by Clint Hill
“There are no faint hearts in Fort Worth!” he declares.
A voice calls out amid the applause and laughter, “Where’s Jackie?”
There’s a brief pause. “Mrs. Kennedy is organizing herself. It takes her a little longer, but of course she looks better than we do when she does it.” The crowd loves it.
In order to give Mrs. Kennedy as much privacy as possible, I return to the security post in the hallway outside the suite.
Soon Agent Paul Landis joins me.
“It’s a madhouse down there,” he says. “Five thousand people outside in the rain, and another twenty-five hundred in the Grand Ballroom. The president is in there now.”
About five minutes later, the security phone rings.
“Agent Hill,” I answer.
“Clint, it’s Duncan.” Bill Duncan is the senior advance agent for the Secret Service in Fort Worth. “I’m down here at the breakfast with the president. He wants you to bring Mrs. Kennedy down, right now.”
I pull out her schedule, and right next to the breakfast listing she has made a check mark in red pencil and written: JBK won’t attend.
“But Mrs. Kennedy isn’t intending on going to the breakfast.”
“The president just told me to tell you to get her down here now. Everyone is waiting for her.”
“Okay, Bill. We’ll be right there.”
I walk into the suite and call out, “Mrs. Kennedy? The president wants you down at the breakfast. Are you ready?”
“Come on in, Mr. Hill,” she replies from the bedroom.
She’s standing in front of the mirror, running a comb through her hair. She is dressed in her pink suit with the navy collar—one of her favorites—but I can tell she’s not nearly ready. Clearly there’s been a misunderstanding about her appearance at the breakfast.
“Good morning. I hope you slept well,” she says cheerfully.
“We’ve got another long day ahead,” I say. I don’t want to rush her, but the president’s message was clear. “Did you know that the president is waiting for you at the breakfast?”
She looks at me quizzically. “I wasn’t planning on going to the breakfast.”
“I know, Mrs. Kennedy, but I just got an urgent message that the president wants you down at the breakfast, right now.”
She seems a bit surprised. “Okay, I just need to put on my hat.”
Mary Gallagher helps her adjust her hat, pinning it on just so.
“Oh, and my gloves . . .”
I look at my watch. It’s been seven minutes since Duncan called. Finally she’s ready, and Paul Landis and I escort her down to the mezzanine level. I lead the way, walking briskly, with Mrs. Kennedy following and Landis behind her. The instructions are for us to proceed through the kitchen and enter the Grand Ballroom through a rear door. When we arrive at the door to the ballroom, I peek in to see what is happening. The room is filled to capacity with finely dressed women and men seated at rows and rows of long, narrow tables, and the master of ceremonies is drawling through the introductions of the dignitaries seated at the head table. There’s Vice President and Mrs. Johnson, the Connallys, and a litany of local politicians and their wives. As soon as the MC’s finished, I step into the doorway so he can see Mrs. Kennedy behind me.
His face lights up as if all his prayers have been answered and gleefully announces, “And now the event I know all of you have been waiting for!”
As Mrs. Kennedy walks into the room, all 2,500 people jump to their feet, applauding and cheering. The suddenness of the noise appears to startle Mrs. Kennedy, and it gives me goose bumps.
The room is so jam-packed, I can’t believe the fire marshal would allow this many people in here. My goal is to get her as quickly to the dais as possible, following the narrow, clear path, without giving anyone the opportunity to grab her attention. Beneath the reverberating sounds of clapping hands, low voices divulge the impression she’s already making. “Oh, isn’t she lovely?” “My, she’s even prettier in person!” “Look at that stunning suit!”
Everyone at the head table is standing as well, and as she walks across the raised stage, she looks out to the audience and smiles in appreciation of the rousing ovation. The president seems relieved that she’s finally here—albeit twenty minutes late.
The people in the audience are buzzing—they don’t care that she’s late. They know what a rare opportunity this is to see the handsome president and his wife together, not whizzing by in a motorcade, but right here in the same room.
President Kennedy is introduced and he steps up to the podium.
“Two years ago, I introduced myself in Paris by saying that I was the man who had accompanied Mrs. Kennedy to Paris.” Holding back a smile, he adds, “I am getting somewhat that same sensation as I travel around Texas.”
The audience laughs. But he’s not finished.
Glancing at Mrs. Kennedy, he adds, “Nobody wonders what Lyndon and I wear.”
The room howls with laughter. It’s so unexpected, so true, and so typical of President Kennedy’s ability to connect with a crowd. It is a great moment, one that will be remembered forever by everyone here.
Another standing ovation at the end of the president’s speech, followed by a presentation of gifts—a white felt western hat and a pair of cowboy boots for the president, and a pair of riding boots for Mrs. Kennedy. The crowd urges President Kennedy to pose in the hat and the news photographers are ready to snap a picture that will be on the front page of tomorrow morning’s newspapers. But President Kennedy politely declines—he’s not keen on wearing hats of any kind, and this isn’t the image he wants plastered all over campaign posters next year.
Not wanting to leave the group with a bad impression, he returns to the microphone, hat in hand, and quips, “I’ll put it on in the White House on Monday, and if you’ll come up there, you’ll get a chance to see it there.”
Half the crowd laughs, while the others groan at his feeble attempt to appease them, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already won them over.
The hat is returned to the box and put in the able care of Agent Paul Landis, to be hand-carried aboard Air Force One, never to be worn by President John F. Kennedy.
There is just enough time to return to the suite for one short hour. Aides and visitors go in and out of Room 850, and before we know it, it’s time to leave for Dallas. During this time, the drizzle has subsided, and through the scattered clouds the sun begins to appear. The tops have been taken off the convertibles, and as President and Mrs. Kennedy emerge from the dark lobby of the Hotel Texas, they look so happy.
The police have managed to keep the parking lot crowd well contained on the opposite side of the street, but as soon as the presidential party appears, the people clap and cheer, begging them to come and shake hands.
I brace myself, fully expecting he will cross the street, but surprisingly, he simply flashes a smile and tosses the group a hearty wave. Mrs. Kennedy gets into the backseat of the white Lincoln convertible between the president and Governor Connally, while Mrs. Connally decides to ride in the vice president’s car rather than squeezing in between Bill Greer and Roy Kellerman in the front seat again. There is some confusion and discussion about who is riding in the various vehicles, but it finally gets sorted out and the motorcade slowly begins to depart. Keeping my eye on the surrounding crowd of people, I jog alongside the presidential car for a ways before returning to the running board of the follow-up car. President and Mrs. Kennedy are talking and laughing with the governor, all of them so pleased with the way the day has begun.
The streets are lined with people all the way to Carswell Air Force Base. Entire schools have emptied so that the students can see the President of the United States drive by. Bands play at various points, creating a happy, festive atmosphere. It’s a political dream—sunshine, large crowds, open-top cars, tremendous exposure—and a Secret Service nightmare. Oil and water.
Yet another large, enthusiastic crowd greets the motorcade at Cars
well. They are mostly uniformed base personnel and their families, all of whom have come with the hopes that they might be lucky enough to touch President or Mrs. Kennedy. The Fort Worth Police Department has been immensely helpful, and President Kennedy takes the time to shake hands with as many of the officers as he can before boarding Air Force One.
Now it’s on to Dallas.
12
* * *
Dallas
Love Field Arrival
The flight from Fort Worth to Dallas takes just fifteen minutes. It must be some kind of record for a presidential trip on Air Force One. In truth, it would have been a lot quicker to drive from the Hotel Texas to our destination in Dallas, the Trade Mart, rather than motorcading from downtown Fort Worth to Carswell, getting everybody on board Air Force One, flying to Love Field, and then motorcading through downtown Dallas all the way to the Trade Mart. There is just one reason for this flight. The political advisors want film footage and still photos of President and Mrs. Kennedy coming down the steps of Air Force One as they arrive in the Big “D,” for use in the upcoming presidential campaign, and the exposure of a motorcade through the city, in the grand SS-100-X presidential limousine, with the top off. It seems like a waste of time and money to me, but then, in politics, image trumps efficiency. The repeated exposure may translate into votes, but it also provides far more opportunities for someone to harm the president and first lady.
During the flight, Kellerman shows me an advertisement that appeared in this morning’s issue of the Dallas Morning News. The headline reads WELCOME MR. KENNEDY TO DALLAS . . . . but the text is anything but welcoming. It is a full-page, harshly worded list of grievances, criticizing the president’s policies, sponsored by an anti-Kennedy group called “The American Fact-Finding Committee.” Another intimidating group has distributed thousands of flyers around Dallas with what appear to be mug shots of President Kennedy above the heading: WANTED FOR TREASON.
While we saw some picketing and minor protests in San Antonio, Houston, and Fort Worth, there was nothing as antagonistic as either of these issues. It is an indication that the people of Dallas might not be as friendly and receptive as those we’ve seen in the other Texas cities. Indeed, there was an incident a few weeks earlier, in Dallas, in which Adlai Stevenson, the ambassador to the United Nations, was heckled, harassed, and spat on. The Dallas chief of police, Jesse Curry, is concerned enough about citizens causing trouble that he actually made a special television address, appealing to the people of Dallas to be respectful during President Kennedy’s brief visit.
Clearly the state of Texas is not uniformly behind a Kennedy-Johnson ticket, and that is precisely why they are here—to test the waters, and to use the Kennedy magnetism and charm to sway voters. Despite what appears to be hostile territory, the Secret Service has no specific threat cases in Texas. And that’s what we worry about most—the ones who aren’t on the radar.
The sun blazes against a blue sky, with just a few leftover clouds drifting by, as Colonel Jim Swindal brings Air Force One to a gentle landing at Love Field. I check my watch and mark down the time in my datebook: 11:40 A.M. Central Standard Time. It’s my habit, and that of all the agents, to frequently check and record the time of pertinent events while on duty. Each shift leader types up a Daily Activity Report with the activity of their section and submits it to the Agent in Charge of the White House Detail. For the First Lady’s Detail, it’s just Paul Landis and me, which makes it a lot easier, but still, we are always concerned with accuracy.
As we taxi to our prearranged parking position, I can see a very large crowd gathered behind a fence line. Thousands of people with flags waving and a raised platform filled with press photographers and television cameramen.
Looks like another day of big crowds, which means a slow motorcade with frequent stops. As soon as the plane comes to a stop, the stair ramps are wheeled to the side of the plane. It’s game time. My adrenaline flows and all my senses are at maximum alert.
The front door of the aircraft opens first. Supervising agent Emory Roberts and his agents on the 8:00–4:00 shift quickly descend the ramp to get in position on the ground. Seconds later the rear door opens, and as President and Mrs. Kennedy appear, the crowd goes wild. Whistles, shrieks, whoops, and hollers. It’s especially tense for the agents for the next few moments because the president and Mrs. Kennedy are completely exposed as they descend the steps. Governor and Mrs. Connally deplane next, and finally, Kellerman and I race down the steps, using these brief seconds to get a feel for the crowd and scan the overall scene.
My eyes first go to those with the best vantage point—the people above the crowd. There’s a television cameraman and a few others on top of a bus, scattered groups of people on the roof of a low building. On the ground, immediately at the bottom of the ramp, the local dignitaries stand in the formal receiving line, eager to greet President and Mrs. Kennedy, and hopefully get a photo for their own campaigns. Beyond them is a gathering of people who arrived on the press plane or the vice president’s plane: stewardesses, pilots, crew members, and assorted political dignitaries, mixed in with dozens of reporters and photographers from the White House press corps. Beyond this interior circle is a mass of people behind the fence line—unscreened, unaccounted for, completely unknown to us.
Parked on the tarmac, close to the end of the receiving line, is the presidential limousine, SS-100-X, its flags already unfurled, and driver Bill Greer stepping in to start the engine. Driver Sam Kinney is at the helm of Secret Service follow-up car SS-679-X, parked directly behind it. The rest of the motorcade—the vice president’s car, press car, and staff buses—are all in place.
Win Lawson, the Secret Service advance agent who meticulously planned every detail for this leg of the trip, is waiting at the foot of the ramp. Agent Landis, who flew in on Air Force Two several minutes ahead of us, is already moving toward Mrs. Kennedy.
Once again the president and first lady are welcomed by Vice President and Mrs. Johnson—whom they just saw fifteen minutes ago in Fort Worth. Johnson introduces Dallas mayor Earle Cabell and his wife, who hands Mrs. Kennedy a large bouquet of red roses. Mrs. Kennedy smiles with delight, as if this is the first bouquet she’s received. She knows the routine now, carefully juggling her purse and the flowers, leaving her right hand free for all the handshaking down the rest of the line. Political theater does not make much sense to those of us who see it up close from the inside. It just seems phony.
Plenty of young people are holding signs—WELCOME JACK AND JACKIE, WELCOME TO DALLAS J.F.K., Kennedy and Johnson campaign posters—and there are lots of people with cameras, many still wearing raincoats. It’s an exuberant crowd—much like all the ones we experienced yesterday.
We give the president and Mrs. Kennedy a bit of space as they go through the receiving line, and are ready to move in close as they head toward the waiting limousine. We are already five minutes behind schedule, and for an instant it appears that the president is going to adhere to the program and proceed directly to the car.
Suddenly he turns and strides directly toward the crowd. Mrs. Kennedy follows, her face plastered with a smile. She usually avoids these types of situations, so her continuing willingness to campaign like this really surprises me.
I make eye contact with Paul and we close in, keeping no more than an arm’s length from Mrs. Kennedy, while Kellerman and Roberts cover the president the same way. It’s mayhem. The crowd did not expect this bonus—my God, the opportunity to shake hands with Jack and Jackie!—and the people are going nuts.
“Over here, Mr. President! Over heeeere!” “Jackie! We love you!” “Welcome to Dallas!”
Press photographers are having a field day, crawling on top of any and every thing they can find to get a better angle. The president’s agents and Paul and I move along the fence line as close to our protectees as possible. It is a very excited crowd and now we are surrounded with the mass on one side and the press behind us—like bees suddenly aroused, swirli
ng in for the attack. It’s a sea of hands—reaching, grasping—and bodies jostling. We are looking for that unusual movement, that out-of-place individual, someone who really looks different or whose actions are suspicious. Hidden behind our sunglasses, our eyes are constantly moving. We scan the ground for anything abnormal; look over the crowd to the buildings behind, up on the roofs. Back to the endless hands reaching and grabbing.
People often comment on the fact that Secret Service agents rarely smile, that we look so intense. That’s because these situations always cause us deep concern. We must be on the highest alert, all senses focused. We are not courting votes. We have one sole mission: protect these individuals at all cost. Nothing else matters.
After several minutes, the president gives one last handshake, turns to make sure Mrs. Kennedy is following him, and finally heads to the limousine. The photographers cluster as President and Mrs. Kennedy get into the rear seat through the right-side door. As Governor and Mrs. Connally fold down the jump seats and take their places in front of them, I jog around to the left side of the car to be as close as possible to Mrs. Kennedy. She places the red roses on the seat and looks up at me with a smile. The sun is so bright—it is almost directly overhead now—that she raises her hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the sun. Realizing her sunglasses would help, she finds them in her purse and puts them on.
I know how much she covets her privacy, and prefers to leave the politicking to her husband, but surprisingly, she really seems to be enjoying this.
13
* * *
Dallas Motorcade
As Bill Greer eases the car forward, I keep my hand on the door frame, jogging alongside on the left, while the president’s agents take positions at other points around the car. When the president sees Mrs. Kennedy has put on her sunglasses, he says, “Jackie, take those off. The people have come to see you.” That is the goal of this motorcade after all.
