Francis Powers - Operation Overflight

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

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

We were going in the right direction—west.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re Bill.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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