CHAIRMAN RUSSELL: I will ask all the policemen to please see that Mr. Powers and his CIA escort are able to get out before the rush. Will all of you please keep your seats.
They disobeyed his instructions, however, bringing the hearing to an end with a standing ovation.
Looking at my watch, I realized the hearing had lasted only ninety minutes. It had seemed much longer.
As my two escorts and I were attempting to make our way through the crowd of well-wishers, Senator Saltonstall brought over two of my sisters. They were the only members of my family who had been able to attend the hearing; this was the first time I had seen them since my return to the United States. Our reunion was brief, however. The moment we reached the hall, a bevy of reporters descended upon us.
“What are you going to do with your back pay, Mr. Powers?”
“Spend it.”
“How?”
“Slowly.”
Before I could answer any more questions, or talk further with my sisters, my escort rushed me out of the building.
As for what followed, Time summed it up concisely: “Then he disappeared into a waiting government car—leaving behind him a persistent feeling that some of his story remained untold.”
Following the Senate hearing, I checked into Georgetown University Hospital for rest and a complete physical examination. With little else to do, I resumed reading the newspapers. With few exceptions—Wallace Carroll of The New York Times, for example, wittily described the hearing as “hominy all the way,” glossing over the fact that it was not a Southerner but a Yankee, Saltonstall of Massachusetts, who had taken the lead in commending me—accounts of the Senate hearing were mostly favorable.
I had the feeling it had turned out much better than some people— possibly including President Kennedy—had anticipated.
What was behind the canceled meeting with the President? By now it was obviously a cancellation, not a postponement because some urgent matter had taken priority. Perhaps the President had not wanted to steal the Senate’s thunder, as he would have done by greeting me prior to the hearing. Yet, if that were the case, why had the appointment been scheduled in the first place? It was more likely that the decision to cancel the meeting was politicaclass="underline" not sure which way the hearing would go, perhaps Kennedy had not wanted to risk identifying himself with what might have turned out to be the losing side.
Personally, I was pleased with the hearing, not so much because I had been “vindicated,” but because it was now over and I could resume my life. Yet I knew the committee’s response wouldn’t satisfy everyone. The senators had been briefed by McCone; the public hadn’t. They didn’t know what was being withheld, if anything. Until such time as the whole truth could be told, doubts would remain, and the hearing itself would appear to some to be a “whitewash.”
I had been looking forward to the time in the hospital, since it would give me a chance to think about my future. Now that I had the chance, however, I found it difficult to make plans. Despite the threat of Senator Young, I had learned there would be no difficulty about my returning to the Air Force. Yet I didn’t want to go back in immediately, at least not until after the publicity had died down and I could slip back into the routine as just another pilot. I briefly considered Kelly Johnson’s offer; but I had no idea what my job would be, nor did I know how serious his offer had been. The agency had suggested that, until making up my mind, I could work in the new CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia. My duties were unspecified, except that I would probably be spending a portion of my time in the training section. That appealed to me for one reason: I had been almost totally unprepared for capture. If I could help others to better equip themselves for what they might encounter in similar circumstances, the experience wouldn’t have been wasted. The drawback, however, was that I would be grounded. And I doubted if I could ever be happy in anything other than a flying job.
And there was my marriage. That too called for a decision. I evaded that, also, by telling myself I couldn’t leave Barbara now, not when she seemed to need me most. Had I faced the facts squarely, I would have been forced to admit that the continual arguments comprising most of our time together were helping neither of us.
My problems were by no means unique. Like any returning veteran, I needed time to adjust, wasn’t anxious to make any big decisions, at least not yet.
I left the hospital with all my problems intact. As for the checkup, it had only revealed what I already knew, that one souvenir of my sojourn in Russia was a bad stomach condition which I would probably have for the rest of my life.
Ironically, most of the foods I had dreamed about eating while I was in prison in Russia, I now couldn’t have.
This particular souvenir caused me trouble until 1968, at which time—after Lovelace Clinic and others had failed to alleviate the condition—a private physician prescribed medication that immediately relieved the pain. Only during the past two years have I been able to eat salads, corn, and sundry other foods I so missed. The condition remains, however; one day off the pills, and the symptoms come back. Imprisonment may be an effective method of diet, but I don’t recommend it.
Two men from the agency drove me to The Pound. I had expected they would remain, but to my surprise they returned to Washington. I was finally on my own.
Lonely I was not. My sisters, their husbands and their children, plus more relatives than I knew I had, attended the homecoming. Some eight-hundred people crowded into the National Guard Armory at Big Stone Gap, Virginia, to witness the VFW award ceremony. There were two high-school bands. Beside me on the platform sat my mother and father. This was really their day. More than any other single person, my father could claim credit for effecting my release, by first suggesting the trade for Abel. I was immensely proud to see him receive his due.
On my own initiative, rather than instructions from the agency, I had decided if possible to avoid the press. However, when it’s raining, the roads have turned to mud, and cars are stuck outside your front door with no one else to help pull them out, what can you do? Too, they had gone to the trouble of driving all the way to The Pound, and it seemed unfair not to see them. One, Jim Clarke of radio station WGH, Newport News, Virginia, arrived about eleven o’clock the night of the award ceremony. Most of the family had already gone to bed exhausted. After some persuasion, I consented to tape an interview which was broadcast a few days later. As with the other reporters, I told him little more than I had told the Senate. Although Clarke was pleasant and did his best to put me at ease, his interview had one bad aftereffect. At one point I stated I “thought” I had seventy seconds on the destruct device. As mentioned earlier, not all of the timers worked uniformly, some with a variance of as much as five seconds either way. Tired after the long emotional day, my mind blanked. I couldn’t remember exactly how accurate this particular timer might have been.
Later, at least one reporter picked up that qualifying word and used it to resurrect the whole conspiracy theory first proposed by the Soviets, that is, that the pilots weren’t sure they had a full seventy seconds; they were afraid the CIA had rigged the device to explode prematurely, killing them too.