Francis Powers - Operation Overflight

The first time I was taken to the shower room, the guard had pointed to a large tub. It was filled with something greenish-brown and slimy. Not understanding what he meant, I had ignored it, but later asked the interpreter what it was. He roared with laughter, as did the others when he translated my question.

It was seaweed, he explained. Russians used it as a washcloth.

I tried it once; it was slimy, and thereafter I decided to forgo this particular native custom.

Afternoon interrogation; supper; toilet; evening interrogation, toilet; than I was alone and could read. The mysteries were American paperbacks, by Agatha Christie, Ellery Queen, Rex Stout, and others. I’d finish one each night; then, when I had gone through all, I would go back and read them over again. And again.

I owe those authors my sanity.

At ten P.M. the light in the ceiling went out and the light over the door came on. There was no attempt to regulate my activities within the cell. Often I’d read until the streets were silent and I could hear the Kremlin clock.

Thus were my days and nights spent.

Hour after hour, session after session, the interrogations continued. As the experts studied the wreckage, there were new questions. Usually, however, they were the same old ones, rephrased, approached from a different direction, in an attempt to catch me off guard, or simply repeated, over and over:

“Your identification says you work for the Air Force. Your maps are stamped ‘Confidential: U.S. Air Force.’” Among the items in my survival pack was a set of maps of the Soviet Union. Originally stamped “Confidential” and “U.S. Air Force,” someone had thoughtfully scissored out these identifying marks. Someone else, however, had apparently stuck another set in the cockpit, identical to the first, but with the marks left on them.

They’d go on: “You were flying an Air Force aircraft: half the parts are labeled ‘Department of Defense.’ You took off from an Air Force base. Your detachment commander was an Air Force colonel. Why do you continue to maintain that you are a civilian?”

If I wanted to stop the interrogation and think a bit, I would ask them a question about the Soviet Union. They would usually take time to answer it. And often such questions led to inquiries about the United States.

Mostly these were easy to answer, and bought me more time. Occasionally, however, a question would stop me cold. One such was: “What is the difference between the Democratic and Republican parties?”

I had to confess that I didn’t know the answer, that it stumped even the political scientists.

As other delaying tactics, I could request a glass of water or ask to be taken to the toilet. Realizing that they could interpret these interruptions to mean that I was avoiding answering a question, I used them sparingly, not to avoid a particularly bothersome query but when I was concerned about the direction in which a line of questioning was heading.

Occasionally they came close to extremely sensitive subjects, then veered away.

Often I led them off. I was surprised how easy it was to change the subject. The safest way was to begin talking about something related and interesting. Usually they would get back to the original topic, but often it would be a day or two later, after they had had time to reread the interrogation records.

But what amazed me most were the questions never asked. For example, although they knew I had been assigned to the Strategic Air Command, it never seemed to occur to them I might have had training in the use of atomic weapons.

I had worried about this question, trying to foresee ways they might trap me into an unintentional admission. Instead, it never came up, while some areas even touchier were passed over quite casually.

In many ways their thinking was highly parochial. I was never asked, for example, about U-2 flights over Communist China, Albania, or other Eastern European countries. Had I been, I could have answered, quite honestly, that I had no personal knowledge of such flights. But that they never asked was indicative of their singlemindedness. And on these and other areas, I wasn’t interested in expanding their horizons.

One session, they brought in an American road map and asked me to point to Watertown. They already knew its location, they warned me. They just wanted to see if I was telling the truth.

I pointed to a spot in the desert, neglecting to mention that the map was of Arizona, not Nevada.

Such slips on their part made me question seriously the quality of their intelligence.

Perhaps they intended it that way. But I think not. It was to their advantage to have me believe them omnipotent.

Thinking this over, I began to wonder if we weren’t greatly overrating their espionage skills.

As the interrogation continued, this conviction grew.

We had presumed the Russians knew a great deal about the U-2 program. Our intelligence officers had assured us that they probably not only had spies who noted every time we took off and landed, but that the KGB might well have a file on each of the pilots.

“They probably know more about you than you know about yourself,” was one comment I recalled.

In attempting to get me to reveal the names of the other pilots, they had claimed already to know them. Yet the one thing that would have convinced me—the mention of a single name other than mine—was never tried. Which convinced me they didn’t know.

Overrating an enemy can be just as serious an error as underrating him. Because I had been led to believe that the Russians knew more about us than they probably did, I undoubtedly told them things they didn’t know, gave them information which, had we been realistic as to their capabilities, need never have been mentioned.

In retrospect, I regret most having named Colonel Shelton. Not because the information mattered one way or the other to the Russians, but because following the release of the news, he was transferred to an obscure duty assignment at a base in upper Michigan.

That what I told the Russians was a great deal less than I had been told to tell them, and that I withheld the most important information in my possession, was not the point. We should have known better.

From an intelligence standpoint, this was another bad mistake.

I’d known the moment was coming. But I had hoped it could be postponed just a little longer.

“Our technical experts have been studying the radar plots of your flight. And they have some questions about your altitude.”

It was obvious they had already been given considerable study. Someone had even transposed my coordinates onto a map. Looking at it, I felt a flicker of encouragement. They had me off course far more often than I actually was.

But it was the height-finding radar that most worried me.

All the measurements were in meters. Nervously I waited as they translated them into feet.

As they read the figures, I began to disbelieve them. Surely this was some cruel hoax, designed to throw me off guard. No one could be so lucky. Not only was their height-finding radar off—the figures were up, down, above, below—but some were actually at sixty-eight thousand feet!

It took a tremendous effort to hide my relief. This part of my story had been verified and proven true by their own evidence.

And it was a lie!

Reading, I would see the words, follow the lines, turn the pages. But my thoughts were elsewhere.

If I hadn’t made the flight that day, what would I be doing now?

Probably drinking an icy cold drink rather than lying here imagining one.

But this was no good, I knew. Because if I hadn’t made it, someone else would have. And there were none of my friends on whom I would wish this.

For a few more minutes I’d read, really concentrating on the words. Then a wave of depression would sweep over me. And I’d again think the forbidden thoughts, the ones I tried so hard to avoid.