by Hill, Clint
She wanted to know the details of what had happened, but I couldn’t talk. I knew that if the words came out of my mouth, if I spoke about what I had been through, my emotions would get the best of me. I couldn’t allow that to happen.
There was no time to grieve, no time to rest. I had to get myself cleaned up and back to the White House.
18
* * *
The Funeral
The agents who had been on President Kennedy’s detail were now, suddenly, protecting President Johnson and his family. Agents were being flown in from field offices all over the country in preparation for the state funeral, and most of the men were working double shifts. Still, Paul Landis and I were the only agents with Mrs. Kennedy.
There was a private Mass for the Kennedy family and close friends in the East Room at 10:00 a.m. on Saturday, November 23, after which I accompanied Mrs. Kennedy to the Oval Office to make note of President Kennedy’s personal items that she wanted to bring with her—his rocking chair, the glass-encased coconut shell from his PT-109 rescue, family photos, the whale’s tooth scrimshaw she had given him as a gift the previous Christmas. That afternoon we drove to Arlington National Cemetery to choose the burial site.
Meanwhile, in Dallas, a man named Lee Harvey Oswald had been arrested and charged with the assassination of President Kennedy. On the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository, where Oswald worked, detectives found boxes stacked into a sniper’s nest near the window; three spent cartridges on the floor below the window; and a gun believed to be the murder weapon—a 6.5mm rifle stashed in a corner near the freight elevator, also on the sixth floor. Oswald had fled the building immediately after the assassination, killed a police officer named J. D. Tippit, and was found hiding in a movie theater.
I would analyze the assassination from every angle for the rest of my life, but at the time I couldn’t dwell on who had killed President Kennedy; I had to focus on protecting Mrs. Kennedy and on the countless arrangements that had to be made for the state funeral.
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 24, was the day the president’s body would be taken to the Capitol to lie in state. That morning, SAIC Jerry Behn summoned me to his office in the East Wing. He knew I was struggling to hold it together—we all were—but he wanted to thank me, and try to lift my spirits. While I was there, I got an urgent message to return to the mansion. Mrs. Kennedy and her brother-in-law Robert Kennedy wanted to view the president’s body one final time.
I raced to the hallway outside the East Room, where General Godfrey McHugh was waiting with Mrs. Kennedy and the attorney general. After requesting the honor guard to turn around and move back from the casket, General McHugh carefully folded back the flag, and together we raised the lid of the casket. When I saw President Kennedy lying there, confined in that narrow casket with his eyes closed so peacefully, just like he was sleeping, it was all I could do to keep from breaking down. McHugh and I slowly moved back from the casket as Mrs. Kennedy and the president’s brother walked over to view the man they loved.
Weeping, Mrs. Kennedy turned to me and asked if I would bring her a pair of scissors. I quickly found some in the drawer of the usher’s office across the hall, and after placing them in her hands, I turned away to give her some privacy. Standing a few feet behind Mrs. Kennedy, I heard the sound of the scissors, beneath the painful cries, as she presumably clipped a few locks of her husband’s hair.
Robert Kennedy gently closed the lid of the casket, grabbed Mrs. Kennedy’s hand, and together they walked out of the East Room. General McHugh and I checked the casket to make sure it was securely closed, and out of habit I looked at my watch to take note of the time—12:46 p.m. I had seen President Kennedy for the last time; the casket would never be opened again.
It was shortly after this that I got word that Lee Harvey Oswald had been shot and killed in Dallas while being transferred from one location to another. Press photographers and reporters were covering the transfer of the suspect closely, and when the unpredictable shooting was shown on live television, witnessed by millions of Americans who had been glued to their TVs for the past two days, the entire nation was left in a state of utter shock.
In sharp contrast to the chaos that was unfolding in Dallas, the White House was a somber scene as President Kennedy’s casket was placed on an artillery carriage and led by a team of gray horses in a solemn procession to the U.S. Capitol. Directly behind the caisson, Mrs. Kennedy rode with the children, the attorney general, and President and Mrs. Johnson in a Cadillac that was now being used as the presidential limousine.
We headed out the Northeast Gate of the White House, the procession moving slowly, at the pace of the marching horses, and as we turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, thousands of people stood—ten and fifteen deep—on both sides of the wide street. From my position in the motorcade, I had a clear view of the tearful, anguished faces lining the route. It was unlike any other motorcade I had ever been in. There were no cheers or hollers, no clapping hands or waving banners; 300,000 people, dead silent. The only sounds you could hear—sounds that would remain forever in my memory—were the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the repetitive cadence of the military corps’ muffled drums all the way to the Capitol.
For twenty-two hours, President Kennedy’s flag-draped casket stayed in the Rotunda. A tidal wave of people had come from suburbs and neighboring states, queuing for hours on into the night, just to have a few seconds to pay their respects to their beloved president. At one point, the line was ten people wide, stretching for three miles, and by the time the doors finally closed on Monday morning, a quarter of a million people had filed past the casket.
Mrs. Kennedy was heavily involved in the funeral plans, and while there was a certain protocol in place for state funerals for a deceased president—it had been assumed that either Truman or Eisenhower would be next—there were certain things Mrs. Kennedy added to make it personal. One of the things she was insisting on was to walk behind the caisson from the White House to St. Matthew’s, where the funeral Mass would take place, and then on to Arlington National Cemetery. With heads of state from countries all over the world planning to participate, we knew that if Mrs. Kennedy walked, they too would feel compelled to walk. The President of the United States had just been assassinated in broad daylight, and to have every major world leader walking slowly through the streets of Washington, D.C. was going to be a security nightmare. I tried to talk Mrs. Kennedy out of it, and ultimately she agreed to compromise by walking just one segment of the procession—from the White House to St. Matthew’s. Agent Landis and I would be right alongside her, but I knew it would be the longest mile I had ever walked.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 25, was the day of President Kennedy’s funeral. It was also John F. Kennedy Jr.’s third birthday.
That morning, Paul Landis and I accompanied Mrs. Kennedy and the president’s two brothers, Bobby and Teddy, in the Chrysler limousine back to the Capitol, and after a brief ceremony the casket was carried back down the Capitol steps and placed on the caisson for the procession back to the White House.
The car pulled into the Northeast Gate, and up ahead we could see the entourage of dignitaries and world leaders assembled on the steps of the North Portico. It was an extraordinary gathering: France’s President Charles de Gaulle, Ethiopia’s Emperor Haile Selassie, Belgium’s King Baudouin, Ireland’s President Eamon de Valera, Britain’s Duke of Edinburgh, Germany’s President Heinrich Lübke, Berlin’s Mayor Willy Brandt, Norway’s Crown Prince Harald, Greece’s Queen Frederika—just to name a few. And of course, the new U.S. president, Lyndon Baines Johnson, and his wife, Lady Bird.
A company of U.S. Marines led the procession out the Northwest Gate, followed by nine pipers from the Scottish Black Watch, who—marching in their red tartan kilts and white spats, their bagpipes echoing a poignant wail that seemed to be synchronized with the clip-clop of the horses pulling the caisson carrying President Kennedy’s body—were there at Mrs. Kennedy’s insistence because her hu
sband had so enjoyed their performance on the White House lawn just two weeks earlier. The presidential flag came next, followed by Black Jack, the riderless horse, and then the mass of walkers.
The details of the day are etched in my mind forever, as I wrote about them in Five Days in November.
With her face shrouded by a black veil, Mrs. Kennedy led the procession to St. Matthew’s, flanked by the president’s brothers, Bobby and Ted, while Paul Landis and I walked solemnly alongside them. Camera crews filmed every step so that people around the world could watch via satellite broadcast. The three U.S. television networks had ceased regular programming to run the funeral uninterrupted, and 95 percent of Americans were watching.
For all the scripted pageantry, planned out minute by minute, the one moment that the world would remember was entirely spontaneous. At the conclusion of the Requiem Mass at St. Matthew’s, Mrs. Kennedy walked hand in hand with Caroline and John, and then stood on the outside steps watching as the casket was brought out and placed back on the caisson. I was standing just behind and to the right of them. When the military simultaneously saluted their fallen commander in chief, I saw Mrs. Kennedy lean down to John and whisper in his ear. With the world’s eyes on him, young John Fitzgerald Kennedy Jr., three years old on that day, thrust his tiny shoulders back, raised his right hand taut to his brow, and rendered a perfect salute to his father.
Shortly thereafter, I was helping Mrs. Kennedy into the backseat of the limousine—in which she would ride to Arlington National Cemetery for the burial—when former presidents Harry S. Truman and Dwight D. Eisenhower approached the car. Having just witnessed that poignant salute, they were both having difficulty controlling their emotions. Profound sorrow was etched in every line of their faces as they expressed their sympathies to Mrs. Kennedy. It was not the proper order of things, that these two men should be here at the funeral of their much younger successor, and for me to see the utter despair in General Eisenhower’s eyes—a man I revered as one of the world’s great leaders—was heart-wrenching.
And so it was that amid this remarkable gathering of the world’s most powerful men and women, it was the spontaneous salute by the innocent boy to his dead father that captured our hearts.
19
* * *
The Year After
With President Kennedy laid to rest, President Johnson now had the difficult task of pulling the country together. On Wednesday, November 27, Thanksgiving Eve, he addressed the nation in a joint session of Congress. After several minutes of standing ovation, the Congress members sat, and President Johnson began.
“All I have, I would have given gladly not to be standing here today. The greatest leader of our time has been struck down by the foulest deed of our time. Today, John Fitzgerald Kennedy lives on in the immortal words and work that he left behind. He lives on in the minds and memories of mankind. He lives on in the hearts of his countrymen. No words are sad enough to express our sense of loss. No words are strong enough to express our determination to continue the forward thrust of America that he began.”
Again the room erupted into applause. The president continued with a stirring speech reminding the people of President Kennedy’s dreams—conquering the vastness of space; developing partnerships with other like-minded nations around the world; education for all children; care for the elderly; and, above all, equal rights for Americans no matter their race or color. President Johnson urged the lawmakers before him that the most fitting tribute to President Kennedy would be to continue what he had begun.
Knowing he had a limited amount of time to capitalize on this period of grief, President Johnson set the wheels in motion. No one but the president himself could have envisioned that over the course of the next year he would get more legislation passed in such a short time frame than any other president had in the history of the United States.
NORMALLY, WHEN A new president takes office, he moves into the White House immediately following the Inauguration. But this was no normal transition. President Johnson did not want it to appear that he was forcing Mrs. Kennedy and the children out of their home, so he told them to take their time as she decided where she wanted to live. I had assumed that I would stay with Mrs. Kennedy and the children until she left the White House, but beyond that, I didn’t have any idea what the Secret Service would do with me.
Several days after the funeral, Secret Service Chief Jim Rowley called me into his office.
“Clint,” he said, “President Johnson has requested the Secret Service provide protection for Mrs. Kennedy and the children for at least one more year. We have agreed to do so.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Rowley,” I said. “I think it’s a good decision.”
Rowley explained that Mrs. Kennedy had been informed that she could keep the agents currently working with her and the children or choose a new team. Whatever she wanted.
A lump filled my throat as Rowley was talking. To be assigned to a former first lady would be a career ender. But I couldn’t imagine leaving her. Not now. Fortunately, it wasn’t my choice. I would go wherever Rowley assigned me.
“Mrs. Kennedy didn’t hesitate,” Rowley said. “She wants Bob Foster, Lynn Meredith, and Tom Wells to stay with the children.”
I nodded. That would be best for the children, to maintain consistency.
“And for herself,” Rowley continued, “she said there was no choice to be made at all. She wants Paul Landis and Clint Hill.”
I would be the Special Agent in Charge of the small five-man team of agents that would be known as KPD—Kennedy Protective Detail. I was officially no longer on the White House Detail.
TEN DAYS AFTER the assassination, Chief Rowley informed me that I was going to be given a commendation for my actions in Dallas—the Treasury Department’s highest award for bravery. Agent Rufus Youngblood, who had jumped on top of Vice President Johnson immediately upon hearing the gunshots in Dealey Plaza, was also being honored in a separate ceremony.
I did not want an award, nor did I believe I deserved one, but I agreed to show up. Gwen brought Chris and Corey for the brief ceremony in the Treasury Building on December 3, standing by as Secretary Douglas Dillon handed me the citation and a medal. Mrs. Kennedy had come, along with her sister, Lee, and President Kennedy’s sisters Jean Smith and Pat Lawford, and it meant a lot to me that they were there—far more than the medal itself. It was the first and only time Mrs. Kennedy met my wife and my sons.
Shortly after we returned to Washington from Dallas, Undersecretary of State Averell Harriman, who had been a close friend to both President and Mrs. Kennedy, offered his home in Georgetown at 3038 N Street as a temporary residence for Mrs. Kennedy and the children until they found a permanent home. She accepted the generous offer, and on December 6 they moved out of the White House. That same day, I packed up my files and moved everything out of my little office in the Map Room.
After many tearful good-byes to the White House staff, Mrs. Kennedy, Miss Shaw, Caroline, and John got into the limousine at the South Portico, and we drove away from the White House together for the last time. No one said anything as we headed to Georgetown. Everything had changed, and none of us knew what the future held. Our hearts were heavy, and we were all just so terribly sad.
Christmas of 1963 was exceptionally difficult. Excruciating. We flew to Palm Beach as we had for the three previous years, and while Ambassador Kennedy and much of the rest of the family were there, there was no Honey Fitz to take out for a lunchtime cruise, no laughter around the swimming pool, and just the small group of agents on the Kennedy Protective Detail.
In hindsight, there is no doubt I was suffering from what is now known as post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. I’m sure Mrs. Kennedy, along with everyone else in the presidential limousine and in the follow-up car—the other Secret Service agents, Governor and Mrs. Connally, Dave Powers, and Ken O’Donnell—were all suffering the same mental distress I was. But none of us talked about it—certainly not with
each other. There was no counseling. We each just went on with our lives the best we could.
AFTER THE HOLIDAYS, we returned to Washington. Mrs. Kennedy bought a house across the street from the Harrimans’, at 3017 N Street—a large brick colonial that had lots of room and two beautiful magnolia trees out front—and at first it seemed ideal. The private backyard was paved and had a big tree in the center, and John would ride his little tricycle around and around. But almost immediately, the crowds started to come. People would stand on the sidewalk with cameras, trying to peer in the windows, and as soon as we walked out the front door, they’d snap photos, one right after the other. It really got bad when a tour company started bringing buses by the house. The buses would squeeze down the narrow street and stop, allowing the people to get out and take pictures. We tried to have the operation ceased, but the city allowed the buses to carry on.
Mrs. Kennedy and the children started spending more and more time away from Washington. They went skiing in Stowe, Vermont; she took a trip to Antigua in the Caribbean, and a lot of trips to New York City, where we stayed at the Carlyle Hotel. We were all trying to keep busy, planning the next trip, making arrangements. But everywhere we turned, there was something to remind us of what had happened. You couldn’t look at a newspaper; you couldn’t watch television.
The nation was obsessed with the assassination and finding out what had really happened. Even though the Dallas police were confident that Lee Harvey Oswald was the assassin—they had plenty of evidence against him—when Jack Ruby killed Oswald on November 24, it sparked a flurry of distrust and conspiracy theories. There were questions regarding Cuban or Russian involvement because of Oswald’s connections to both; suspicions that the CIA or the Mafia had been behind it; and speculation that there had been more than one shooter.
