Francis Powers - Operation Overflight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wanted very much to believe Barbara.

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

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

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

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

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

This was the situation when I took off from Peshawar, Pakistan, on May 1, 1960.

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

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

Had I deceived myself about being released too?

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