Five Presidents: My Extraordinary Journey With Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, and Ford

by Hill, Clint

  On several occasions, I arrived at the White House in the morning to find out that the president had requested the agents on the midnight shift take him to St. Dominic’s Catholic Church in southwest Washington in the middle of the night. He would sit and talk with one of the priests or friars for fifteen minutes or up to an hour, and then return to the White House in deep reflection. No one but the Secret Service knew about these midnight visits. It was clear President Johnson was searching for guidance, and these secretive visits exemplified the tremendous burden he bore on his shoulders alone.

  By this point, having been around President Johnson for nearly four years, I had come to realize that although he was a challenging boss—in so many different ways—he valued those who were loyal to him, and he tried to show his gratitude in his own way.

  September 30 was a typical day at the White House, with back-to-back meetings, a quick trip to the Sheraton Park Hotel for a speech, a bill signing for a project on the Colorado River, and the usual multitude of phone calls and briefings, but on this day the president made time to attend two events to express his personal appreciation and affection. Early that afternoon, he attended the Arlington Cemetery funeral for a twenty-three-year-old Navy lieutenant who had been a groomsman at Luci’s wedding and had been killed in a training accident in Arizona, and the family was deeply touched by his attendance. This day also happened to be White House staffer Tom Johnson’s twenty-seventh birthday.

  Now, Tom Johnson, originally from Macon, Georgia, had come to the White House three years earlier in 1965 as the first White House Fellow, and had proven his loyalty to the president by working long days in the press office—often sixteen-, eighteen-, or twenty-hour days—without complaint, and with tremendous attention to detail. Because of the hours, and the fact that he and his young wife, Edwina, had relocated to Washington for the job, he had few, if any, friends outside White House circles. Like those of us on the White House Detail, the demands of his job precluded having a social life.

  Edwina wanted to have a dinner party in their small apartment to surprise Tom on his birthday, and being somewhat naive, she invited President and Mrs. Johnson—and to her amazement, they accepted. So Edwina called her mother for an appropriate recipe, and spent the exorbitant sum of $25—equivalent to a month’s worth of groceries out of Tom’s entry-level government salary—on a decorative white serving dish with a swirled gold rose on top for the shrimp and rice casserole she planned to prepare. On the evening of September 30, everything was perfect; the casserole was in the oven, and at the appointed time of 7:30, two of the invited couples arrived. The only people missing were President and Mrs. Johnson.

  Seven-thirty came and went. Eight o’clock. Nine o’clock. Finally, Edwina came to the conclusion that the president was not going to show up, and she had better serve dinner to her other guests.

  Now at the time, I had no idea that President Johnson had accepted this birthday invitation. I was at the White House, and at 10:10 that evening, I got a call that the president was going out to dinner and to get the car ready. So we took the president and Mrs. Johnson, along with George Christian, and drove to Tom and Edwina’s one-bedroom apartment in Alexandria.

  As I waited outside the door, I heard laughter, the clanking of wineglasses, and a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and it sounded like everyone was having a marvelous time. The Johnsons stayed until 11:45, and then we drove them back to the White House, after which I went home for the night.

  I didn’t learn Edwina’s side of this story until 2014—forty-eight years later—but she remembered the details like it was yesterday: how LBJ showed up three hours late, unapologetically, and expected dinner, and all she had to serve at that point was a room-temperature overdone casserole, but you know what? He kept his word. And even though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, it was important to him to attend the birthday celebration of a loyal friend. That was typical of Lyndon B. Johnson.

  SOMETIME IN MID-OCTOBER I got a telephone call from Jack Walsh, the head of the Kennedy Protective Detail.

  “Clint,” he said. “It’s Jack.”

  “Well, hello, John Francis Michael Walsh,” I said as a smile spread across my face. Jack was a good Catholic from South Boston, with a great sense of humor, and I had specifically chosen him to be with John and Caroline when I was still with Mrs. Kennedy in 1964. He was great with the kids, and now he was in charge of the small detail of agents that protected Mrs. Kennedy and the children.

  “How are things in New York City?”

  “Well, Clint, that’s why I’m calling. There are going to be some big changes, and although the announcement isn’t going to be made until the last possible minute, I thought you should know.”

  Before he could get the words out, I knew what he was going to say. I’d been hearing rumors, but I honestly couldn’t believe she would do it.

  “Mrs. Kennedy is going to marry Onassis,” Jack said. He paused, waiting for my response.

  I took a deep breath. “When?”

  “The twentieth of October. In Greece—on his island. We’re flying with the kids a few days before. Making all the arrangements now. Her mother will make the announcement after we’re airborne.”

  “Thanks for letting me know, Jack. I really appreciate it.”

  I never discussed this with Mrs. Kennedy, so I don’t know whether she truly loved Aristotle Onassis. It wasn’t any of my business. I do know that he offered her something that few men in the world could provide her—security, both personally and financially—and in the aftermath of the assassination of her brother-in-law, I’m sure she was terrified that she or her children might be targets. Onassis had his own island, his own airline, and homes and apartments all over the world, and I’d seen the power he had to get what he wanted.

  All I wanted for Mrs. Kennedy was for her to be happy.

  THERE HADN’T BEEN much to be happy about thus far in 1968, but shortly after midnight on October 25, President and Mrs. Johnson’s daughter Lynda Bird Robb gave birth to a healthy baby girl named Lucinda Desha Robb. News was immediately dispatched to Lynda’s husband, Chuck, at his post in Vietnam, and later that morning, President Johnson handed out cigars to the press people who had convened at Bethesda Naval Hospital.

  On the last few days of October, there had been a lot of unusual activity at the White House, and while I didn’t know exactly what was going on, I knew something was up. When I arrived at the White House on the morning of October 29, the on-duty agent said, “Mr. Hill, something happened overnight that I think you should know about.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Well, shortly after two o’clock in the morning, we got a lot of high-level visitors.”

  At two o’clock in the morning? This was very unusual. “Who?”

  “Secretary of Defense Clifford, General Wheeler, General Taylor, General Abrams, Director Helms . . .”

  “The National Security Council? At two in the morning?”

  “Yes, and the president joined them in the Cabinet Room at two-thirty.”

  Something on the international front was definitely going on, and, clearly, the president and his top advisors were keeping it close to the vest. Over the next two days, the members of the National Security Council were constantly coming and going, and all through the West Wing you could hear the sound of typewriters.

  On October 31, I finally found out what was happening, several hours before the rest of the world would learn the same news. I was in the Secret Service office when I heard three buzzes, indicating the president was moving from the West Wing. I went up the stairway to the Oval Office level and learned that the president was going to the theater with several of his top aides to view a portion of a speech he had taped late the evening before, and to add an additional portion that had been rewritten today.

  I accompanied the group along the colonnade past the swimming pool and the flower shop, through the mansion, and to the theater. Each of them found a sea
t, while I stood inside the doorway. The lights dimmed and the film rolled. On-screen, President Johnson was seated, looking directly into the camera.

  “Good evening, my fellow Americans. I speak to you this evening about very important developments in our search for peace in Vietnam.

  “We have been engaged in discussions with the North Vietnamese in Paris since last May. The discussions began after I announced on the evening of March 31st in a television speech to the nation that the United States—in an effort to get talks started on a settlement of the Vietnam War—had stopped the bombing of North Vietnam in the area where ninety percent of the people live.”

  He explained that the talks had been deadlocked for many weeks.

  “Last Sunday evening and throughout Monday,” he continued, “we began to get confirmation of the essential understanding that we had been seeking with the North Vietnamese on the critical issues between us for some time.” His tone was somber, his voice hoarse from a nagging sore throat and chronic lack of sleep.

  “Now, as a result of all these developments I have now ordered that all air, naval, and artillery bombardment of North Vietnam cease as of eight a.m. Washington time Friday morning. I have reached this decision on the basis of the developments of the Paris talks, and I have reached it in the belief that this action can lead to progress toward a peaceful settlement of the Vietnamese War.”

  The president noted he was making this decision with the concurrence of his top military and diplomatic advisors, but he cautioned that “arrangements of this kind are never foolproof” and that the new phase of negotiations did not mean a stable peace had yet come to Southeast Asia.

  The men in the room agreed that the speech was good, and watched as President Johnson taped one last segment. He appealed to the presidential candidates to support their government and our men in Vietnam with a united voice in this critical hour, adding that although he did not know who would be inaugurated as the thirty-seventh President of the United States, he would continue to do all he could in his last few months to move toward peace.

  An hour before the speech was to be aired, several press photographers were allowed to snap some photos of the president and his top advisors in the Cabinet Room where this decision had been made. As they were leaving, Walt Rostow, the national security advisor, commented, “This is the most sustained day-and-night effort I’ve had since the Cuban Missile Crisis.”

  The speech aired at eight o’clock that evening—broadcast simultaneously on all three networks—and almost immediately there were accusations that the move was purely a political ploy to improve Vice President Humphrey’s chances at election. There was no doubt in my mind that that was not the case. President Johnson knew Vietnam had become his war—his Cuban Missile Crisis—and he wasn’t going to leave office without giving it his all to find a resolution. I had witnessed the toll it had taken on him over the past four years. I had seen the deep pain in his eyes as he shook the hands of the young men he was sending into battle, and I knew he hadn’t slept more than four hours a night for the past year—with a call to the Situation Room the last thing he did each night, and the first thing each morning. No one wanted an end to Vietnam more than Lyndon Johnson, and Lyndon Johnson wanted to be the man to end it.

  It would not happen that way.

  On November 5, 1968, Richard M. Nixon was elected as the next President of the United States. During the next few weeks, President Johnson and his staff met with President-elect Nixon, Vice President–elect Agnew, and their staffs, preparing them for the transition in January, while Rufus Youngblood and his deputies had the challenge of reassigning agents.

  It would be my third presidential transition, and as the SAIC of presidential protection, I had every reason to believe my job would remain the same.

  It would not happen that way.

  29

  * * *

  Last Days with LBJ

  On November 13, we flew to El Paso, Texas, where President Johnson and President Díaz Ordaz of Mexico jointly pushed a button causing a diversion dam to be destroyed and allowing waters of the Rio Grande to flow through a diversionary channel. This changed the official boundary between Mexico and the United States, giving Mexico about four hundred acres of new land, while also providing a protective measure against flooding.

  There were large crowds along the motorcade route, and near the site of the ceremony the crowds were so enthusiastic that they nearly overpowered the security barriers. President Johnson was reaching into the crowd, shaking as many hands as he could, and at one point I had to grab him from the rear for fear that he was going to fall right into the crowd. He was relishing the adoration, enjoying every last minute of what it was like to be President of the United States—apparently oblivious to his own vulnerability.

  At some point during the previous year, funds had been approved for a new presidential limousine to replace SS-100-X, and it had been delivered in late October. The twenty-one-foot-long Lincoln Continental had a bombproof steel body and a bubbletop roof made of bulletproof glass panels that opened so the president could stand up during parade situations—a function President Johnson had insisted upon. After the election, however, the car was sent to New York City, where President-elect Richard Nixon had his base of operations, and where it would be used for his movements.

  On November 19, President Johnson had been invited to a dinner reception for the National Urban League in New York, but he wanted it completely off-the-record. He had a full day of meetings, and it wasn’t until 8:30 p.m. that we finally departed the White House grounds in Marine One, and then flew from Andrews by JetStar to New York’s LaGuardia Airport. Since we had the new presidential limousine there in New York, we arranged to have it waiting to transport President Johnson from the airport to the function in midtown Manhattan.

  As we drove to the Hilton, I was sitting in the right front seat, and President Johnson began commenting about the number of vehicles in the motorcade and the large number of police officers he was seeing. He raised this issue every time we came to New York.

  “Clint, how many cars are in this motorcade?” he asked.

  I was not certain of the exact number, but I replied, “There is a Secret Service car out in front and about eight New York City police cars preceding us, Mr. President.”

  “You sure know how to attract attention and let everyone know I’m in town,” he said with a snarl. “Didn’t I tell you this was supposed to be off-the-record?”

  Then he began to ask questions about the new car.

  “How thick is this glass? Must be at least an inch thick.”

  “Yes, Mr. President; more than an inch—enough to give you the protection you need.”

  Apparently that satisfied him. He turned to Tom Johnson, who was seated next to him, and said, “Tom, you better let the Krims know we are coming.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Krim—wealthy friends of President and Mrs. Johnson and big Democratic contributors—were supposed to meet the president on arrival and escort him to the ballroom where the dinner was being held.

  Tom said, “Clint, can you get ahold of the advance agent at the Hilton and have him track down the Krims to let them know President Johnson is almost there?”

  I got on the radio and transmitted the request to the advance agent, using code names. A few minutes went by, and the advance agent responded that he was having difficulty locating the Krims. He didn’t think they’d arrived yet.

  When President Johnson heard this, he flew into a rage and ordered the driver to take a longer route to delay our arrival. Then he began to take it out on Tom. “Why aren’t they there, Tom? What happened? Did you screw up again?”

  “Mr. President,” I interjected. “It’s not Tom’s fault. It’s my fault.”

  “Well, why did you make that mistake? What is wrong with you?” he screamed.

  “There was some confusion transmitting the information, but now everything has been resolved. Don’t worry. The Krims will be there to meet
you.”

  That seemed to satisfy the president, and nothing more was said. The agent had found the Krims; they were there by the time we arrived; the dinner went well; and afterward we took the president back to the Hotel Pierre, where Mrs. Johnson had been staying. As we were walking up to her suite, he said, “Clint, I’m going to a party for Mrs. Johnson at Jeanne Vanderbilt’s, but I don’t want the whole goddamned world to know about it. Let me know when the press has left, and get a small car for us to use. I want this to be as discreet as possible.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” I said. “We’ll take care of it.”

  I got on the radio to the New York Field Office and had them deliver an unmarked sedan. After a while, the press that had gathered at the hotel assumed the president was in for the night—it was already eleven o’clock—and as soon as they were gone, we put him in the sedan and drove to Mrs. Vanderbilt’s residence. The party was wrapping up, so he stayed for only an hour, and we got him and Mrs. Johnson back to the hotel around midnight. It had been another exhausting day, but fortunately the press hadn’t gotten wind of his activity, and we all flew back to Washington the next morning.

  NOVEMBER 22, 1968, marked the fifth anniversary of President Kennedy’s assassination. Senator Ted Kennedy and several members of the Kennedy family made a private early morning visit to President Kennedy’s grave at Arlington Cemetery, and to the newer grave, just yards away, of Robert Kennedy. And while in each of the previous years since the assassination President Johnson had attended a church memorial service—we had always been in Texas—this year he was in Washington and made no public acknowledgment of the anniversary. Instead, he sent two military aides in his place with a wreath to place at the gravesite.