by Hill, Clint
With a big smile and a British-tinged accent, he said, “Here you are, sir. Anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“Uh, no, thank you,” I said as I took my clothes.
“Please don’t hesitate, sir,” he replied. “I am pleased to be at your service.”
It turned out that he was the houseboy assigned to my room, and part of his job was to do my laundry, whether or not I requested it. I quickly learned not to leave any article of clothing lying around unless I wanted it cleaned and pressed.
We had designated security posts around the suite occupied by President Eisenhower, John, and Barbara, and throughout the night the agents on the midnight shift rotated posts every thirty minutes. In addition, members of the presidential protective unit of India had personnel in corresponding posts near each of us, presumably as our backup, but they spent most of the night chatting with each other, often loudly and with animation. We couldn’t understand a word they were saying, so we simply tried to ignore them and went about our normal protective procedures.
At around two in the morning, I happened to be standing at the post immediately outside the door to the presidential suite when the president’s son John came out.
“Agent,” he said, “will you please get those Indian guys to stop talking? Their voices carry right into the president’s bedroom and he can’t get to sleep.”
“Absolutely, Major Eisenhower,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”
I was embarrassed that we hadn’t realized the noise might keep the president awake and hadn’t handled the situation earlier, but I immediately confronted the Indian guards and convinced them to move farther away, and to halt all conversation. We didn’t hear another word from inside the suite, so, presumably, after that the president was finally able to get some sleep.
WITH FOUR DAYS in India, once again, those of us on the midnight shift got a lucky break. When we were relieved by the day shift at eight o’clock in the morning, we had time to do a little sightseeing. While none of us knew much about Indian culture, the one thing about which we had all heard was the magnificent splendor of the Taj Mahal. Our contacts at the State Department provided us with a car and an Indian driver, so a few of us piled into the car and headed down to Agra.
At that early morning hour, the streets of New Delhi were coming alive, as shops opened and people went about their daily life. The streets were filled with people on bicycles—sometimes two or three people to one bike—riding every which way, interspersed with people walking alongside camels piled high with blankets and burlap sacks; tractors and rusty old trucks; and every so often a lone cow—sacred in India—wandering aimlessly among the chaos.
The city turned to countryside, where we rarely saw any sign of life, but then all of a sudden there would be a village, marked only by a row of outdoor produce stands and perhaps a one-pump gas station. The vast majority of the people were skeletal-thin and often barefoot, with a look of despair on their faces. Cooking was done over open fires that created heavy plumes of smoke, and when we asked our driver about the unusual stench, he told us it was from the elephant dung commonly used for fuel.
Finally we reached Agra, and the driver pulled up to a massive arched gate and parked the car.
“This is the Taj Mahal,” he said. “Come, I will show you.”
As we walked through the gate, suddenly the Taj Mahal was visible, and the sight was truly breathtaking. The white marble domed structure stood at the end of an extraordinary reflecting pool, like a beautiful queen staring into a mirror, oblivious of her timeless beauty. It was truly one of the most magnificent buildings I had ever seen. You couldn’t help but be overcome by a sense of awe as you approached the Taj, and as we walked, our driver explained how the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan was grief-stricken when his third wife, Mumtaz Mahal, had died during the birth of their fourteenth child. He commissioned the Taj Mahal to be built as a mausoleum to honor her memory, and after fourteen years of construction, the main building was completed in 1638.
The interior of the Taj was like an art museum, filled with intricate mosaics on the ceilings, walls, and floors, all encrusted with colorful, semiprecious stones. It was a masterpiece, a timeless tribute to the woman who was the love of the emperor’s life. I thought to myself, Damn, she must have been one hell of a woman.
Driving back to New Delhi, it was impossible not to notice the stark contrast between the splendor and riches of the ruling class—as exemplified by the Taj Mahal—and the numbing poverty of the masses. It was just one of the many times throughout this journey that made me realize how lucky I was to have been born in the United States of America.
IT WAS REALLY remarkable to me how much stamina our sixty-nine-year-old president possessed. The time change between Washington and New Delhi alone caused me a problem, but the president seemed not to be bothered at all by jet lag, and I wondered how he did it. He wanted to see as much of India as he could during his four-day visit, so the schedule was tightly packed. He was up early every morning, with one meeting, speech, or official function after another, dinners sometimes with five thousand guests, and as the guest of honor, the president always had to be on.
Sunday, December 13, was an example of how tiring, long, and complicated a day traveling with the president can be. The president arose at 6:00 a.m. and departed by car with President Prasad at 7:50 to attend services at the Protestant Church of India Cathedral. They returned to the Rashtrapati Bhavan at 9:00 a.m., and fifteen minutes later departed for Palam Airport with Prime Minister Nehru. They flew to the city of Agra and transferred to an open-top car, so the tens of thousands of people lining the route from the airport to the Taj Mahal could get a good view of the American president.
The three-hundred-year-old “temple of love” was something President Eisenhower had yearned to see ever since first reading about it as a young boy in Kansas, and while he told Nehru it was the thing he had looked forward to most of all on this entire trip, just thirty minutes were allotted in the schedule for his private tour. Then it was back in the helicopter for a flight to Bichpuri, where they transferred to a car for a brief tour of an agricultural training center at a college before driving to the rural village of Laraonda. People lined the dirt roads and stood on the thatched roofs of mud shacks, cheering the “prince of peace” as President Eisenhower waved from the backseat of the open convertible. The village headman greeted President Eisenhower with yet another long garland of flowers, introduced him to the town councilors, and then it was back in the car to Bichpuri, where the helicopter awaited. They choppered to Agra, transferred to a small airplane, and flew back to Palam Airport in New Delhi, landing at 1:20 p.m. It had already been a full day, but by the time the president motored back to Rashtrapati Bhavan, there was just enough time for a quick bite to eat and a short rest before the evening events.
At 4:15 p.m. Prime Minister Nehru arrived at the palace to accompany President Eisenhower to the Ramlila Ground, a sprawling park that separated Old Delhi and New Delhi, for what would be Eisenhower’s final public appearance in India. Fortunately, the Indian officials had learned from the near tragic arrival motorcade, as well as an incident the previous day when Indian police were forced to beat back crowds at the World Agricultural Fair, and sturdy fences had been erected around large pens in which to contain the people.
It was a wise decision, because by the time we brought President Eisenhower to the site, more than one million people had gathered for the farewell speech. Acres of solidly packed humanity stretched as far as I could see, and when President Eisenhower walked onto the elevated stage, the crowd broke into a roar of cheers. President Eisenhower captivated the audience with a stirring speech in which he repeatedly invoked the name of Mohandas K. Gandhi, the leader of India’s independence movement, in an effort to show the strong bond we shared in our dedication to freedom. There had never been a larger crowd assembled in the Ramlila Ground, and the fact that all these people had come to hear President Eisenhower left a lasting im
age in my mind about the enormous impact, and power, the President of the United States had. Because of all the great things Dwight D. Eisenhower had accomplished, both before and during his term of office, he had earned the respect of people all over the world. He was an ambassador of the highest order, instilling hope and inspiration, a true leader who reflected positively on the American people.
TEHRAN
We left India before dawn on Monday, December 14, 1959, and headed for our next stop—Tehran, Iran. This was to be only a six-hour stop, but as usual there was a lot packed into a short amount of time. It was a short flight, with just enough time to review the advance agents’ report on the events and situation in Tehran.
Our shifts had rotated the day before, so for the next two weeks I would be working the 4:00 p.m. to midnight shift. There would be no more sightseeing, but that was fine with me. I much preferred being where the action was. Every country, every city, and every venue had its own challenges when it came to protecting the president, and the adrenaline was constantly flowing.
We landed at Mehrabad Airport right on schedule at 8:45 a.m. It was a frigid morning, but that hadn’t deterred thousands from coming out to meet the American president. Wearing a topcoat, scarf, and hat, the president smiled broadly as he stepped off the plane, waving to the cheering crowd as he descended the steps. A band was playing, and before us was a sea of little flags flapping in the wind. Seven hundred fifty schoolchildren stood bundled in coats and hats, half of them holding American flags and the other half waving red, white, and green Iranian flags. His Imperial Majesty Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, the Shah of Iran, was waiting at the bottom of the steps with a line of Iranian dignitaries, and as Eisenhower greeted them, three cannons fired off a twenty-one-gun salute. Suddenly there was a tremendous roar overhead as a group of military jets flying in tight formation spelled out “IKE” in the crisp blue sky. After a brief welcoming ceremony, President Eisenhower and the Shah got into the backseat of the open-top Cadillac convertible provided by the Iranian government, and the motorcade was under way.
It was an impressive motorcade, with dozens of Iranian motorcycle officers in a V-formation ahead of the presidential vehicle, while our agents mixed with the Iranian protective detail in vehicles slightly to the rear on either side of the president’s car. We had been given our assignments by the Agent in Charge, and as I took my position in the follow-up car, I noticed a contingent of vehicles behind us filled with Iranian soldiers carrying submachine guns. It was a bit disconcerting, but one thing I had begun to realize on this trip was how much we had to rely on, and trust, our host government’s security procedures. This was their home turf.
Despite the freezing cold temperatures, more than three quarters of a million people lined the route from the airport to downtown Tehran. The crowds cheered as we drove past colorful banners celebrating Iran’s friendship with the United States, and while the people were exuberant, they were kept in order by thousands of soldiers standing intimidatingly with rifles, bayonets attached, slung over their shoulders.
As we neared the city, suddenly the road turned red. Huge, intricately woven Persian rugs had been placed end to end in the street—dozens of them for hundreds of yards—creating the largest and most beautiful welcome mat you can imagine. It seemed a shame to me that the motorcycles and cars drove right over these magnificent works of art, but that is exactly what we did. Talk about rolling out the red carpet.
The destination was the Shah’s palace, where the two leaders met privately for about two hours. Then President Eisenhower addressed a joint session of the Iranian Parliament, praising the people of Iran for refusing to stand on the sidelines in the free world’s fight against Communism.
“I know I speak for the American people when I say we are proud to count so valiant a nation as a partner,” he declared.
The members of Parliament listened intently to his every word, and at the end of his comments rose out of their seats in a standing ovation. From there it was on to an official luncheon in the Hall of Mirrors at Golestan Palace. The room was literally covered from floor to ceiling with mirrors and prisms that caught the light so that it looked like wallpaper made out of diamonds.
After lunch, there was another motorcade through the streets of Tehran back to Air Force One. On this, my first trip to Iran, there was no time for sightseeing. The overwhelming memory I have is the feeling of tension and adrenaline, scanning the massive crowds at the airport and the crowded streets of Tehran. My senses were focused on the people, not the art and architecture. That is the usual situation for an agent on duty. You may have visited some exotic place, but there is no time for exploration or enjoyment.
ATHENS
It was 4:40 p.m. local time when we landed at Hellinikon Airport outside Athens, Greece. Waiting at the foot of the ramp to greet the president were King Paul and his son Crown Prince Constantine, resplendent in their formal navy uniforms bedecked with medals, ribbons, and gold braid.
Once again, there was an elaborate arrival ceremony, which included a twenty-one-gun salute, greetings by Greek dignitaries, and an inspection of the honor guard, followed by a short speech by President Eisenhower in which he acknowledged the people of Greece and the warm friendship between our two nations.
King Paul guided President Eisenhower to the backseat of their designated car, a magnificent open-top Rolls-Royce touring sedan driven by a Greek military aide, with another Greek aide in the right-front passenger seat. It was unusual not to have one of our agents in the car with the president, but this is how the trip had been negotiated between the Greeks and our political and Secret Service advance team. Those of us on President Eisenhower’s detail took our predesignated positions in convertibles directly behind the Rolls-Royce, and the motorcade got under way.
The sun had gone down, and darkness was setting in as we made our way through the streets of Athens, making it difficult to see any unusual movement or activity within the throngs of people that lined the motorcade route. People were packed shoulder to shoulder along the boulevards, waving huge flags, clapping, and cheering, and up above people hung out open windows, jamming rooftops and balconies. It was estimated that 750,000 people had come out to welcome President Eisenhower—the largest gathering ever assembled in Greece for a visiting dignitary—and to show appreciation, President Eisenhower and King Paul both stood and waved from the back of the open car the entire length of the eight-mile route.
It felt like we were in the middle of a circus as people threw flowers and confetti, while others attempted to run into the street. Fortunately, the Greek police were out in force and were able to keep control of the excited crowd as we headed first to the Tomb of the Unknowns for a wreath-laying ceremony, and then, finally, on to the palace.
That night there was a formal dinner at the palace hosted by King Paul and Queen Frederika, and it was quite late by the time we got President Eisenhower safely into his suite. It had been a grueling twenty-two-hour day for everyone on the trip. Three countries, two flights, and five motorcades with exposure to more than one and a half million people.
THE NEXT DAY, President Eisenhower had a typically full schedule that included breakfast at the American Embassy residence, meetings with Greek prime minister Konstantinos Karamanlis, and a speech in front of the Greek Parliament. Meanwhile, the USS Des Moines, a heavy cruiser stationed in the Mediterranean, was waiting at anchor off the coast of Greece, its crew preparing the ship to transport the commander in chief on the next leg of his trip. The president would sail from Athens to Tunis, Tunisia; disembark in Tunis for a meeting with President Habib Ben Ali Bourguiba; and then return to the ship for a leisurely twenty-four-hour cruise to Toulon, a port city in the southeast of France. In Toulon, the president would board a private train and travel the 430 miles north to Paris.
By this point, everyone on the trip was ready for a little rest and relaxation. There was very limited space on board the Des Moines, so only minimal staff and a few Secret Service agents co
uld accompany the president on this leg of the trip—which meant the majority of the presidential staff and most of the Secret Service agents would fly directly from Athens to Paris.
PARIS
We flew to Paris, and with a day and a half of free time, we were determined to make the most of it. With the assistance of the French police officers with whom we would be working once the president arrived, we had the best tour guides one could find.
The first day, we had quick visits to all the famous tourist locations—the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and the Louvre—but one of the officers convinced us that if we wanted to experience the real Paris, we had to get up early in the morning.
“Trust me,” he said as he brought his fingers to his mouth with a kiss. “You love.”
When night fell, the city turned absolutely magical. Tiny white lights were strung on balconies and draped around the bare tree branches so that it looked like twinkling chandeliers were hanging along the streets and the banks of the Seine. Store windows were decorated with gingerbread houses, Christmas trees, and fake snow, while carolers sang on street corners. We had been working so hard, we had almost forgotten it was Christmastime.
The next morning, we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into, but we followed the officer’s directions and found our way to Les Halles. It turned out that Les Halles was a market where the produce, cheese, and meats arrived from the countryside each day. It was before dawn, but the place was bustling with shopkeepers and farmers bargaining in French, a cigarette in one hand and a handful of francs in the other.
Our French police officer guide brought us to one particular stall and said something in French to the man behind the counter. Next thing we knew, out came individual crocks of steaming hot onion soup for each of us. A thick layer of crusty, gooey cheese was baked over the top, and the officer showed us how to dip in our spoon, twirl it around with the cheese, and then sop it all up with a piece of crusty baguette. I’ll never forget the morning I had authentic French onion soup for breakfast in Les Halles.
