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.
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.
FOUR
USA
One
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.