staff secretary, and served as liaison between the President and the CIA:

“On the afternoon of May 1, 1960, General Goodpaster telephoned me: ‘One of our reconnaissance planes,’ he said, ‘on a scheduled flight from its base in Adana, Turkey, is overdue and possibly lost.’ I knew instantly that this was one of our U-2 planes, probably over Russia. Early the next morning he came into my office, his face an etching of bad news. He plunged to the point at once. ‘Mr. President, I have received word from the CIA that the U-2 reconnaissance plane I mentioned yesterday is still missing. The pilot reported an engine flameout at a position about three hundred miles inside Russia and has not been heard from since. With the amount of fuel he had on board, there is not a chance of his still being aloft.’”

I had never an engine flameout nor did I radio back to the base. And the CIA certainly knew this.

It was now obvious why this particular story had received such widespread acceptance. Apparently even the President believed it.

There remains the possibility that the account is in error. One problem with memoirs of heads of state is that they are often the work of a number of people. Recollections differ, time clouds detail. I was told, in this particular instance, however, that a man from the agency was given a leave of absence to help prepare material for the chapter on the U-2 incident. That this slipped past him, if it did, is all the more astonishing.

It may be that General Goodpaster misunderstood the message; it is also possible that someone in the agency, not wanting to accept hard realities, speculated that this might have been what happened. If so, it should have been presented to the President that way, as pure speculation. Conveyed as straight intelligence, with the addition “the pilot reported” for authenticity, it constitutes a serious breach of trust.

There are indications throughout the Eisenhower account that he was not informed on all developments in Operation Overflight.

“A final important characteristic of the plane was its fragile construction,” Eisenhower writes. “This led to the assumption (insisted upon by the CIA and the Joint Chiefs) that in the event of mishap the plane would virtually disintegrate. It would be impossible, if things should go wrong, they said, for the Soviets to come in possession of the equipment intact—or, unfortunately, of a live pilot. This was a cruel assumption, but I was assured that the young pilots undertaking these missions were doing so with their eyes wide open and motivated by a high degree of patriotism, a swashbuckling bravado, and certain material inducements.”

Our feeling that the plane was too fragile to last was, as noted, strong at the start of the program. By 1957, however, with the stepping up of the flights, we knew better. Nor did we by that time believe that in the event of accident at high altitudes the plane would disintegrate. The tragic death of Lockheed test pilot Robert L. Sieker in April, 1957, had dispelled this notion. The crash which killed Sieker had left his plane virtually intact. It was so mangled as to be beyond repair, but all the parts were there.

Later Eisenhower stated: “There was, to be sure, reason for deep concern and sadness over the probable loss of the pilot, but not for immediate alarm about the equipment. I had been assured that if a plane were to go down it would be destroyed either in the air or on impact, so that proof of espionage would be lacking. Self-destroying mechanisms were built in.”

If Eisenhower was told this, he was deceived. Had we been carrying ten times the two-and-a-half-pound explosive charge, there would have been no guarantee that the entire plane and all its contents would have been destroyed. Nor was the single mechanism “self-destroying.” It had to be activated by the pilot.

Eisenhower’s astonishment following Khrushchev’s announcement was undoubtedly genuine: “On that afternoon, Friday, May 6 [Saturday, May 7], Mr. Khrushchev, appearing before the Supreme Soviet once more, announced what to me was unbelievable. The uninjured pilot of our reconnaissance plane, along with much of his equipment intact, was in Soviet hands.”

The evidence strongly suggests that although the President was consulted for authorization of the flight packages, no effort was made to brief him on the many changes in the situation. For example, nowhere in his account is there any mention that we were worried about Soviet SAMs and had been for a long time, or that we realized it was only a matter of time before the Russians would solve their missile-guidance problem.

Again, this is only a personal opinion—possibly erroneous, as I do not know all the facts—but I am inclined to feel that since permission for the flights was so difficult to obtain, the President simply was not informed of the many dangers involved, lest he consider the advisability of discontinuing the overflight program entirely.

I also get the impression throughout his account, though it is only obliquely implied, that Eisenhower believed the pilots had been ordered to kill themselves rather than submit to capture.

Yet I find it difficult to believe the President of the United States would approve a kimikaze-type operation.

The one question I had been hoping would be answered with his book wasn’t. Why was this particular flight scheduled so close to the Summit?

But there are clues. And they would seem to bear out my earlier suspicion that the flight on May 1, 1960, was intended not only for the intelligence data we could have obtained—although that was unquestionably important—but also to give Eisenhower a better bargaining position at the conference table.

Eisenhower admits: “Almost from the very beginning, we learned that the Soviets knew of the flights….” Being aware of this, he must have been aware that it was unlikely this particular flight would have gone undetected. My guess that Eisenhower wanted Khrushchev to know we were still making the flights, in the hope he could use this as leverage in reintroducing the Open Skies Plan in Paris, may not have been too wild a guess. Although I was uninformed of this while in Russia, in his opening remarks at the abortive Summit Conference he stated:

If Eisenhower’s intention was that Khrushchev learn of the flight, it must be said that, whatever else may have happened, he was certainly successful in that.

Some mysteries remain. Eisenhower’s reason for authorizing the flight is one.

Even more fascinating in some ways is another: Was the May 1, 1960, flight of the U-2 “betrayed?”

The CIA has said it wasn’t. But again there are clues. Although the evidence is by no means conclusive, three separate—and seemingly unrelated—incidents indicate that this might have been the case. They are presented here strictly for purposes of speculation.

In July, 1960, William Hamilton Martin and Bernon Ferguson Mitchell, two cryptologists employed by the National Security Agency, “disappeared.” On September 6, 1960, they surfaced in Moscow, at a press conference, where they revealed a great deal of information they claimed to have learned while working for the secret agency. One of their claims was that the NSA was monitoring the codes of some forty nations, including many friendly to the United States, even to the extent of intercepting communications of the various governments to their delegations at the United Nations.

I was informed of their defection by the Soviets a day or two after this—shortly before I was to be transferred from Lubyanka to Vladimir. At the time, however, I was unaware whether the story was simply a ruse designed by my captors to trap me into some admission, or whether the defection and press conference had actually taken place.

Not until my return to the United States did I learn the particulars of the case—that Martin and Mitchell, both alleged homosexuals, had gone to work for the National Security Agency early in 1957; in February, 1958, for reasons known only to themselves, they had joined the Communist party and begun transmitting secret information to the Russians.

The full extent of this information has never been made public by either side. That the two men knew of the U-2 overflights, however, there can be no question. Obviously acting under instructions from Moscow, but posing as concerned civil servants, they called on Representative Wayne Hays, Democrat, Ohio, to protest the overflights, apparently in the hope he would apply congressional pressure to have them stopped. (That the Soviets would thus risk exposing two such well-placed agents is indicative of how desperately they wanted to stop the overflights.)

The National Security Agency was well aware of the overflights, because, as has since been made public, the NSA was involved in processing and studying electronic data received from the U-2 flights.

Both men were still working for the NSA at the time my last mission was scheduled. Whether in the course of their duties they learned of it and gave this information to their Communist contact is one of those questions which remains unanswered. Among the people I talked to following my return to the United States was an agency man who had worked in the communications section at Adana. His position was supervisorial; he knew what was going on. Curious, I asked him about the delayed Presidential approval on this particular flight.

This was only one of two things which distinguished this flight from those which preceded it, he told me. The other, a mistake that should never have been made, was the result of a breakdown of communications between Germany and Turkey.

The overflight orders were conveyed from the United States to Germany, and from Germany to Turkey, via radio code. From Turkey they were then transmitted to the crew in Pakistan, by similar means. The night prior to the flight, having worked around the clock several days awaiting transmission of Presidential approval, the communications man had gone to bed for a few hours, leaving an assistant in charge. During his absence, radio communications between Germany and Turkey broke down. When the approval did come through, the agent in Germany relayed it to Adana over an open telephone line—something absolutely forbidden in any circumstance. The assistant had then relayed it to Peshawar.

The communications man learned of this only the next morning, on arriving at work. Had he been on duty when the message came in, he swore, he never would had sent it further, the risk of the call’s having been monitored being so great.

Thus there is a possibility that the Russians knew I would be taking off even before I did.

More than one writer has suggested that the CIA itself betrayed the flight, as a part of some vast conspiracy to wreck the Summit. Lest in mentioning the above I encourage further exploitation of this wild fantasy, it should be stated that the best—and most conclusive—evidence against this theory is the simplest: the agency’s total lack of preparedness for the crash possibility, and the “monumental flap” that ensued.

The third bit of “evidence” poses far more questions than it answers. Yet it is, in its own way, by far the most intriguing. It concerns the possibility of the altitude of the U-2 having been betrayed.

When the U-2’s altitude is referred to as “secret,” that term is qualified. In addition to those personally involved in U-2 flights, a number of others, by the nature of their duties, had access to this information. These included air-traffic controllers and at least some of the radar personnel at the bases where U-2s were stationed.

In 1957 the U-2s were based in a new location, Atsugi, Japan.

In September of that year a seventeen-year-old Marine Corps private was assigned to Marine Air Control Squadron No. 1 (MACS-1), based at Atsugi. MACS-1 was a radar unit whose duties included scouting for incoming foreign aircraft. Its equipment included height-finding radar. The private, a trained radar operator, had access to this equipment.

He remained in Japan until November, 1958, at which time he was returned to the United States and assigned to Marine Air Control Squadron No. 9 (MACS-9) at the Marine Corps Air Station at El Toro, California. El Toro was not a U-2 base, but U-2s frequently flew over this portion of Southern California. At El Toro he had access not only to radar and radio codes but also to the new MPS 16 height-finding radar gear.

In September, 1959, he obtained a “hardship discharge” from the U.S. Marine Corps.

The following month he defected to the Soviet Union.

On October 31 he appeared in the American Embassy in Moscow to state his intention of renouncing his U.S. citizenship. According to Richard E. Snyder, the second secretary and senior consular official, and John A. McVickar, Snyder’s assistant, who was also present, during the course of the conversation he mentioned that he had already offered to tell the Russians everything he knew about the Marine Corps and his specialty, radar operation. He also intimated that he might know something of “special interest.”

His name was Lee Harvey Oswald.

Six months later my U-2 was shot down.

Oswald’s familiarity with MPS 16 height-finding radar gear and radar and radio codes (the latter were changed following his defection) are mentioned in the testimony of John E. Donovan, a former first lieutenant assigned to the same El Toro radar unit as Oswald, on page 298 of Volume 8 of the Warren Commission Hearings. According to Donovan, Oswald “had the access to the location of all bases in the west coast area, all radio frequencies for all squadrons, all tactical call signs, and the relative strength of all squadrons, number and type of aircraft in a squadron, who was the commanding officer, the authentication code of entering and exiting the ADIZ, which stands for Air Defense Identification Zone. He knew the range of our radar. He knew the range of our radio. And he knew the range of the surrounding units’ radio and radar.”

Oswald’s conversation with Snyder is mentioned at least three times in the Report of the Warren Commission on the Assassination of President Kennedy (page references are to The New York Times edition, published by McGraw-Hill, October, 1964):

Page 618: “Oswald told him that he had already offered to tell a Soviet official what he had learned as a radar operator in the Marines.”

Page 665: “Oswald stated to Snyder that he had voluntarily told Soviet officials that he would make known to them all information concerning the Marine Corps and his specialty therein, radar operations, as he possessed.”

Page 369: “He stated that he had volunteered to give Soviet officials any information that he had concerning Marine Corps operations, and intimated that he might know something of special interest.”

During the six months following the October 31, 1959, embassy meeting, there were only two overflights of the USSR. The one which occurred on April 9, 1960, was uneventful. The one which followed, on May 1, 1960, wasn’t.

Here the trail ends, except for one tantalizing lead, discovered during the research for this volume.

Among the Warren Commission Documents in the National Archives in Washington, D.C., is one numbered 931, dated May 13, 1964, CIA National Security Classification Secret

In response to an inquiry, Mark G. Eckhoff, director, Legislative, Judicial, and Diplomatic Records Division, National Archives, in a letter dated October 13, 1969, stated: “Commission Document 931 is still classified and withheld from research.”

The title of Document No. 931 is “Oswald’s Access to Information About the U-2.”

The former President could write about the U-2 episode; retired agency officials—Dulles, Kirkpatrick—could write about it, as could others in no way connected with the program. The man most directly involved could not.

In August, 1967, I again requested permission to write a book concerning my experiences.

I was more hopeful this time. Raborn had been replaced by Richard Helms, a man who had worked his way up through the ranks of the CIA and undoubtedly knew more about intelligence than any other director since Dulles. There were also indications that intelligence, not politics, was Helms’ primary concern.

I was told that the request would be made of the “big man” at what seemed “the most opportune moment.”

“This isn’t the right time to bring it up,” I was told in a telephone call a couple of weeks later.

Nor was the moment opportune the next time they called. For in the interim the “spy ship” Pueblo had been captured by the North Koreans, and the last thing the government wanted, I was told, was more publicity.

With the seizure of the Pueblo, interest in the U-2 story was reactivated. Although the two events differed in at least one important particular—the Pueblo was outside the territorial waters of North Korea, I had intruded right into the heart of Russia—there were obvious parallels. And some not so obvious, because they involved that portion of the U-2 story which had never been made public. I wondered how many Pueblo episodes would have to occur before we accepted the basic lessons we should have learned from the U-2 crisis.

This was one factor in my decision to go ahead with the book. There were others. My job was not risk-free; if anything happened to me, chances were the story would never be told. Too, and this was not the least of my considerations, in a few years my children would be reading about the U-2 incident in school. I wanted them to know the truth.

In the fall of 1968 I was contacted by John Dodds, editor-in-chief of Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. Dodds was aware of the earlier negotiations for the book, and was anxious to publish my story if I was ready to write it. I was more than ready.

Sue and I flew to New York and talked to him. On our return to California I informed the agency of the Holt offer and, for the last time, asked permission to publish my account.

After waiting several weeks, my patience finally came to an end. Since they had helped perpetuate the Francis Gary Powers mercenary label, I’d play the part. Sarcastically I wrote to them that I was going to write the book, and while entertaining bids, and since they had been so anxious to suppress it, I’d be glad to consider their best offer.

It was, in its own way, my declaration of independence.

To my surprise, I did receive an answer, in the form of a telephone call asking me if I would be willing to come to Washington to discuss the matter. I did, informing them at the outset that I intended to accept the offer made by Holt, Rinehart and Winston.

Only then was I told the agency had no objection to my writing the book. While they, of course, couldn’t give such permission in writing, they did want me to know that they would be glad to do anything possible to assist me.

Although not ungrateful for their offer, I politely declined it. Undoubtedly access to their records would shed light on some of the more puzzling aspects of the U-2 episode. On the other hand, such cooperation would carry with it an unspoken obligation. This was to be my version of the story, not the agency’s. I was determined to tell it as I had lived it, and this, to the best of my ability, I have done.

As the writing of the book progressed, I made an interesting discovery. Although this may also sound like sarcasm, it isn’t. In suppressing the book for nearly eight years, the agency did me a favor. I could now tell the story far more fully and frankly than would have been possible in 1962.

I have omitted only a few particulars, and in fairness to the reader I will state their nature.

I have not included the actual altitude of the U-2. By now it may be presumed that Russia, Cuba, and Communist China all know it. Yet, just on the chance that it isn’t known and that the life of a pilot might be placed in jeopardy, it will go unmentioned.

I have not itemized the number of overflights, nor related what intelligence information was received. My reasoning on this matter remains the same as when I first withheld this information from the Russians. Having held it back through many hours of interrogation, I have no intention of giving it to them now for the price of a book.

I have not mentioned certain phases of my training, both in the Air Force and in the agency, which might still be in use and thus beneficial to an enemy.

I have not included the names of other pilots, agency personnel, or representatives of Lockheed and the many other companies involved in the U-2 program. It is not my business to “blow their cover.”

And I have omitted some matters which I feel could affect present national security.

These are the only things excluded.

In the fall of 1969, as the book was nearing completion, I did something else I had wanted to do for a very long time. I wrote a letter.

Some weeks later I received the return receipt I had requested. The handwriting was familiar; it was signed by Zigurd. Although to date there has been no reply, I am immensely relieved to know that he is alive and apparently no longer in prison.