Francis Powers - Operation Overflight

About six hours later, as we approached the eastern seaboard, I saw the first lights of the United States. Having so few hours before been a prisoner on the other side of the Iron Curtain, they seemed unreal. I still couldn’t comprehend that after twenty-one months of captivity I was once again a free man.

Which was perhaps best, for, though I was yet to realize it, I wasn’t quite free, not yet. In a sense, I had been released by the Russians to become a de facto prisoner of the CIA.

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.