The Death of a President

by William Manchester

  The three-mile drive would have tested Job. Both priests had been awed by legends of the labyrinthine security precautions surrounding the Presidency, and they suspected that their reversed collars would be insufficient identification. Father Thompson raised the subject. “Maybe Monsignor Brady will phone ahead and take care of it,” Father Huber said hopefully. “Oh, no, he won’t,” said Father Thompson. The Monsignor was responsible for Baylor Hospital; Parkland was beyond his jurisdiction. Holding the wheel with one hand, Father Thompson fished out his wallet, extracted his World War II ID card, and laid it on the seat. Father Huber regarded it dubiously. It was dog-eared; it looked counterfeit. That it would impress the Secret Service seemed most improbable. Then he looked at the street. They had driven only five blocks, yet they were in a suburban neighborhood he scarcely knew. “Which way are you going, Jim?” he cried. “I have a secret way,” Father Thompson said.

  Actually, there was nothing wrong with the route. Though narrow and meandering, it terminated within a half-block of Parkland and should have been a splendid detour from the great volume of traffic building up outside the hospital. But their luck was bad. They were blocked by a truck trying to negotiate a tricky driveway. Back and forth the driver maneuvered, easing in, stopping, easing out, stopping again. Undaunted, he repeated the approach, his hydraulic brakes hissing while the time drew later and Father Thompson flushed a deeper and deeper red. The truck made it, the Galaxie rocketed into Harry Hines Boulevard, and the Father signaled for a left-hand turn. A policeman waved him on. Rolling down his window, Thompson gesticulated urgently. “You’ll have to move on,” said the officer. “Look, officer,” said the priest, forgetting his ID card, “I’m Father Thompson and this is Father Huber, the pastor.” The patrolman shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir,” he replied mulishly. “Look,” Thompson said between his teeth. “The President is in there, and he’s either dead or dying. One of us has to go.” Determined not to budge, he reached down and switched off the ignition. He had just taken his fingers off the key when another policeman ran up, shouting, “Are they priests? Let them through!” But now the car was stalled. Maddened, Father Thompson flooded the carburetor. He waited and prayed. The engine turned over, they wheeled left—and found themselves confronted by the biggest traffic jam either had ever seen. It was 12:57. “You go ahead,” said Thompson. “I’ll park somewhere and follow.” Father Huber, springing toward the hospital as fast as his septuagenarian legs would carry him, lost his direction and arrived, not outside the ambulance bays, but at Parkland’s main entrance. There, at last, he was met. Convoyed by patrolmen, then by agents, the pastor was escorted into the emergency area by General Clifton.

  For most people there his arrival was the prelude to the finality of the tragedy. Major Medicine was so constructed that vision was limited to a few feet. Policemen had formed a cordon in the red-striped corridor; the eminent few inside were isolated in the chopped-up booths. Lacking definite word, they had been sitting or standing about in helpless attitudes, in an atmosphere of utter unreality. Severe shock had distorted their senses. One woman, hazarding the guess that the time must be at least 4 P.M., glanced at a clock and was flabbergasted to find herself three hours off. In the absence of hard fact they had drifted along on hope or supposition. Now nearly all saw the black habit of a priest, the universally recognized chevron of death. Its significance swept hall and cubicles. Clifton’s eyes met Captain Stoughton’s; both officers’ eyes filled up. This is it, Henry Gonzalez thought, staring at the stocky little pastor. Mac Kilduff whispered to Albert Thomas, “It looks like he’s gone.” Kilduff crossed to Pam Turnure. “They’ve called a priest,” he said brokenly. Only Mac Perry didn’t notice. He was still sitting in the passage, and the Father walked right past him, but Mac was unaware of it. His brown eyes glazed with exhaustion, his features screwed up in a curiously lopsided cast, the surgeon was concentrating intently on a perfectly blank patch of tile wall.

  Father Huber went directly to Jacqueline Kennedy. He murmured his sympathies—he was breathing hard—and took up a position next to her. Uncovering the President’s head completely, he drew the purple-and-white ribbons over his own shoulders and chanted:

  “Si capax, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  “If it is possible, I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  He opened the cloth container, unscrewed the vial of holy oil, and pressed it to his thumb. Anointing John Kennedy’s pale forehead in the sign of the cross, he lifted the moist thumb up and down, back and forth, touching the President at each station:

  “Per istam sanctam Unctionem, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid deliquisti. Amen.”

  “Through this holy anointing, may God forgive you whatever sins you have committed. Amen.”

  The Apostolic Blessing followed:

  “Ego facultate mihi ab Apostolica Sede tributa, indulgentiam plenariam et remissionem omnium peccatorum tibi concedo, et benedico te. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  “I, by the faculty given to me by the Apostolic See, grant to you a plenary indulgence and remission of all sins, and I bless you. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  The priest stepped back, finished. In cases of sudden death he had always used the short form of the last anointing, and here he had mechanically followed custom. He hadn’t referred to his prayer book once. Dr. Burkley blurted out, “Is that all?” The doctor had never challenged a priest before, but the brusque ceremony offended him. It bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the rapid by-the-numbers procedures of the nurses. The passing of a President, he felt, ought to be a more solemn occasion. “Can’t you say some prayers for the dead?” he asked.

  Father Huber hurriedly chose several in English. Ordinarily he would have knelt, but the floor, he saw, was one vast bloodstain; he didn’t know that Jacqueline Kennedy had already been to her knees here, so he merely folded his hands, inclined his head, and began by murmuring the first half of the Lord’s Prayer. The widow and the physician, the only other two Catholics present, responded with the second half. The nurses bowed in silence.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus,” the pastor then recited.

  The two replied, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  A black shoe shuffled on the threshold. Father Thompson, having abandoned Holy Trinity’s car, entered hesitantly. He saw Jacqueline Kennedy’s apron of blood, and stepping to the side of the pacemaker machine he started to bless himself. His arms were unaccountably heavy. Bewildered, he hunched and strained and offered a lame sign of the cross:

  “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord,” the pastor was saying, wiping away the oil from the President’s head. The cotton came away stained crimson. Burkley faltered, but the voice of the President’s wife was firm. She answered, “And let perpetual light shine upon him.”

  Father Thompson genuflected. He put down a hand to steady himself; it came up wet. Once again he crossed himself in crippled slow motion, forcing his disabled muscles to move. He couldn’t imagine what was wrong with his arms.

  Mrs. Kennedy turned and left; the others followed her. Dr. Burkley, near collapse, wandered across the green line, saw Evelyn Lincoln’s familiar back, and moaned, “Oh, Evelyn, he’s gone!” Jacqueline Kennedy returned to her folding chair, watched over by the stolid Sergeant Dugger and, briefly, by the pastor. Father Huber had been fine during the rites. They were rote to him. Once he had anointed a child who had been horribly mangled in an accident. The body had been in shreds, yet he had maintained a stoical bearing. In the narrow passage between trauma rooms, however, he started to tremble all over. To the widow he said shakily, “I am shocked. I want to extend my sympathy and that of my parishioners.”

  Her
eyes were haunted, but her face was expressionless. “Thank you for taking care of the President,” she said, her voice a clear, dry whisper. “Please pray for him.”

  Since he had anticipated her most pressing concern, he said swiftly, “I am convinced that his soul had not left his body. This was a valid last sacrament.”

  Her head dropped, then tilted forward. Father Thompson signaled a passing nurse for help, and Father Huber asked, “Do you want a doctor?” She straightened and smiled vaguely. “Oh, no,” she said. She did, though. She was at the point of fainting. The nurse brought her a cold towel, and leaning over, she held it tight against her forehead until the giddiness passed.

  From the doorway of Trauma Room No. 2, vacated since Governor Connally had been moved upstairs, Father Thompson beckoned to Father Huber. They had a professional problem. Physicians could change into mufti and quietly slip out of the hospital. Priests couldn’t. Beyond this sanctuary they would be recognized and asked about the President’s condition. The wiser course was to wait here as long as they could. Unfortunately, that was not long. The emergency area was resuming its high pitch of activity. Every facility was needed. There could be no exceptions. Everyone who could must leave, every useless article had to be removed. Even Mac Perry was obliged to come back for his sport coat. He asked a nurse to retrieve it from the floor beside the hospital cart, and it was then, at 1:10, that he saw Father Huber for the first time. The two priests were reluctantly emerging into the passage. They brushed against a hatted Franciscan, Father Peter H. Azcoitia from Our Lady of Perpetual Help. The Franciscan, a Mexican, was among the many pastors who had heard news bulletins and hurried to Parkland on their own. In broken English he stammered, “Glad it was you—not me.”

  Father Thompson hovered over Jacqueline Kennedy. He intended to offer his condolences. Like the Sergeant, the priest became conscious of his own clumsiness. He marveled at her tranquillity and couldn’t quite believe in it. No one could be that composed, especially a woman so young. Perhaps, he thought, he should volunteer to return to Washington with her as a silent companion. He dismissed the idea; surely there were others here who were closer to her. Then he wished that he could pick her up and tell her that all this hadn’t happened, that it was just a frightful dream.

  “Mrs. Kennedy,” he began, and ended right there. He lunged back into Trauma Room No. 2 to collect himself.

  Father Huber led him out past the cubicles. At the door into the corridor an agent stepped in front of the pastor. He said meaningfully, “Father, you don’t know anything about this.”

  Both priests nodded. Yet it wasn’t that easy. In the corridor they managed to be as imperturbable as deaf mutes. At the car, however, a group of reporters on the way to the improvised press room sighted their inverted collars. Hugh Sidey led the chase. Father Thompson was behind the wheel, and the old pastor had opened the door, when the correspondents surrounded them. Father Thompson refused to give his name. “Is he dead?” Sidey asked. Father Huber took a deep breath. He said, “He’s dead, all right.”12

  He spelled his name for them, and they scurried off. For a long moment the priests sat motionless, the unused Navy ID card between them. Then Father Thompson attempted to shift a leaden wrist. His left palm was sticking to the wheel. Absently he yanked it free and examined it. He said under his breath, “The blood of a President. My God.” He started to bless himself once more and checked the motion. His hand had tightened in anger; it would be sinful to cross himself in such a mood. More to himself than to Father Huber he said, “Why, you can’t even wash blood off a closed fist.” With his right hand he pried the fingers loose. It was difficult. The knuckles were rigid, the fingernails locked underneath; the tendons in his wrist throbbed painfully. Gradually the cramped coil of rage relaxed, and he drove back to the church massaging the joints. To himself he prayed, “Lord, never let me close my fist again.”

  In Holy Trinity’s rectory Father Huber opened a shabby black leather volume whose spine bore the gold lettering, “Sick Call Register.” The pages were ruled and labeled, like a ledger. Under “Date” he wrote “11–22–63”; under “Name,” “Pres. John Kennedy”; under “Residence,” “Parkland Hospital.” Ministrations were “Cond. abs., cond. ex., Last B.”—conditional absolution, Extreme Unction, last blessing. The last column, on the far right, was headed “Remarks.” Usually it was left blank, but he felt this occasion required at least one remark. He thought and thought and then made the simple entry, “Assassinated in Downtown Dallas.”

  No one had thought to switch off the radio in the Vice Presidential convertible, and as Tom Wicker of the New York Times walked past the unoccupied car he was startled by a mechanical voice declaiming from its dashboard: “The President of the United States is dead. I repeat—it has just been announced that the President of the United States is dead.” Wicker vaulted a chain fence and called to Sidey, “Hugh, the President’s dead. Just announced on the radio. I don’t know who announced it, but it sounded official to me.” Sidey hung his head. He couldn’t talk. Wicker ran on to the press room.

  There had been no official word, and a report from an unknown priest was not conclusive. Nevertheless a statement could not be postponed indefinitely. It was 1:15 P.M. Death had been pronounced a quarter of an hour ago, and while Father Huber’s indiscretion was unknown in the emergency area it was hardly surprising. The secret could not be kept long. Too many people had been in the trauma room.

  Kilduff sought out Ken O’Donnell. He asked, “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  In a syllable O’Donnell confirmed it.

  “This is a terrible time to have to approach you on this,” Kilduff said, “but the world has got to know that President Kennedy is dead.”

  Ken said, “Well, don’t they know it already?”

  “No, I haven’t told them.”

  “Well, you are going to have to make the announcement. Go ahead. But you better check it with Lyndon Johnson.”

  An agent guided Kilduff through the white jungle of Minor Medicine. At the end of the last right turn Kilduff saw the broad back of Kennedy’s constitutional successor. He cleared his throat and said, “Mr. President.”

  It was the first time that anyone had so addressed Johnson. He turned and, according to Kilduff’s later recollection, “looked at me like I was Donald Duck.”

  Kilduff asked permission to make a statement. Johnson shook his head. “No. Wait. We don’t know whether it’s a Communist conspiracy or not. I’d better get out of here and back to the plane. Are they prepared to get me out of here?”

  The Secret Service was prepared, and he knew it, but he wanted to be certain he had left Parkland before reporters were informed. After a flurry of conferences with agents Kilduff understood. At 1:20 he approached Johnson again and told him, “I am going to make the announcement as soon as you leave.”

  “Yes,” said Johnson. “As soon as I leave you announce the death.”

  Kilduff walked out the emergency entrance with him. As soon as they reached the sunlight, reporters bayed, “What can you tell us?” Lowering his head, Kilduff bulled through them and plodded off across the grass, toward classrooms 101–102. He thought he was alone. He wasn’t—Ted Clifton, who hadn’t regained his stability, was stalking him with the hazy notion that he might be needed as a witness—and on re-entering the far end of the hospital Kilduff was hailed stridently by Merriman Smith and Jack Bell. The wire service men had just relinquished their precious phones. Now, learning that fresh news was imminent, they hopped around, demanding answers. Kilduff declined to be goaded. He kept shaking his head doggedly, repeating that he would say nothing until the conference began.

  Until an hour ago classrooms 101–102 had resembled a double study hall in a modern high school. The walls were paneled with bright green chalkboards. Desks stood in tidy ranks, and the sole incongruity, a hospital bed in the left front corner, was covered with a sanitary canopy of plastic. Across the front board someone—perhaps a member of the staff w
ho had heard garbled references to “Lakeland” and “Southland”—had neatly written the name “Parkland.” On other afternoons the chalked words were more clinical. Student nurses sat primly behind the desks and learned hospital drill. Now the hall was crowded with agitated reporters. A few seconds ago Hugh Sidey had told them of his carside interview with Father Huber. There was little doubt in anyone’s mind about the nature of the coming announcement. Still, it wasn’t official yet, and as Kilduff slowly mounted the dais scattered voices yelled “Quiet! Quiet!”

  There was quiet. And then Kilduff, red-eyed and tremulous, was unable to speak. Incoherently he thought, Well, this is the first press conference on a road trip I have ever had to hold. He started to tell them that and held his tongue. It really wasn’t news. Instead, he said, “Excuse me, let me catch my breath.” He caught it. There was another, longer pause. A full minute had passed. Clifton, scrutinizing him with hooded eyes, was of the opinion that he would never be able to talk, that no statement would be issued, that they all might sit there forever. Kilduff, like Father Thompson, was fighting a cramp. Puckering and rocking slightly, he thought, All right, what am I going to say, and how am I going to say it?

  The words were framed. They would not be eloquent, but they would do the job. At 1:33 he moistened his lips. “President John F. Kennedy—”

  “Hold it!” called a cameraman, and a lens clicked.

  “President John F. Kennedy died at approximately one o’clock Central Standard Time today here in Dallas.”