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<text> <title> (56 Elect) U-2 Incident:Cold-War Candor </title> <history> TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1956 Election </history> <article> <source>Time Magazine</source> <hdr> May 16, 1960 THE NATION Cold-War Candor </hdr> <body> "It is certainly no secret," said the State Department last week, "that, given the state of the world today, intelligence collection activities are practiced by all countries...The necessity for such activities as measures for legitimate national defense is enhanced by the excessive secrecy practiced by the Soviet Union in contrast to the free world." With historic frankness, the statement went on to admit that "endeavoring to obtain information now concealed behind the Iron Curtain," an unarmed U.S. plane had flown over Soviet territory. Thus the U.S. told the world that a Lockheed U-2 brought down over Russia on May 1 was flying an intelligence mission, just as Premier Nikita Khrushchev said. That admission stirred up a flurry of concern at home and abroad over the U.S.'s embarrassment." The admission was embarrassing to the U.S. for one reason: it reversed the Administration's earlier claim that the U.S. was engaged in high-altitude meteorological research over Turkey and the plane drifted into Russia by mistake. Open Skies. All the bored calm with which the world awaited an unproductive summit vanished in a new preoccupation: Would Khrushchev make use of his capture of the U.S. high-flying plane either to scuttle the summit or make unreasonable demands? Would allies be dismayed and neutrals angered? The apprehensions, as they so often are, were exaggerated. The incident, coupled with Khrushchev's recent intransigence, has certainly heated up the cold war. But people everywhere have accepted the reality of the cold war, which has its own kinds of maneuvers, battles, tactics and weapons. Faced with the unexpected, the State Department, after its manly candor, set out to make its own points about the U-2. "One of the things creating tension in the world today," it said, "is apprehension over surprise attack with weapons of mass destruction. To reduce mutual suspicion and to get a measure of protection against surprise attack, the U.S. in 1955 offered its `open skies' proposal--a proposal which was rejected out of hand by the Soviet Union. It is in relation to the danger of surprise attack that planes of the type of the unarmed civilian U-2 aircraft have made flights along the frontiers of the free world for the past four years." Cleared Air. If the U.S. felt embarrassed, perhaps rocket- rattling Nikita ("We will bury you") Khrushchev must have found it embarrassing, too, to have the world learn that unarmed, big- target U.S. planes had been flying missions over Soviet territory for four years before his armed forced finally managed to bring one down. For reasons of his own, Nikita Khrushchev chose to make a spectacular out of the U-2 incident. In Washington, there were some calls for a congressional investigation, and in both the U.S. and Britain some fears were expressed that the U.S., by risking the U-2 flight "at this time," had risked prospects for "agreements" at the summit. But if the shooting down of the U-2 dimmed summit prospects, they could not have been very bright beforehand. Perhaps they were never very bright. President Eisenhower, Secretary of State Herter and Under Secretary of State Dillon have all made it clear in recent weeks that the U.S. will go to the summit determined to hold fast to its rights in Berlin, and Nikita Khrushchev has shown in tough-toned speeches that the U.S. firmness has undercut his hopes of making any headway at the summit. The talk of endangered agreements at the summit showed a short memory of what the cold war was all about and hoe it got that way. Under standard Communist terms no agreements of any substance or durability were likely to be possible at the summit, unless the U.S. and its allies would accede to Russian demands. By candidly admitting that the U.S. is flying intelligence missions over Russian, by vividly reminding the world that a cold war is going on, and by demonstrating that it reserves the right to defend itself in every way it can. the U.S. might have cleared the summit air for some hard talk on hard issues that could be a lot more worthwhile than vague, generalized agreements. <list> <l>DEFENSE</l> <l>Flight to Sverdlovsk</l> </list> The low black plane with the high tail looked out of place among the shiny military jets crowding the U.S. Air Force base at Incirlik, near Adana, Turkey. Its wide wing drooped with delicate languor--like a squatting seagull, too spent to fly. Its pilot seemed equally odd: a dark, aloof young man who wore a regulation flying suit and helmet but no markings, and had a revolver on his hip. Pilot Francis Gary Powers, 30, climbed into the one-man cockpit, gunned the black ship's single engine, and as the plane climbed toward take-off speed, the wide wings stiffened and the awkward outrigger wheels that had served as ground support dropped away. Steadily the plane climbed--beyond the ceiling of transports, beyond the ceiling of bombers and interceptors, up through 60,000 ft., beyond the reach of any other operational craft and, as far as the pilot knew, of antiaircraft fire as well. Back at Incirlik, an operations officer tersely logged the take-off of the high-altitude U-2 weather research flight. If all went well, that was all the official records would ever have to say. Meanwhile, Pilot Powers banked to a course that took him north and east--arcing toward the border of Soviet Russia. As the world found out last week, Francis Powers, one time U.S. Air Force first lieutenant, was off on an intrepid flight that would ultimately carry him up the spine of the Soviet Union. From south to north, his high-flying instruments would record the effectiveness of Russian radar, sample the air for radioactive evidence of illicit nuclear tests. The U-2's sensitive infra-red cameras could sweep vast arcs of landscape, spot tall, thin smokestacks or rocket blasts--if there were any--on pads far below. Francis Powers was on an intelligence mission, like many unsung pilots before him. As such, he was as much a part of the long thin line of U.S. defense as G.I.s on duty in Berlin, technicians manning missile-tracking stations behind him in Turkey, shivering weather watchers drifting through a winter on ice islands in the Arctic. As such, he and they, were engaged in giving the free world the warning it must have if it is to protect itself from Russian attack, and the shield of intelligence it must have if it is to seek peace without the danger of being lured into a fatal trap. Cloak & Dagger. But Pilot Powers had bad luck: he got caught, and Society Premier Nikita Khrushchev says that he talked. Thus Khrushchev had the chance to tell the world about the U-2's mission last week--with all the embellishment and distortion that best suited his case. After taking off from his base in Turkey on April 27, said Khrushchev, Powers flew across the southern boundary of the U.S.S.R. to ]K in Pakistan. From there, on May 1, he took off on a : flight that was supposed to take him up the Ural Mountains to Murmansk on the Kola Peninsula to a landing in Norway. Soviet radar tracked him all the way, and over Sverdlovsk, on Khrushchev's personal order, he was shot down at 65,00 ft. by a Soviet ground-to-air rocket. Pilot Powers, said Khrushchev, declined to fire his ejection seat because that would have blown up his plane, its instrumentation and possibly Powers himself. Instead, he climbed out of his cockpit, parachuted to earth and was captured, while his plane crashed near by. Khrushchev spared no cloak-and-dagger touches. He brandished what he called a poisoned suicide needle that Powers was supposed to use to kill himself to avoid capture. Said Khrushchev: Powers refused to use it--"Everything alive wants to live." Khrushchev displayed high-altitude, infra-red pictures of Soviet targets, which he said had been reclaimed from the U-2's cameras ("The pictures are quite clear. But I must say ours are better"). No one explained how so much could be salvaged from a plane purportedly destroyed by a rocket. Khrushchev waxed in sarcasm as he reported that Powers had carried a conglomeration of French francs, Italian lire and Russian rubles, plus two gold watches and seven gold rings. "What was he going to do?" asked Khrushchev scornfully. "Fly to Mars and seduce Martian women?" "For the time being," said Khrushchev after threatening a trial for Powers and a press conference at which the remains of the U-2 would be put on public display, "we qualify this aggressive act by an American aircraft...as one aimed at nerve- racking, rekindling the cold war and reviving the dead rat while it is not yet prepared for war. Imagine what would happen if a Soviet plane appeared over new York or Chicago," he went on. "U.S. official spokesmen have repeatedly declared that they have duty atomic bombers which, on the approach of a foreign plane, can take to the air and head for assigned targets...We do not have duty bombers, but we do have duty rockets, which accurately and inevitably will arrive at their appointed targets and do their job more surely and efficiently." Intelligence Gap. As Khrushchev's scathing statement hit Washington, officials broke their Saturday calm for a day-long series of huddles and telephone calls to the President at his Gettysburg farm. In the end, a week of confusion was washed out with one eminently sensible decision: to tell the truth. With the President's approval, hapless Lincoln White, the same State Department spokesman who had the day before denied any U.S. overflight of Russia, dictated the statement that a U.S. jet had indeed been snooping for Soviet secrets--as U.S. planes have been doing for the past four years. "The necessity for such activities as measures for legitimate national defense," said White, "is enhanced by the excessive secrecy practiced by the Soviet Union in contrast to the free world. Such cold-war candor gave the U.S. a chance to discuss with equal candor the massive problem of getting adequate intelligence about the vast Communist nations. The Soviet dictatorship keeps its secrets--even from its own citizens--by the classic techniques of a police state. Travel is restricted, and foreigners off the beaten path are spied on. No news of even an air crash ever appears in the Soviet press unless the Kremlin wants it there; no stories of new weapons or defense plants are ever told by Moscow's radio commentators unless there is a propaganda motive. Secrecy not only enables Khrushchev & Co. to hide what they have but to hide what they don't have as well. Early in the high-stakes cold-war game, the U.S. knew that it was appallingly weak on its intelligence of the U.S.S.R. This meant that the U.S. had no real basis for shaping its own deterrent force. The U.S. Air Force thought for years that it had to defend itself against a big Russian bomber force when the Soviets actually had switched to missiles. In the dawning age of ICBMs, the U.S. itself became a certain target with all major defense installations well known; yet U.S. forces did not know of any military targets except major Soviet cities, and precious little about the new ones that were behind the Urals. No gap in weapons was ever so serious to U.S. security as the intelligence gap. Fringe of Space. Soon after the cold war began, heavily loaded U.S. patrol bombers began lugging cameras and electronic gear around the rim of Russia to scout out Soviet radar defenses. As they fought their ill-equipped, cold-war intelligence battles, they counted their casualties form Siberia to Armenia. Some five years ago the Central Intelligence Agency asked California's Lockheed Aircraft Corp. to design an almost incredible plane. It must be capable of deep penetration of the Society land mass; it must be able to fly far above the possibility of interception--out on the fringes of space. And it must manage its lofty missions while burdened with a maximum of intricate electronic and camera gear. In an astonishing one year later, Lockheed's most expert design team delivered the U-2. By 1956, U.S. pilots at far-flung airstrips--England, Japan, Turkey, Alaska--began to see the strange, gliderlike jet come and go on its errands. But details of its mission and its performance were hard to come by. Whenever a U-2 landed, military police swarmed around. Its pilots were civilians, and when an airman would nudge up close at the officers' club bar to swap plane lore, the U-2 pilot would smile and move along. Inevitably, though, there were a few crashes, and, inevitably, world got around. In 1957 the Pentagon officially acknowledged the U-2, described it as a high-altitude, single- engined weather research plane--which it surely is. But the public rarely got a look at it. Then one day last September members of the Japanese glider club were shooting landings at a light-plane strip 40 miles southwest of Tokyo. In midafternoon a black jet, its engine dead, wobbled down on the strip. Fifteen minutes later a U.S. Navy helicopter arrived, disgorged a squad of Americans in civilian clothes. For the first time the pilot opened his canopy, called, "I'm O.K.," and climbed out. The Japanese noted that he carried a pistol at his waist, that his flight suit bore no markings. Moments later more U.S. civilians arrived, drew pistols and ordered the Japanese away form the plane. But not before Eiichiro Sekigawa, editor of Tokyo's Air Views, got a meticulous description. Last Inch. The tapered, square-tipped wings, reaching for 45 ft. to either side of a slim 40-ft. fuselage, gave the U-2 the look of a high-performance sailplane. They suggest a range far beyond that circumscribed by the fuel supply. Editor Sekigawa, a glider pilot himself, speculated that the U-2 was built to climb under its own power, soar with its engine cut, for long, valuable miles in the thin upper atmosphere. Its Pratt & Whitney J57 turbojet engine could kick it along at speeds just under the speed of sound, and its light frame could almost surely be coaxed to altitudes close to 100,000 ft. Everything about the U-2 seemed tailored to obtain the last inch of range, the last moment of endurance. The thin straight wings were a model of aerodynamic cleanliness; the raked, razorlike tail added a minimum of drag. Even the landing gear was pared to the final ounce. Light bicycle-type main wheels were aided by wing-tip wheels that were dropped immediately after take-off. Between gliding and plain powered flight, Sekigawa guessed that the U-2 could stay aloft as long as nine hours on a single trip. "Undoubtedly the plane's activity is largely weather reconnaissance," wrote Sekigawa. "Still it would be idle to think it is not being used for other reconnaissance while it goes about researching air conditions. Otherwise, why was it necessary to threaten Japanese with guns to get them away form the crippled plane? And why did the plane have no identification marks? Why did the pilot have no identifying marks on his clothes?" Plane-Happy. Editor Sekigawa guessed more than most brass in Washington. Once the U-2 was test-flown, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) set up a pilot training unit ostensibly under control of Lockheed--but most of Lockheed's top officials made it a point to know very little about it. Everything was turned over to Vice President Clarence L. ("Kelly") Johnson, who is in charge of Advanced Development Projects. The training unit recruited select U.S. pilots, and presumably they were drilled in the same rigorous survival training as Strategic Air Command pilots. Presumably they got long special training in high-altitude work. In 1956 Lockheed recruited Air Force 1st Lieut. Francis Powers. Powers was a plane-happy youngster born in the Cumberland mountain country in Kentucky, near the Virginia border. His father, Oliver Powers, 55, who owns a shoe-repair shop in Norton, Va., reveled in telling callers last week that Francis for his first plane ride at the age of 14, came back to announce: "I left my hear up there, Pap, and I'm going' back to git it." On the way to git it, Francis Powers finished high school in Grundy, Va., got a B.A. at Milligan College in Tennessee, and enlisted in the Air Force. In 1951 he was accepted for aviation cadet training, got his wings a year later. But even during the Korean war, when he was a full-fledged jet fighter pilot, Powers never saw service overseas. The Air Force did not seem to hold enough excitement for him, and in 1956 he resigned "to seek employment with civilian industry." That employment meant the U-2 program at Lockheed. It meant the rigorous training of a modern-day espionage intelligence agent who had first of all to be a fine pilot, whose intricate instruments would do the actual work for him. Powers learned the tight-lipped, laconic line of the secret agent. After he and his wife moved to Turkey, he convinced his parents that he was doing only weather work, that he never flew closer than 100 miles to the borders of Russia, that life in Adana was long repetitious periods of boredom between infrequent flights. Grim Gamesmanship. U.S. intelligence officers believer that the Russians have long known of U-2 surveillance flights. But the U-2, flying at least as high as 80,000 ft., was beyond the reach of their antiaircraft weapons. To have accused the U.S. of overflights would have been to admit an inability to defend the country against U.S. planes. Whether Khrushchev indeed got himself an accurate new antiaircraft rocket, or whether--as first U.S. stories had it--Pilot Powers came dangerously low with trouble in his oxygen system, the U.S., at week's end, did not know. In any event the bagging of a U-2 was a moment Russia's bosses had long looked forward to, and Khrushchev understandably made the most of it. In the grim gamesmanship of the cold war, Khrushchev scored the U-2 missions as omens of aggression. But as long as U.S. forces need to seek out the sources of possible attack, such flights will continue. Until improved reconnaissance satellites swing into orbit, bold pilots will continue their crossing of a hostile continent. The oxygen mask will continue to put a new face on the secret agent of tradition, marking his release from the hole-and-corner, back-alley deals of history. The State Department's blunt admission that it was engaged in aerial intelligence may have surprised sophisticates who felt the U.S. would never admit such activity. It may have shocked the innocent who were sure the U.S. would never indulge. But at this late hour of the nuclear age, it is inconceivable that any reasonable government would not accept all risks in the race for such military intelligence. The chance of exposure in not trying is far greater; the probable penalty would be more than mere embarrassment. <list> <l>August 29, 1960</l> <l>RUSSIA</l> <l>The Boy from Virginia</l> </list> Q. What is your profession? A. Pilot. Q. What place of work? A. Detachment 10-10 at Adana, Turkey. Q. When did you receive the order to fly over Soviet territory? A. In the morning on May 1. Q. Where did you receive the order to fly to the Soviet Union? A. In the town of Peshawar in Pakistan. Thus, in the flat accents of Pound, Va., U-2 pilot Francis Gary Powers began to describe his part in one of history's most celebrated--and, until his mishap, most successful--espionage operations. The many-columned courtroom where Powers was brought to trial after 108 days in solitary confinement had seen history made before; in the days when it was still the Noblemen's Club, Pushkin and Tolstoy relaxed there, later the bodies of Lenin and Stalin lay there in state. But Powers seemed unmindful of history, and the faraway cities of which he talked were apparently little more than dots on the map to him. A man who by his testimony belonged to no political party and had never voted, Powers was simply an expert airplane chauffeur describing his trade. "I don't know," he said when asked about the workings of the U-2's phenomenal electronic brain. "I just turned on the switches." How did he get into the spy game? "I felt lucky to get such a good job--flying service with a big salary." Showpiece. To demonstrate to the world through this uncomplicated flyer the "insane aggressiveness" of the U.S., Nikita Khrushchev had set up a show trial that evoked memories of Stalin's purge productions of the 1930s. All morning long in the cold Moscow rain, the black ZIM limousines rolled up to the court to disgorge Soviet Russia's Reddest-blooded aristocrats, including Khrushchev's daughter Elena. Out of the unaccustomed luxury of one of the ZIMs stepped Powers' wife, Barbara, 25, poised and cool in black, flanked by her mother and two lawyers. From another emerged her father-in-law, Oliver Powers, a 55-year-old cobbler whose last trip out of his hill country had been a visit to Atlanta and Washington in 1935. Hopelessly, Powers tried to comfort his wife Ida. "They'll know he's a good boy like he's always been, " he sid. "We'll have him back real soon." Inside, under brilliant chandeliers, a theater bell called the audience to their seats, just as for the concerts that often fill the hall. As Powers mounted the six steps to the stage and stood gripping the wooden slats of the defendant's box, his wife, at the opposite end of the hall, buried her face in her hands. But Powers, despite his baggy, Russian-made double-breasted suit, looked fit and to all appearances unbrainwashed. When newsmen murmured about a bruise on his neck, Ida Powers set the record straight. "It's a birthmark," she said. "Yes, indeed, that's the first thing we saw about him when they brought him to the bed in Burdine, Kentucky, 31 years ago today." With Regrets. Powers began his birthday by pleading "Yes, I am guilty" to a 4,000 word indictment. Acknowledged as a spy by his own Government, he obviously saw cooperation with his captors as the only path to survival and dutifully professed his penitence. In jail, he had been allowed to talk to no one but his captors, had seen no Americans. "I understand that as a direct result of my flight, the summit conference did not take place," he said, "and President Eisenhower's visit was called off. I am sincerely sorry I had anything to do with this." Insistently, Lieut. General Viktor Borisoglebsky, presiding judge of the three-man military tribunal, hammered at the point: Q. Did you not think your flight might provoke armed conflict? A. The people who sent me should think of these things. Q. Did you do your country a good service or an ill service? A. I would say a very ill service. Along with his mea culpa, Powers calmly described the making of a U.S. aerial spy--a process so casual as to shock British intelligence experts who followed the trial. Toward the end of his Air Force hitch as a first lieutenant in 1956, he was "approached and interviewed" by Central Intelligence agents. He passed medical exams. "A special high-altitude suit was made for me and tested at a special chamber. My pay was to be $2,500 monthly...approximately the same as the captain of an airliner." (From the Russian audience came gasps of astonishment.) About "six or seven months after the contract was signed," Powers learned that his duties might entail flights over Russia. When Prosecutor Roman A. Rudenko (who was chief Soviet prosecutor at the Nuremberg war crimes trials) asked the size of his unit at Adana. Powers hesitated briefly before answering. "There are six civilian pilots." But he freely gave the name of the unit's commander, Colonel William Shelton, and equally freely confessed that, soaring far above the range of Russian fighters, he made "one or two" trips along the Soviet border in 1956, "six or eight" in 1957, "ten or fifteen" in 1958 and in 1959, and "one or two" in 1960. When the big order finally came, Powers picked up a sack of sandwiches from his wife and flew southeast with Colonel Shelton to Pakistan, stopping once to refuel along the way. ("I do not remember the name of the airfield. I think it could have been Bahrain.") His briefing from Shelton was short--an hour and a half in which "I barely had time to study my maps." Powers claimed no knowledge of two unmarked survivor maps and the plea in 14 languages ("I need food and shelter; you will be rewarded") that the Russians claimed to have found in his flight suit. Said he:" Someone must have stuck them in my pockets." The Black Cloth. To some of his countrymen, Powers seemed all too ready to name names and divulge secrets. But not all the victories in the trial went to Prosecutor Rudenko. Powers, wrote British Reporter James Morris in Manchester's Guardian, "presented himself as a poor deluded jerk from Virginia, a part that I suspect did not require much playing. But there are moments when he is suddenly master of the court, summoning from some unsuspected source of strength a remnant of good old- fashioned, down-to-earth American guts." With unexpected wisdom, Powers avoided the worst sin a witness can commit: getting smart with the court. But when Prosecutor Rudenko seized on the fact that Cardinal Spellman had visited Adana to sneer "So Cardinal Spellman is interested in military bases." Powers replied quietly: "I would say Cardinal Spellman was interested in military personnel, not military bases." Despite all Rudenko's pressure, Powers refused to agree than his U-2 had no U.S. markings. And when Rudenko suggested that a mysterious piece of black cloth found in Powers' plane had been intended to serve as a kind of password when he reached the Norwegian airport of Bodo, Powers said dryly: "My plane was password enough." When Rudenko tried to establish Khrushchev's boast that a Soviet rocket had scored a direct hit on the U-2 at 68,000 feet over Sverdlovsk, Powers did not dare to contradict the Russian claim directly, but stubbornly insisted that he had "no idea" what hit him. All he would say was "I heard and felt a hollow- sounding explosion. It seemed to be behind me and I could see an orange-colored light. " To U.S. officials, who had heard Soviet radar stations track Powers' plane on a leisurely descent to 40,000 ft., this sounded like a guarded description of a jet flame-out, which is often accompanied by a jolting explosion of escaping gases at the plane's tail. It was noteworthy, too, that the prosecutor never brought up another sore point with Khrushchev & Co.: how many flights Powers' fellow U-2 pilots at Adana had made over the Russian heartland. Socialist Humanitarianism. The summing up was the predictable set propaganda piece--one that the London Times dismissed as "crude stuff" and a "characteristic mistake by the Russians." To Prosecutor Rudenko, the trial "unmasked completely the criminal aggressive actions of the U.S. ruling quarters" and the "savage, man-hating ethics of Allen Dulles & Co., placing the dollar, this yellow devil, higher than human life." By way of defense, Powers' court-appointed attorney, Mikhail Grinev, who makes a good living losing cases he is expected to, tried to outdo the prosecution in attacking the U.S. Powers, he said, "should be joined in the dock by his masters, who attend this trial invisibly." Grinev in friendly fashion had told Powers' parents that "social factors are very important with our judiciary" and in his argument he stressed the family's hardscrabble hill-country life. Powers, he said, went to work for the CIA only because of "mass unemployment" in the U.S. Against Rudenko's suggested sentence of 15 years, Grinev asked for the minimum sentence, seven years. At the end Powers himself got a brief chance to plead, and said that he had never felt "any enmity whatsoever toward the Russian people." His voice was clear and strong. He did not join in his counsel's attack on the U.S., but neither did he disavow it. Apparently not aware that in Russia his defense attorney was as much the agent of the state as the prosecutor, he had let himself be persuaded to be pictured as a helpless tool of forces beyond him. Having made its case, having denounced the act while seemingly showing its charity to the defendant, the court quickly sentenced Powers to ten years, which it called an example of "socialist humanitarianism." By no coincidence, the trial wound up in exactly the three days for which the hall had been leased by the court. Only then did Francis Powers get to meet his family. They sat about a small room behind the court for an hour, and though the Russians had laid tea and caviar sandwiches, nobody had much appetite. Powers cried as he kissed Barbara. They talked glumly about mundane things: how to ship the furniture from Turkey to the U.S., whether to sell their car. For the next three years, Oliver Powers explained afterward, his son "will be working in a factory and confined to prison. After that he will serve seven years in a work camp studying the Communist system." But, deep in his heart, Oliver Powers clearly still hoped that an appeal to Nikita Khrushchev, off vacationing in the Crimea, might get Francis off much earlier. No Nathan. What kind of welcome would Pilot Powers get when he finally makes it back home? "He's no Nathan Hale," grumped one U.S. official. But the State Department quickly announced that it saw "nothing in his conduct to warrant prosecution," and President Eisenhower publicly "regretted the severity of the sentence." As for Oliver Powers, he got fighting made when his son's patriotism was even questioned. "I never wanted him to be a flyer," snapped Powers. "If he had told me the kind of work he was going to do in all those foreign countries, I'd have hallooed, `Don't do it.'" Francis himself was apparently nervous about the nature of his defense and particularly about his lawyer's attacks on the U.S. "After all, I'm still an American," he told his family unhappily. But to Oliver Powers, such considerations seemed irrelevant. Breaking down at last, the father of the most notable U.S. spy since the Revolution sobbed bitterly: "God knows, I don't want to leave my boy in this country." </body> </article> </text>