Francis Powers - Operation Overflight

While we were waiting, Schischkin, the Soviet consular representative, remarked, “The next time you come to see us, come as a friend.”

“Next time,” I answered, “I’ll come as a tourist.”

With a smile, Schischkin replied, “I didn’t say as a tourist. I said as a friend.”

Suddenly there was a yell from the other end. The negotiators huddled briefly, then nodded to the colonel, who pushed me forward. As I walked toward the line, another man—thin, gaunt, middle-aged—approached from the other side. We crossed at the same time.

It was 8:52 A.M. on Saturday, February 10, 1962. One year, nine months, and ten days after my capture by the Russians.

I was again a free man.

Murphy ran up and slapped me on the back. “You know who that was, don’t you?” he asked, indicating the other man.

“No,” I replied.

“Abel, Colonel Rudolf Abel, the Soviet spy.”

It was the first time I realized that my release had been part of an exchange. The KGB colonel from Vladimir, I now realized, had crossed the line to identify Abel. I wondered if they were friends, and if Abel had remembered the name of his high-school football coach.

While Abel and the Soviets stood in precise military formation on their side of the border, concluding the negotiations with their counterparts, Murphy and I walked over to the edge of the bridge and began talking with the excitement of two kids.

I couldn’t help noticing the contrast. The Americans, friendly, excited, making no attempt to hide their feelings; the Russians, rigid, emotionless, totally businesslike.

Much handshaking followed, everyone talking at the same time, as the American delegation joined us. Getting into a car at the end of the bridge, I was introduced to James Donovan, Abel’s American attorney, who I now learned had arranged the trade. I also learned the reason for the delay on the bridge. They had been awaiting confirmation of the release at “Checkpoint Charlie” of Frederick L. Pryor, a Yale student arrested on espionage charges in East Germany six months earlier.

Two Americans for one Russian seemed to me an excellent bargain.

Asking about my wife and parents, I was told they were well and would be greeting me before long. They didn’t know about my release, but would be notified as soon as word was relayed to the President.

It all seemed very unreal.

We drove rapidly to Tempelhof Airport, where we were hustled onto a C-47 cargo plane. Destination Wiesbaden. Minutes after we were airborne, a flight surgeon examined me. The air corridor was bumpy, however, and his attempts to extract blood from my arm left it black and blue for weeks. The blood samples were necessary to determine whether I had been drugged. This seemed to be the first question of almost everyone to whom I talked: had I been drugged? They seemed almost disappointed when I told them I hadn’t.

All my gear had been loaded aboard the plane. My suitcases, a box, and the parcel with the rugs. Checking the latter, I was pleased to find both my diary and journal intact.

Murphy asked what was in the box. I explained about the souvenirs, mentioning that I hadn’t yet had a chance to look at them.

It occurred to someone, or maybe several people at the same time, that perhaps we had better examine the box, to make sure the Russians hadn’t planted a bomb. Although I felt this somewhat unlikely, I was as cautious as the others when it was opened. Packed inside were plaster of paris desk sets and paperweights commemorating Sputnik; wood carvings of various animals—horses, dogs, and a frog on a lily pad; a University of Moscow ashtray; dolls that came apart with ever-smaller dolls inside; small figurines, including a ballet dancer; and a very charming beautifully carved little troika. There was no bomb.

On landing at Wiesbaden, one of the Air force officers gave me a coat to throw over mine, so I wouldn’t attract attention. We quickly walked over to a Lockheed Constellation, belonging to the commanding general of USAF Europe. In less than fifteen minutes we were airborne. The destination this time—the United States.

As soon as we leveled off, a white-jacketed flight steward asked whether we wanted anything to drink. Donovan ordered a double scotch, I a martini.

This was my first opportunity to talk to Donovan at any length. I asked him how the exchange had come about.

He told me that when Abel was sentenced in 1957, he had argued against giving him the death sentence, on grounds that someday the United States might find it advantageous to exchange him for an American. The actual exchange for me, however, had been my father’s idea. He had written a letter to Abel at the federal penitentiary at Atlanta as early as June 2, 1960, one month and one day after my capture, broaching the idea of a swap.

DEAR COLONEL ABEL:

I am the father of Francis Gary Powers, who is connected with the U-2 plane incident of several weeks ago. I am quite sure that you are familiar with this international incident and also the fact that my son is being currently held by the Soviet Union on an espionage charge.

You can readily understand the concern that a father would have for his son and my strong desire to have my son released and brought home. My present feeling is that I would be more than happy to approach the State Department and the President of the United States for an exchange for the release of my son. By this I mean that I would urge and do everything possible to have my government release you and return you to your country if the powers in your country would release my son and let him return home to me. If you are inclined to go along with this arrangement, I would appreciate your so advising the powers in your country along these lines.

I would appreciate hearing from you in this regard as soon as possible.

Very truly yours,

Oliver Powers

Again I had underrated my dad.

Abel had contacted Donovan, who had obtained permission from the State Department to explore the possibility. It was not until hearing from a woman in East Germany who purported herself to be Abel’s wife that the actual negotiations had begun. Even after Donovan’s arrival in Berlin on February 2, the negotiations had nearly broken off several times, the most recent incident occurring when the Soviets had tried to go back on the original deal, deciding they would release only Pryor for Abel, and keep me. Donovan had refused to go along with this, for which I was very thankful.

After several more drinks, dinner was served. It consisted of a green salad; a beautiful steak, medium rare; and a potato. I had thought I would never be able to look at a potato again. But this one was baked instead of boiled and was served with butter. It made all the difference.

One of the pilots came back and told us that word of my release had just been made public in the United States, the radio carrying the official White House announcement shortly after three A.M., EST. That meant my wife and family had been notified. For a long time I thought about their reactions.

Shortly after Donovan went to bed, the pilot came back to ask if I would like to visit the cockpit. The sight of the instrument panel was in the nature of a homecoming. With a grin, the co-pilot indicated the wheel, saying “Why don’t you take it for awhile, just to see if you remember how?” I was tempted but declined. I spent some time talking to them. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed pilots’ small talk.

When we landed at the Azores for refueling, nearly everyone else got out to stretch their legs and get a sandwich. I had to stay aboard the plane so as not to be spotted by reporters.

It was a sample of things to come. Elaborate security precautions had been put into effect for our arrival in the United States, which were explained to me when we took off again. I was back in the world of cloak-and-dagger operations.