Five Days in November

by Clint Hill

  While the presidential vehicle is the flagship of this parade, the motorcade is rather long. It begins with a group of motorcycles, followed by a pilot car, more motorcycles, the lead car, the presidential limousine, and the Secret Service follow-up car. Four police motorcycles, two on each side, are positioned alongside the rear tires of the presidential limousine and the front tires of the Secret Service follow-up car, so as not to impede the movements of the follow-up car agents nor block the crowd’s view of President and Mrs. Kennedy. Then comes the vice president’s leased convertible, a leased Secret Service follow-up car, followed by thirteen more official cars, three buses, and some additional media cars. Finally, a police car and more motorcycles bring up the tail end.

  The local authorities have provided 586 officers to help with securing the airport, the motorcade route, and the speech site. In Dallas the Secret Service has twenty White House Detail agents, four Vice Presidential Detail agents, and four agents from the Dallas Field Office—a total of twenty-eight. These agents are spread between securing Love Field, our arrival and departure point; the Trade Mart, the cavernous facility where 2,500 people are seated at white-clothed tables awaiting the president’s arrival; and the motorcade through the city. Our resources are such that there are just eight agents working the presidential vehicle and follow-up car, plus two drivers.

  Bill Greer drives the presidential limousine, with Assistant Special Agent in Charge Roy Kellerman in the front passenger seat. In the follow-up car, Sam Kinney drives, while supervising agent Emory Roberts sits in the front right seat. Agent Glenn Bennett from the Protective Research Section sits in the rear compartment with Agent George Hickey. Hickey is responsible for the AR-15 rifle that has been placed on the floor, out of sight, but within immediate reach. On the right side of the vehicle, manning the running boards, are agents Jack Ready in the forward position and Paul Landis in the rear position. I’m on the left running board, in the front, with Agent Tim McIntyre behind me. McIntyre was just assigned to the detail two weeks ago, so he’s still learning the ropes.

  We’ve also got two passengers in the follow-up car—presidential assistants Ken O’Donnell and Dave Powers. Eager to get film footage for the campaign, Powers has a movie camera with him, and being in the car immediately behind the president, he’s got a better view of the adoring crowds than the press, who are farther back in the procession.

  As the motorcade exits Love Field, the speed increases, the crowds disperse, and all of the agents assigned to the follow-up car drop back and jump onto the running boards of SS-679-X.

  SS-679-X is a specially fabricated 1956 Cadillac four-door convertible, which the agents fondly refer to as “Halfback.” The car is equipped with running boards on each side and specially designed handholds attached to the windshield frame. The running boards provide the agents a place to stand, and the higher elevation gives us a much better view to observe everything going on around us. Like the presidential limousine, SS-679-X also has small platforms built into the rear bumper and handholds on the trunk. A special compartment behind the driver’s seat, accessible to agents in the rear seating area, stores larger firearms such as the Thompson submachine gun or the AR-15. Additionally, gas masks and gas grenades are available in this compartment. The vehicle has a built-in two-way radio system allowing communications between it and the president’s car, as well as to base stations and locations where agents have portable radio transmitters.

  For most of us, this is our first time to Dallas. The route has been mapped out by the advance agent, Win Lawson, with the help of the Dallas Police Department, but the streets, the buildings, the geography, are completely unfamiliar to the rest of us. Each time we make a turn, we have no idea what’s around the corner.

  The motorcade proceeds down Mockingbird Lane to Lemmon Avenue to Turtle Creek Boulevard to Cedar Springs Road to Harwood. We move along around twenty-five miles an hour when the crowds are sparse, but as we approach the downtown area, the numbers of people increase, and we slow down to ten or fifteen miles an hour. After the complaints from the crowds in San Antonio about the motorcade moving too quickly, it seems like the president and his aides want to avoid the same criticism here.

  Up ahead a group of schoolchildren are holding up a large hand-painted banner that says PLEASE, MR. PRESIDENT. STOP AND SHAKE OUR HANDS.

  This is the kind of thing the president loves. Sure enough, he requests Bill Greer to stop, directly in front of the kids. They can’t believe their luck, and in an instant, the entire group surges toward the car. Kellerman opens his door and stands at the ready—an intimidating figure—as the four of us on the follow-up car run forward and take strategic positions while President Kennedy stands up, reaching out of the car, laughing, delighted with the children.

  As soon as he sits down, we get the crowd pushed back and we’re on our way again. The crowds are really getting thick now—the sidewalks are packed ten and twenty deep with people waving, screaming, clapping. There is no sense of any hostility here—the people of Dallas have come out by the tens of thousands to greet their president. In some places, there are so many people the police officers can’t keep them contained to the sidewalk and they’re spilling into the street.

  Bill Greer eases the car closer to the left side, to keep the president farther away from the encroaching crowd. This puts Mrs. Kennedy closer to the people—too close for my liking—and I immediately jump off the running board of the follow-up car, run to catch up with the moving presidential limousine, and jump onto the left rear step. I want to be in a position to intercede, if needed, to prevent anything from happening to Mrs. Kennedy. The crowds are so close that the motorcycle officer on this side of the car is forced to back off because there’s no room to maneuver.

  Prior to the trip to Texas, we were informed that President Kennedy had made a request that the agents stay off the back of the presidential limousine unless it was absolutely necessary. He doesn’t want the agents hovering around him in these parade situations because it gives the appearance that we are a barrier between him and the people. He wants to appear as if he’s one of the people—accessible, approachable. I know this, but it’s also my responsibility to protect Mrs. Kennedy, and I’ll do whatever it takes. If there’s any complaint from the president later, I’ll have no problem explaining my actions.

  I hang on to the handhold, crouching on the step, until the crowds thin again. Off the step, onto the pavement, and back to the running board of the follow-up car. It’s a challenging maneuver to jump from a moving vehicle onto the fixed surface of the road without going head over heels onto the street. The faster the vehicle speed, the more difficult it is. To get from Halfback to the presidential car while both are moving, you have to throw yourself forward with your feet and legs going at a similar speed as the vehicles. It takes timing, balance, and plenty of practice.

  As we turn from Harwood onto Main Street, I’m crouched on the back of the car and can see that the crowds ahead are even larger than the ones we’ve passed, and growing as we proceed. Back and forth I go, between the two cars, mindful of both the president’s wishes and my own comfort level with the situation to be able to do my job effectively.

  There are people hanging out open windows, on balconies, and on rooftops. Now the people are ten deep, fifteen deep, twenty deep, pouring into the street on both sides, so that there is barely enough room for the cars to pass. People screaming, delirious with excitement, trying to break past the police to get to the president. This is the kind of situation that we, the agents, deplore. All we can do is remain vigilant, cognizant of everything going on ahead, behind, on both sides, and above as the passengers inside the car wave to the adoring crowd.

  We’ve faced this same situation all over the world—Europe, South America, Mexico, as well as in many other United States cities. God, in Mexico City there were two million people along the motorcade route, and so much confetti being tossed from open windows above that it looked like we were in a snowstorm. In
Costa Rica, not even the military could control the surging crowds. In Billings, Montana, somebody passed their young child over the heads of the crowd so President Kennedy would touch him. The kid was damn lucky he didn’t fall to the ground and get trampled. The world loves this president.

  Ahead I see a bus filled with people, trapped on the parade route, taking up half of the already cramped street. Apparently the driver was allowed onto Main Street, intending to get ahead of the motorcade, but was stopped midway between intersections. The crowd has moved into the street, around the bus, and we have slowed to a crawl. This is a bad situation. I jump back on the rear step, directly behind Mrs. Kennedy, crouching, ready to pounce.

  It’s amazing, this crowd. Black people and white people standing shoulder to shoulder with their children in tow, all waving and cheering for the president. There’s no hint of racial segregation or unrest here.

  Moving along, still on Main Street, the number of people diminishes, allowing more space between us and them, so I jump off the rear step, bending my knees as my shoes hit the pavement, and in one swift movement grab on to the handhold and pull myself onto the running board of the follow-up car as it continues at a steady rate of speed.

  We’re coming up to an intersection, the end of Main Street. There’s a building on my left that looks kind of like a castle, with turrets, arches, and a second-floor balcony, jammed with people. I’m about to jump back onto the presidential limousine. But as we get close to the end and begin turning right onto Houston Street, the crowds really drop off. I make the decision to stay where I am.

  We make the right turn onto Houston Street. To my left is a large grassy area, a park of some sort, with a large concrete pergola, in front of which are some people, but relatively few compared to what we’ve just been through. The president leans toward Mrs. Kennedy, a big grin on his face, and says something to her. I can’t hear what’s being said amid the noise of the motorcycles and the constant cheering from all sides, but she responds with a smile and a nod, clearly agreeing with him.

  On the right side of the street are some high-rise buildings, with a few people on the sidewalk in front of them, but it appears we have reached the end of the downtown area. We’ve gone from twenty people deep on both sides to two deep at most. Finally, I allow myself to take a deep breath. This has been one hell of a motorcade.

  Directly ahead of us is a reddish brick building, seven or eight floors high. Some windows are open, but nothing appears unusual. There have been high-rise buildings with open windows all along the route.

  Up ahead, I see the lead car turning left, in front of the red brick building. The name of the building is etched into stone above the doorway:

  TEXAS SCHOOLBOOK DEPOSITORY

  As Bill Greer makes the left turn onto Elm Street, he slows way down and, following just five feet behind, Sam Kinney does the same. It’s a sharp turn, less than ninety degrees, and maneuvering these oversized limousines, weighted down with full passenger loads, must be done with caution and care. Greer is cognizant of the president’s chronic back pain, and turning too quickly on a sharp turn like this is something he always tries to avoid.

  As soon as we turn onto Elm, the road slopes down as it approaches an overpass, which is directly in front of us, and we begin to slowly pick up speed. There are a few people on the overpass, but nothing appears unusual. The motorcycle officers are in place—two to my left and two on the right side of the vehicle. After the massive crowds we just passed on Main Street, it is noticeably calmer in this area. There’s a grassy slope to the right with a couple of dozen onlookers—clapping and calling out to the president and Mrs. Kennedy. A sign indicates that the entrance to the Stemmons Freeway, which will take us to the Trade Mart luncheon site, is just a short distance ahead. This motorcade is nearly over.

  14

  * * *

  The Shots

  With my hand loosely on the handhold, my feet firmly planted on the running board, I scan the grassy area on the left side of Elm Street. Just a handful of people.

  Suddenly I hear an explosive noise over my right shoulder, from the rear. Instinctively, I turn toward the noise, and my eyes cross the back of the presidential vehicle. I see President Kennedy throw his hands up to his throat and move violently to his left.

  Oh God. Someone is shooting at the president.

  I jump from the follow-up car and run toward the presidential car. My actions are automatic, reactive. The only thought going through my head is that I must get on the back of the president’s car and form a protective shield behind President and Mrs. Kennedy. Nothing else matters.

  The motorcycle engines are loud in my ears, and the car continues to move forward, away from me. I’m running as fast as I can, my eyes focused on the two people in the backseat of the car. I’m gaining ground, almost there, my arms reaching for the handhold, when another shot rings out.

  The bullet hits its mark, piercing the back of President Kennedy’s head, just above and behind his right ear. In the same instant, a vile eruption of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments spews out, showering over Mrs. Kennedy, across the trunk, and onto me.

  I grab the handhold, get my right foot on the step, and suddenly the car lurches forward as Bill Greer steps on the gas. My foot slips off the step, back to the pavement, but somehow I manage to hang on to the handhold. Gripping with all my might as the rapidly accelerating car pulls me, my legs keep moving. If I lose my grip and fall to the ground, the presidential car will speed away, and the follow-up driver will have no choice but to run over me. Somehow—I honestly don’t know how—I lunge forward, my foot finds the step, and I pull my body onto the car.

  In the same moment, Mrs. Kennedy, covered with her husband’s blood, her eyes filled with terror, is crawling out of her seat and onto the trunk. She doesn’t see me; she doesn’t even know I’m there. She’s reaching for something on the trunk. Oh God. She’s reaching for some material that’s come out of the president’s head.

  The car is really beginning to speed up now, and if I don’t get to her, she’s going to be thrown off the car. I thrust myself onto the trunk, grab her arm, and push her back into the seat. When I do this, the president’s body falls to the left, with his head in her lap. His eyes are fixed, and I can see inside the back of his head. It looks like someone has scooped out a portion of his brain and strewn fragments of skull, bits of brain tissue, and blood all over the car.

  The president, without a doubt, has suffered a fatal wound.

  “My God! They have shot his head off!” Mrs. Kennedy shrieks.

  “Get us to a hospital!” I scream at the driver. “Get us to a hospital!”

  As the car accelerates, I wedge myself on top of the rear seat, trying to get my body above and behind Mrs. Kennedy and the president, to shield them from whatever shots might still be coming. Grabbing the top of the left door frame with my left hand, I wedge my left foot into the right side of the rear seat. Twisting around, I look back at the follow-up car and give my colleagues the thumbs-down sign.

  In the car, Mrs. Kennedy is in shock. Staring at her husband, his head bleeding into her lap, she moans, “Jack, oh, Jack. What have they done?” And then, “I have his brains in my hands.”

  Quietly, she adds, “I love you, Jack.”

  Nothing else is said as we speed down Stemmons Freeway at about eighty miles an hour. I turn my head and my sunglasses blow off.

  I can hardly believe my own eyes as I stare at the grisly scene inside the car. Mrs. Connally is crouched over the governor, and as she moves slightly, I can see his shirt is all bloody. For the first time, I realize he has also been shot.

  We turn off the expressway, the car still going very fast. I shift my body weight to make sure I don’t fall off, leaning into the turn, hands and arms on one side of the car, feet and legs on the other. It is a balancing act.

  Time has stopped. It feels like an eternity before we arrive at the hospital. In reality, it has been just four minutes since the shots
rang out in Dealey Plaza.

  15

  * * *

  Parkland Hospital

  The car slams to a stop in front of the oddly vacant emergency area at Parkland Memorial Hospital. I jump down from the car, looking around for someone to help. The president has just been shot, and yet there’s no one there to meet us.

  Agent Win Lawson jumps out of the lead car and runs into the emergency room. Seconds later he comes out wheeling a gurney, with a hospital attendant pushing a second gurney behind him.

  The agents from the follow-up car, along with Dave Powers and Ken O’Donnell, rush to the president’s car and, for the first time, see the grisly scene. Governor Connally is slumped over in the jump seat, impeding our ability to get the president out. The governor is still conscious and attempts to get up, but he collapses. We lift him onto one of the gurneys, Mrs. Connally gets out, and they race inside.

  Mrs. Kennedy, still in shock and not uttering a word, is holding the president, his head in her lap.

  “Mrs. Kennedy, please let us help the president,” I say.

  Staring blankly, she doesn’t move.

  On the other side of the car, Agent Landis urges, “Please let us help the president, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  Still no response. Precious seconds are passing.