The Death of a President

by William Manchester

  Today was the ninety-fifth birthday of John Nance Garner, and at 10:14 A.M., while her husband called Uvalde, Texas, to wish the former Vice President a pleasant anniversary, she strolled through their rooms. She returned with an astounding discovery. In the fatigue of last night and the haste of this morning neither Kennedy had noticed that they were surrounded by a priceless art exhibition. On the walls and tables were a Monet, a Picasso, a Van Gogh, a Prendergast, and twelve other celebrated oil paintings, water colors, and bronzes. A catalogue, which had also been overlooked, disclosed that the exhibit was in their honor. “Isn’t this sweet, Jack?” she said as he hung up on Uvalde. “They’ve just stripped their whole museum of all their treasures to brighten this dingy hotel suite.” He knew it had been for her, and taking the catalogue he said, “Let’s see who did it.” There were several names at the end. The first was Mrs. J. Lee Johnson III. “Why don’t we call her?” he suggested. “She must be in the phone book.” Thus Ruth Carter Johnson, the wife of a Fort Worth newspaper executive, became the surprised recipient of John Kennedy’s last telephone call. She was home nursing a sick daughter. She had watched the ballroom breakfast on WBAP-TV, and when she heard the President’s voice she was speechless. He apologized for not phoning earlier, explaining that they hadn’t reached the hotel until midnight. Then Mrs. Kennedy came on. To Mrs. Johnson she sounded thrilled and vivacious. “They’re going to have a dreadful time getting me out of here with all these wonderful works of art,” she said. “We’re both touched—thank you so much.”

  O’Donnell had a far less agreeable surprise for the President. While Kennedy was speaking in the ballroom Kilduff had leafed through the Dallas News, found the ugly advertisement, and brought it directly to O’Donnell’s rooms. Now Kennedy saw it for the first time. He read each word, his face grim, and handed it to Jackie. Her vivacity disappeared; she felt sick. The President shook his head. In a low voice he asked Ken, “Can you imagine a paper doing a thing like that?” Then, slowly, he said to her, “Oh, you know, we’re heading into nut country today.” O’Donnell took that paper to a window and reread it. The President prowled the floor. Abruptly he paused in front of his wife. “You know, last night would have been a hell of a night to assassinate a President,” he murmured. He said it casually, and she took it lightly; it was his way of shaking off the ad. He had what she called “a Walter Mitty streak.” Like a little boy he would watch a passing jet from the fantail of the Honey Fitz, wondering aloud if he could fly it, picturing himself wrestling with the controls. “I mean it,” he said now, building the daydream. “There was the rain, and the night, and we were all getting jostled. Suppose a man had a pistol in a briefcase.” He gestured vividly, pointing his rigid index finger at the wall and jerking his thumb twice to show the action of the hammer. “Then he could have dropped the gun and the briefcase—” in pantomime he dropped them and whirled in a tense crouch—“and melted away in the crowd.”

  Lyndon Johnson came in immediately after this 007 caper. His sister and brother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Birge Alexander, were with him; they wanted to shake hands with a President. Lyndon introduced them, and then, respectful as always, he quietly withdrew, motioning them to accompany him. But his visit had reminded Kennedy of the party’s fratricidal tendencies; the President ordered Ken to call Larry immediately and tell him Yarborough must ride with the Vice President even if the Senator had to be picked up and thrown into the backseat. At the end of the call he snatched the phone from O’Donnell and said deliberately to O’Brien, stressing each word, “Get him in the car.” Ken left to join Larry, and Jacqueline Kennedy examined the still uncertain sky. She hoped it would darken. It would be ridiculous to spend all that time getting ready and then ruin everything in a forty-five-minute ride in an open car. “Oh, I want the bubbletop,” she said wistfully.

  The issue was being resolved against her at that very moment. The President, anticipating the result, was changing to a lightweight suit in his bedroom. He had a hunch they were heading into more hot weather. Down the hall O’Donnell was on the phone with Roy Kellerman. On another line Kellerman was holding Agents Sorrels and Lawson, who were standing by in Dallas. They were at Love Field with the top. Should it go up? Ken asked how things looked over there, and Roy relayed the question. The weather bureau had hedged and the Dallas News had predicted rain, but Sorrels felt positive the wind would blow the storm eastward.

  “If the weather is clear and it’s not raining, have that bubbletop off,” O’Donnell said. Then they all crossed their fingers.

  But not for long. Awaiting Yarborough in front of the hotel, O’Donnell and O’Brien anxiously scrutinized the clouds, and as they watched their spirits lifted. In the distance a thin ribbon of lemon-colored light appeared. The phenomenon had become familiar when they were barnstorming the country in 1960. Repeatedly the Caroline, the candidate’s private plane, had battled through a thunderstorm which had turned to bright sunshine as they touched down, and once in Louisville a Caroline landing had ended three weeks of steady rain. O’Donnell took a deep breath. It was going to be a day with a halo around it, a glittering lacuna of a day. There would be no bubbletop. O’Brien winked at him and said, “Kennedy weather, Charlie.”

  The motorcade to Carswell was ready. There were three lines of cars in the street outside—Congressional convertibles on the far side, staff Mercurys in the middle, and Lincolns, for the most eminent, at the curb. Some vehicles were already occupied. The press buses had filled early, because none of the reporters wanted to miss Ralph Yarborough’s exit, and in one of the Mercurys young Marie Fehmer was reading the News ad. Dallas was Marie’s home town. She felt suffused with a sense of shame. Like most members of Johnson’s staff, she had never met the President. A University of Texas coed until June of 1962, she had watched John Kennedy from afar, and this morning she had braved the rain to see him in the parking lot. The vicious slanders in the News had nothing to do with politics, she thought. The paper was entitled to dislike Kennedy and criticize him, yet decent Americans respected the office of the Presidency. Uncivilized, she kept thinking; this attack was uncivilized. As a Dallasite she understood the incivility. Dallas Democrats had learned to live with such outrages. The outsiders around her wouldn’t make allowances, however. They would be just furious, and she couldn’t blame them. Marie huddled behind the newspaper, wishing she could hide and wishing she had a nobler shield.

  Governor Connally had just held his press conference in the Longhorn Room. He was standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the Kennedys and talking to Bob Baskin. Baskin was looking forward to a ride on Air Force One with the press pool. He hadn’t read his own paper yet; the blow would fall after he had boarded the plane. They were just finishing their chat when Yarborough trudged out, deep in thought. O’Brien darted to his side. “We wish you’d reconsider, Senator,” he began. “The President will be very pleased if you ride with the Vice President.” Yarborough, dogged, was about to shake his head. O’Brien scanned the press buses. He said swiftly, “They’re watching us, you know. This is their big story.” The Senator planted his legs and intoned, “I’ll be proud to talk to them about proof of the President’s popularity, Larry. The multitudes who have thronged the streets of Texas’ greatest cities in an unprecedented outpouring of affection offer far more ample proof than anything I can do.” He glanced up. It wasn’t taking. Larry was just standing there stolidly. “Look,” Yarborough said. “I’ll issue a statement.” Impassively Larry replied, “You can issue a statement of ten thousand words, but nothing will be as effective as you getting in that car.” Out of the corner of his eye he observed the Johnsons emerging from the hotel. It was 10:40. They were ready to go. Unexpectedly, Yarborough then capitulated. “Well, if it means that much—” he began resignedly. “It does,” said O’Brien, cutting him off. Turning to Johnson he muttered, “The Senator is riding with you and Mrs. Johnson.” In an undertone the Vice President replied, “Fine.”

  An incident of opéra bouffe followed.
O’Brien escorted them to the car. Yarborough was behind the driver, Lady Bird in the middle, Lyndon on the right. Just as Larry was about to close the Senator’s door in muted triumph, a National Committee advance man appeared on the other side with Nellie Connally. The five-passenger Lincoln assigned to the President for the drive to the airfield would accommodate only the Kennedys, the Governor, and Kellerman and Greer of the Secret Service. The Governor’s lady had to go elsewhere. To the advance man this seemed the logical place, and he started to put her in the back beside Johnson. But this was a five-passenger car, too. There was room for just three people in the rear. As the Vice President and Mrs. Johnson slid over to make room for the new arrival, Yarborough, on the far side from Nellie, was being inexorably squeezed out.

  Recognizing a blessing in disguise, he began edging off the seat and back toward the sidewalk. Larry was aghast. He thought bitterly, There goes the old ball game. In desperation he resorted to physical force. Blocking the Senator’s broad shoulders with his own stocky hips, he flapped his hand frantically at the advance man, who got the message. Without explanation—there was really nothing he could have said—he plucked Nellie out and escorted her to the front seat. Puzzled, the Governor’s wife found herself riding between the police driver and Rufus Youngblood. What made it all doubly awkward was that the Johnsons would be flying to Dallas on the backup plane, which meant that she must board Air Force One with Yarborough. As they drew away there were cheers outside the car and a deathly silence inside. Lady Bird, however, was the essence of tact. Like a charming guide, she commented gaily on the passing scenery, the highlights of which were the Allright Auto Parts emporium, a wasteland of parking lots, the Greenwood Cemetery and Mausoleum, and, after they had re-entered Carswell, a row of stark sheds housing nuclear weapons.

  O’Brien, in another car, dried his forehead. The temperature was creeping toward the eighties, and the humidity remained high. But so far everything was in control. It was 11:08. Unless a crowd had gathered inside Carswell they should be able to hold to the schedule. Another throng here was unlikely. This was a maximum-security area. Nevertheless the instant they stopped they were mobbed. Every mechanic and grease monkey had turned out to see the President off. For fifteen minutes they milled around, shouting lustily and holding out rough hands while Colonel Jim Swindal, in his cockpit high above them, studied his watch. The other official aircraft, 86970, was fully loaded. The Johnsons, Marie Fehmer, Liz Carpenter, Cliff Carter, Colonel George McNally of the White House Communications Agency, and the Congressmen there had fastened their seat belts and were squirming restlessly, for they couldn’t take off until 26000 did. From the Presidential plane’s staff area John Connally stared down at the turmoil. Nothing in Texas newspapers had prepared him for these tumultuous receptions. Kennedy was a controversial Easterner. Why should Air Force enlisted men go into such a frenzy over him? They couldn’t all be from Massachusetts.

  The President and Mrs. Kennedy mounted the ramp at 11:23. Evelyn Lincoln photographed them with a new Polaroid and followed, brushing past Mac Kilduff. Kilduff was lost in thought. “I’ll be glad when this next stop is over,” he said under his breath. “It’s the only one that worries me.” Sitting beside Mary Gallagher, Evelyn suggested to her, “Why don’t you come along on the Dallas motorcade?” Mary shook her head. “Can’t! I’ve already missed two hotels.” Evelyn persisted: “Remember Adlai Stevenson? We may run into some demonstrations.” “Demonstrations?” Mary asked skittishly. Yet it sounded exciting, and she decided to take a chance and go. After all, she had worked for the Kennedys for nearly eleven years. She was entitled to a little fun. She just hoped the President didn’t find out.

  Aboard the backup plane Henry Gonzalez opened a copy of the Dallas News to page 14. “ ’Welcome, Mr. Kennedy,’ ” he read aloud. His round face brightened. “Say, somebody must’ve got the word! Dallas is joining the union!” He read a few lines and gave a little leap, bucking against his seat belt. Beside him Congressman Mighty John Young of Corpus Christi said dryly, “That’s right, Henry. Read it. Read all of it.” Tiger Teague, on the other hand, was enjoying a false dawn. Teague had been the chief Cassandra of the Congressional delegation, but outside Carswell’s operations office Connally had told him that they were going to go to the Trade Mart directly upon arrival. Misunderstanding, Teague thought that meant no motorcade, no exposure to cranks, and he had written off most of his anxieties.

  O’Brien watched the President’s embarkation. “Flying to Dallas?” asked the driver. Larry looked over his shoulder and nodded. With Fort Worth chauvinism the man called, “That’s the hell hole of the world.”

  Ted Clifton wondered why they were flying at all. On so short a hop Aircraft 26000 would rise no higher than five thousand feet. The moment Swindal finished climbing he would enter his glide pattern. The flight itself would last only thirteen minutes, but counting the rides out to Carswell and in from Love the Fort Worth–to–Dallas trip was going to take nearly two hours. Even with liberal allowances for parades on both ends, a city-to-city motorcade on the toll road could easily beat that. Presidential time was precious, and the General raised the point with O’Donnell. “I’ve been over that with the Secret Service,” Ken said. “It’s good logistics but poor politics. With two fields we have two landings, and for a politician nothing except weather is more important than a good airport arrival.”

  He gave the clouds a final reading. There weren’t many left to read. Each passing minute vindicated Agent Sorrels’ forecast. There were still a few rain showers on the horizon, and the cloying, muggy air here was giving them a bumpy ride. But it was the storm’s dying spasm. When Pamela Turnure leaned over and peered down at the dull, flat plain below, she saw the last of the overcast rise “like an awning,” revealing a translucent sky. Shafts of sunlight traced cheerful patterns on the deep blue carpeting, and in the communications shack Ralph Yarborough jubilantly clapped O’Brien on the back. “That’s all we need,” he chortled. “By the time the President leaves Austin a million people will have seen him. That’s one Texan in every ten. Why, Larry, he’s going to sweep this state next fall!” O’Brien made a fast calculation. The Senator was right, it was impressive. He said, “I believe you.”

  Then he awaited Yarborough’s pitch. He knew one was coming. In politics no one sacrifices a rook for a pawn. Outside the hotel the Senator had yielded to Presidential pressure (and a little Irish muscle). Now he was entitled to lay an arm on Larry. O’Brien had written the textbook of Kennedy politics; he knew. Since Yarborough himself would be running for re-election next November, he was bound to exercise his option. He did. “I’m in the dangedest pickle,” he confided. “Anything I can do?” O’Brien asked solicitously. “It’s about tonight,” said Yarborough. He signaled to birdlike Albert Thomas in the aisle, inviting him to join the huddle, and poured out his Austin problems to both of them. Texas voters had a way of scorning men who turned the other cheek. And Austin would make the wounds crueler because it was Yarborough’s home. If anyone could solve this one for him, the Senator vowed, he’d be everlastingly grateful.

  “Let me have a crack at this, Judge,” Thomas said to O’Brien. Thomas frequently addressed men as “Judge” (a lawyer became “Mr. Chief Justice”). The Congressman was at least as honey-tongued as Yarborough. Today, as yesterday, he was the ideal conciliator, and in his square-toed, old-fashioned shoes he walked spryly toward the rear of the aircraft, where the President, still smarting from his perusal of the Texas press, was holding forth in the little tail compartment. “It’s bad,” he said, holding one newspaper aloft to Kellerman, Hill, and McHugh. “What’s worse, it’s inaccurate.” He had come to the state as an umpire, not as an antagonist. Godfrey said, “If you think that’s bad, Mr. President, wait till you see the Dallas News.” “I have seen it,” Kennedy said heavily. He paced forward along the corridor outside his bedroom and paused in the doorway. On a narrow bench outside, O’Donnell was sitting with Connally. Taking no chances, he and O
’Brien were keeping the Governor and the Senator at opposite ends of the plane. Ken hadn’t made an inch of progress. Logic, even wheedling, was wasted on the Governor. The real factional bitterness was between Johnson and Yarborough, Connally insisted; as Johnson’s protégé he had been caught in the middle.