Operation Overflight (21 page)

Again the letters were hard to write. I knew that my family wanted to come to Moscow for the trial. More than anything, I wanted to see them. But it would be cruel to raise false hopes. I made it clear that “there is no doubt in my mind that I will be found guilty… . It will be more of a trial for determining the degree of guilt and the degree of punishment.”

I didn't add that I felt sure I knew what the latter would be.

Monotony formed the shape of my days, loneliness their substance. About three hours were spent on the roof, walking, sitting in the sun, or tending my garden. To have something growing—alive, green—in the midst of this bleakness meant a great deal to me. One weed had grown very tall. I was afraid one of the guards would pull it. But on each visit to the roof it was still there.

As was the piece of tin.

Most of the rest of the time I read. In addition to the mysteries,
Gone with the Wind
, and the Bible (for the first time I read it all the way through), I'd received a few books from Moscow University Library, including Mikhail Sholokhov's
And Quiet Flows the Don
and
The Don Flows Home to the Sea
.

This was not all my reading matter. I read the few letters I had received, over and over and over again.

But there was still time—much too much time—for thought.

From the moment of my capture I had been certain of eventually being taken before a firing squad. My captors had never stated positively that this would happen; since telling me I was to be tried, they had noted two possibilities—imprisonment or death; but I had brainwashed myself into expecting the latter.

And yet just the word “trial” contained the element of hope.

I had to keep reminding myself that I was thinking in terms of American justice, not Soviet, that whatever was decided here would be in the best interest of the state.

Sometimes it occurred to me that maybe I wouldn't die, that with the whole world watching the outcome of the trial, the Soviets would have to be lenient.

Yet the whole world had been watching the Rosenberg case. And we had executed them anyway. Except for the fact that their crime was treason, mine espionage, there was no reason to suppose the Russians would be any less severe with me. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed they would give me the strictest possible punishment, as an object lesson to dissuade others from attempting the same thing.

I gave a great deal of thought as to whether I should or should not testify.

The prospect of having the interrogation records read in open court bothered me. Not only would it stretch out the trial for weeks. Many of the things I had told the Russians were meant for their ears alone; an astute newspaperman, with good sources in Washington,
was bound to spot some of the lies immediately. Exposing them would be an opening of Pandora's box. Other statements I had made would be reexamined. Subjects carefully avoided would be scrutinized minutely. And once they began digging …

Yet, alone in my cell, with only my thoughts for company, there were moments when I was tempted, when my imagination engaged in the heroic fantasies of a young boy. Not only would I refuse to testify, when it came time to plead I would stand and deliver to the court a ringing declaration, in the manner of Nathan Hale or Patrick Henry. Every man would like to be remembered as a hero. This would be my chance to play the part.

What would it accomplish?

It would ensure Francis Gary Powers a place in history books, thought he would not be around to read them. For I could be fairly certain it would remove any slight element of doubt as to my sentence.

And it might well negate everything I had succeeded in doing thus far.

I knew some things about the U-2 project which, brought out, would make the headlines already published seem microscopic. That I had remained silent about them did not mean that, given enough clues, the Russians couldn't draw their own conclusions.

Although I debated the question for hours, in a way my decision had been made long before, after my capture and on the flight to Moscow. I had decided then what course of action to follow during interrogations. If it appeared to the world I had told everything, it was a risk I'd have to take. I knew that the President, the CIA, and others involved in the U-2 program would know better. And maybe, someday, someone would set the record straight.

There was more mail from home. Containing good news—and bad.

The visas had been granted. But some sort of misunderstanding had arisen between my wife and my parents. Exactly what occasioned it was not clear, but they would be traveling to Russia separately.

I could only imagine the pressures they had been under. Yet I couldn't help feeling let down. At this, of all times, I wanted them to be united.

Having this to worry about, as well as the trial, did nothing to help my frame of mind.

On August 10 Grinev brought me a copy of the indictment. Drawn up by Shelepin, had of the KGB, on July 7, Rudenko, as prosecutor, had approved it on July 9, the same day as Grinev's first visit: yet they had waited more than a month—until just seven days before the start of the trial—to show it to me. Grinev claimed to have received his copy only that day. Although I said nothing, I frankly didn't believe him. I later leaned it had been released to Reuters on August 9 and appeared in most newspapers before I saw it.

Typewritten, single-spaced, it ran to seventeen pages. As a legal case it appeared to this layman as sound as any could possibly be. It contained quotes from my interrogations, President Eisenhower's admission that he had authorized the flights for espionage purposes, testimony from the rocket crew who shot down the plane and the people who detained me. It itemized such physical evidence as maps, photographs of important installations, recordings of Soviet radio and radar signals. It cited Soviet and international law, making it clear that espionage and unauthorized intrusion into the airspace of a sovereign country were crimes in any land.

But it went beyond that. It was, from the first page to the last, a propaganda attack on the United States. It accepted as fact what was in reality conjecture: that the flight had been sent to wreck the Summit talks. It used prejudicial terms such as “gangster flight” and “brazen act of aggression.” It quoted in detail the official lies told by the United States before Khrushchev revealed the capture of the pilot and plane, extraneous material that would be inadmissible in any Western court. It drew unwarranted conclusions, as when it spoke of my “espionage activities” as “an expression of the aggressive policy pursued by the government of the United States.”

Once finished reading it, I realized the trial would not be the USSR
v
. Francis Gary Powers, but the USSR
v
. the US and, incidentally, Francis Gary Powers.

But only one defendant would be in the dock, facing the prospect of a death sentence.

And for legal defense he would be completely at the mercy of a man he couldn't trust.

Exactly what would my defense be?

Grinev was vague. That would depend in large part on the prosecution's case. Since, from the indictment, this appeared quite solid, he would have to rely heavily on those mitigating circumstances which, he hoped, might cause the court to lessen punishment.
Reading from the appropriate code, Article 33 of the 1958 Fundamental Principles of Criminal Law, he cited these. Many were not applicable to my case; the relevant ones included truthful cooperation during interrogation and trial, voluntary surrender and admission of guilt, and “sincere repentance.”

This phrase had been drummed into me even during the interrogations. It was extremely important, Grinev said. I would be asked during the trial whether I was sorry for my action. Upon this answer alone could depend the severity of my sentence.

I thought about it. I
was
sorry—sorry I had made the May 1 flight; sorry I had been shot down; sorry I was a prisoner having to undergo trial; sorry that as a result of my flight the Summit talks had collapsed. Eisenhower's visit to Russia had been canceled, and the United States placed in an embarrassing position; sorriest of all that the flight had not been successful, in which case none of this would have happened.

Yes, I could say it, if my life depended on it, as long as I did not have to define too closely what I meant.

Grinev had been given transcripts of the interrogations. We went over them, checking the references in the indictment. I had expected him to ask me a number of questions. But there were very few, either in this or later sessions.

Back in my cell, I reread the indictment carefully, the first time just to see what news I could glean about happenings in the world outside.

But there was little there beyond what I already knew. Though the collapse of the Summit was mentioned, there were no details as to exactly what had occurred.

Both Herter and Nixon were quoted as indicating that the overflights would continue. There was, in the indictment, no statement otherwise. This disturbed me greatly. In some way I would have to get over in the trial that I had been hit while flying at my assigned altitude, that all talk of engine trouble and descending to a lower altitude was false.

I was struck with the sixty-eight-thousand-foot figure. However, maybe I could use that advantageously. If given the chance, I decided to stress that I had been hit at “maximum altitude, sixtyeight thousand feet,” hoping the CIA would realize by “maximum altitude” I meant I was flying exactly where I was supposed to when the explosion occurred. For me to say I was flying at my
“assigned altitude” would imply the plane could fly higher, which was true.

If I could get that message across, the trial, for all its propaganda value, would have served one positive purpose. It could be the means for saving the lives of other pilots.

There was no mention of “Collins” in the indictment. Nor had there been in the excerpt from Khrushchev's speech read to me. That was one of the first things I'd hoped would come out, but apparently it hadn't. Somehow I would have to get that in too, as a message to the CIA that I hadn't told everything.

Shouldn't we rehearse my testimony, go over what I should or shouldn't say?

That wouldn't be necessary, Grinev said. The same questions asked during the interrogations would be asked during the trial. So long as I stuck to my earlier answers, there would be no problem.

However, we would have to work on my “final statement.”

I didn't like the sound of that.

Unlike American law, which permitted the prosecution the final summing up, Soviet law allowed the accused the last word in his own defense. This would be a short statement, which I could read. The important points to be made, Grinev noted, were: I realized I had committed a grave crime; I was sorry for having done so; and I asked the court to realize that the real criminals responsible for my flight were those persons who formulated the aggressive, warmaking policies of the United States.

I told him that I would admit to committing a crime, since under the law I had; that I would say I was sorry, if that was essential to my defense. But I refused to denounce my own government.

It would help my case greatly if I did this, he observed.

I didn't care.

Despite his arguments, I stuck to my resolve.

It seemed to me we were overlooking some other possibilities. I was not an attorney, but wasn't there a difference between attempting to commit a crime and actually committing one?

What did I mean?

I was guilty of violating Soviet airspace. Granted. But since none of the data I collected had ever left the Soviet Union, was I guilty of espionage?

Grinev rejected the argument, for what were probably valid legal reasons. All the same, I wanted that point in the statement: none of the information collected during the flight had reached a foreign
power, the Soviets had seized it all, and therefore no one had been harmed by my act.

After some grumbling, Grinev let me add it. We worked over the wording of the statement for some time. In fact, we spent almost as much time on those few lines as the rest of my defense.

Both prior to and after the trial there was considerable discussion in the United States as to whether I was actually guilty of violating Soviet airspace, the argument being that as in maritime law, with its twelve mile limit, there must be some boundary beyond which airspace no longer belongs to a single country, that the U-2, flying at sixty-eight thousand feet, or nearly thirteen miles above the earth, might well be considered outside this invisible border. Unfortunately, not having my own attorney, and denied access to U.S. newspapers and magazines, I wasn't aware of this as a possible defense. However, in all likelihood the court wouldn't have even considered this argument, since Soviet law is quite firm in claiming sovereignty over all air above the Soviet Union.

Considering the space satellites soon to take over many of the espionage functions of the U-2, it was, and remains, an interesting question. To parody a popular song title: How High the Spy?

My last meeting with Grinev took place on Tuesday, August 16, the day before the trial. And Grinev had some news. Barbara and my parents were in Moscow. He had conferred with them the previous evening. My mother was accompanied by a physician, but wanted to assure me she was feeling fine. The trial would be open to the public, and Barbara, she, and my father would be there. I wouldn't be allowed to see them privately, however, until after conclusion of the trial.

They had sent me something. Grinev handed me a package. Inside were several handkerchiefs and a birthday card.

Just before leaving, Grinev sternly warned me that if I made a demonstration in the courtroom it would be held against me.

Prior to the trial I had four meetings with my defense counsel, for a total of not more than five hours.

As I figured it, the prosecution had used well over a thousand hours of my time in the preparation of their case.