Five Days in November

by Clint Hill

  24

  * * *

  Walking to St. Matthew’s

  The procession enters the Northeast Gate of the White House and when we arrive at the North Portico, the entourage of dignitaries and world leaders is assembled on the steps. It is 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, President Diosdado Macapagal from the Philippines, Morocco’s prince Abdallah, Israel’s president Zalman Shazar and prime minister Golda Meir—the list goes on and on. As Mrs. Kennedy and the Kennedy brothers step out of the car, the chorus from the U.S. Naval Academy is singing “Londonderry Air.”

  The plan calls for Mrs. Kennedy and several male members of the family to lead the walking procession, with President and Mrs. Johnson and the mass of dignitaries behind them, followed by John, Caroline, and their nanny, Maud Shaw, riding in the Chrysler limousine. But as the procession is about to get under way, Mrs. Kennedy sees how far behind the children are and says, “Mr. Hill, I want the children’s car immediately behind President and Mrs. Johnson.”

  With more than one hundred of the world’s leaders and their security details squeezed in the narrow driveway between Mrs. Kennedy and the children’s car, this is not a simple request. But it is not impossible. I relay the message to the children’s agents and soon I see the shiny black Chrysler emerging through the mob, led by Agent Tom Wells, as if he is parting the sea.

  Now we can get under way.

  As the Naval Academy chorus sings “Eternal Father, Strong to Save,” the walking procession begins to march out the Northwest Gate.

  Mrs. Kennedy’s personal touch can be seen throughout this historic day, and one that most people will never forget is the sight and sound of the Scottish Black Watch bagpipers who march ahead of the horse-drawn caisson. The participation of a foreign unit in a funeral for the President of the United States is unprecedented, but their participation was something Mrs. Kennedy was determined to have. Twelve days ago, on November 13, Mrs. Kennedy had arranged for the prestigious military brigade of the Royal Highland Regiment to perform on the White House lawn. The Kennedy family—who so rarely were photographed in public together—viewed the magnificent show of sword dancers and bagpipers from the Truman Balcony. With Caroline’s arm around him, and John at times on his lap, the president had so thoroughly enjoyed this unique performance that Mrs. Kennedy could not imagine the president’s funeral without them.

  A company of Marines marches in front, followed by the Black Watch pipers in their red tartan kilts and white spats, their bagpipes echoing a poignant wail that seems to be synchronized with the clip-clop of the horses that pull the caisson bearing the body of President Kennedy. It is the utmost in pageantry, orchestrated by the thirty-four-year-old widow.

  But the most poignant sight of all is Mrs. Kennedy herself, who leads the walking parade, her swollen eyes shadowed by a black veil. The president’s two brothers march on either side of her, two loyal soldiers whose faces reveal the depth of their grief. Next to this tragic threesome are two men unknown to the crowd, faces wrenched with pain and guilt—Paul Landis, next to Ted; and me, alongside Bobby. Behind us come other members of the family; President and Mrs. Johnson, with their daughters, Lynda and Luci; followed by the car carrying John and Caroline. Finally come the leaders from around the world, flouting caution, despite the tangible threats to some among them, to march in unity behind the determined widow. It is a stunning tribute to President John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

  The children’s agents, along with Agent Muggsy O’Leary, walk alongside the car, scanning the crowd, trying to keep their own emotions in check. The windows of the car are down, and as Agent Bob Foster walks beside Caroline, his hand on the door frame, suddenly he feels her little white-gloved hand reach for his. Whether she’s reaching to him for her own comfort, or trying to console him, he doesn’t know. But in that moment, it’s all he can do to suppress the emotions that threaten to overtake him.

  Church bells toll with the dirge of the Black Watch bagpipes as Mrs. Kennedy, her head held high like a Thoroughbred’s, leads the procession in its slow crawl to St. Matthew’s, setting pace in time to the rhythm of the pipers.

  This is the dawn of the television age, and camera crews are filming every step of this international event, broadcasting live. The assassination shocked the world, and for people to be able to watch the funeral live in their own homes, all across America and via satellite around the globe, is not only extraordinary, it is healing.

  For the Secret Service agents, the walk is unparalleled tension, compounded by anguish. Everywhere we look, there are people. They are packed along the sidewalks, standing high above on balconies, and on rafters of an unfinished high-rise. If someone wanted to open gunfire or drop a grenade, there is no way we can protect this assembly of world leaders. But on this remarkable day, thank God, there are no loud explosions, no sudden shots ringing out through the canyon of buildings; there are only the sights and sounds of unrelenting grief.

  President Johnson has declared this a national day of mourning in the United States, and at twelve noon, five minutes of silence are observed to mark the start of the funeral. Streets in cities and towns are deserted. Schools, offices, stores, and factories are closed. What little traffic there is comes to a complete stop. Buses and cabs pull to the side of the road. Trains and airliners delay their departures. People stop and silently pray on the street. The television networks have ceased regular programming to run the funeral uninterrupted, without commercials, and with a remarkable 95 percent of Americans watching, the events of this day are emblazoned into the nation’s shared memory.

  25

  * * *

  The Salute

  We finally reach the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle, and all the invited guests file in as the casket is moved from the caisson onto a bier at the front of the center aisle. Mrs. Kennedy takes her place in a pew at the front, with John and Caroline on either side of her, and I sit immediately behind them.

  The Requiem Mass is extremely emotional, and once again, at Mrs. Kennedy’s direction, ultimately personal. Luigi Vena, a tenor from Boston, sings the prayerful “Ave Maria,” just as he did at the Kennedys’ wedding ten years ago, while the archbishop of Boston, Richard Cardinal Cushing, who officiated the marriage and performed the services for baby Patrick’s funeral just three months ago, is in command of the Mass today.

  It isn’t long before young John becomes restless. He has been so good all morning, but this is more than he can stand. It is, after all, his birthday. Mrs. Kennedy motions to Agent Foster, who immediately takes John back up the aisle to an anteroom.

  At one point during the service, Cardinal Cushing refers to President Kennedy as “Jack, dear Jack.” That familiar term of endearment strikes a chord in Mrs. Kennedy and she begins to weep. I anticipated the need for handkerchiefs today, so I brought along several. Leaning forward, I gently place one in her hand. She thanks me silently, with her tear-filled eyes, but all I can see is the sheer pain that’s etched across her face.

  When it comes time for Communion, I’m not surprised when Mrs. Kennedy stands up and walks forward to participate. As I have done so many times before when she and the president attended Mass, I get up and walk behind her.

  Meanwhile, Agent Foster is trying to keep John occupied and has him practicing his military salute. About a month ago, Mrs. Kennedy asked Foster and the other Kiddie Detail agents if they would teach John how to salute properly so that when he accompanied the president to Arlington National Cemetery on November 11, Armistice Day, he could salute his father. We all joked about it because poor John just couldn’t get it right—he kept using his left hand. At Arlington that day, John did it just perfectly. Now, two weeks later, however, John has reverted to using his left
hand again.

  A Marine colonel standing in the doorway sees what’s happening and walks in to help. In his dress uniform, decorated with colorful ribbons and medals, he has John’s undivided attention.

  “John,” he says, “no, son, you’ve got it all wrong. That is not how you salute.”

  Then, standing tall, shoulders back, the colonel jerks his right hand in a rigid, steady motion up to his brow and says, “This is how you salute.”

  John imitates the colonel, this time using his right hand.

  When the service is over, John rejoins his mother and Caroline, and together they follow the casket out of the cathedral, down the front steps.

  At the bottom of the steps, Mrs. Kennedy stands stoically as the casket containing her husband’s body is placed once again onto the gun carriage directly in front of us. As the casket is secured, the military renders a salute to their fallen commander.

  Standing just to Mrs. Kennedy’s right, next to Ted, I see Mrs. Kennedy lean down and whisper into John’s ear. Then, in a moment that is branded on my heart, young John Fitzgerald Kennedy Jr., on his third birthday, thrusts his shoulders back, brings his right hand taut to his brow, and renders the perfect salute to his father.

  My chest heaves as I fight the surge of emotions inside. Looking around, I see that I am not alone. Everyone watching, from the Joint Chiefs of Staff to the lowest private, is struggling to remain composed.

  Three years ago, I was there when John was born, and today we are burying his father. The inimitable salute is captured on film and becomes yet another iconic photograph of this tragedy. For the rest of my life, seeing that image is the one that will always, always choke me up.

  From here the procession will drive by motorcade to the cemetery. The cars are lined up, ready to go, when Mrs. Kennedy informs me she has changed her mind and she wants the children to return to the White House with Miss Shaw, rather than attend the burial at the cemetery. We have not planned for this and have no available vehicle, but I give the instructions to Agent Tom Wells and he comes up with a solution. He confiscates the car assigned to the Joint Chiefs of Staff and motions for Agent Foster to bring the children quickly to the car. They make their getaway, leaving the Joint Chiefs furious and left to squeeze into other cars.

  Suddenly Mrs. Kennedy is all alone, staring at the casket.

  “Come, Mrs. Kennedy,” I say. “Let me help you into the car.”

  She gets into the backseat of the limousine, and two former presidents approach the car. President Harry Truman with his daughter, Margaret, and President Dwight D. Eisenhower with his wife, Mamie, speak to Mrs. Kennedy for a few moments, expressing their sympathies, as Bobby stands nearby.

  To see these two great leaders, both decades older than President Kennedy, who know better than anyone the risks that go with the job of President of the United States and have witnessed the horrors of two world wars . . . to see them fighting tears is yet another heartbreaking reminder of this senseless tragedy, that President Kennedy, at the age of forty-six, was taken from us far too soon.

  26

  * * *

  Burial at Arlington Cemetery

  Finally the cortege moves out and we begin the final leg of the journey to Arlington National Cemetery. The streets remain lined with people, hundreds of thousands, quietly observing the passing of the commander in chief as we move ever so slowly toward the cemetery. Down Connecticut Avenue to Seventeenth Street, to Constitution Avenue to Henry Bacon Drive, past the Lincoln Memorial and onto Memorial Bridge. The cortege stretches for blocks, winding its way to the cemetery, a long black river of limousines filled with the dignitaries who walked to St. Matthew’s.

  The sidewalks on each side of Memorial Bridge are packed with people who stand in tearful silence as the somber procession crosses the Potomac River. As we move slowly across, I can see the area that Mrs. Kennedy selected as the burial site, directly ahead, just below the Curtis-Lee Mansion. I realize that each day from now on, when I drive to and from the White House, I will pass by the burial site, a constant reminder of that dreadful day in Dallas, a constant reminder of our failure to protect the president.

  If only I had reacted quicker, run faster.

  Greeting us on the green at the Memorial Gate entrance to Arlington National Cemetery is the Third Infantry Colonial Fife and Drum Corps, standing at rapt attention. The Corps is a favorite of Mrs. Kennedy’s and they have performed at arrival ceremonies for visiting heads of state on the south grounds of the White House.

  We arrive near the burial site and everyone gets out of the limousines. The U.S. Air Force Bagpipe Band begins to wail the lamenting ballad “Mist Covered Mountain”—another special request by Mrs. Kennedy—and for the final time, the casket is removed from the caisson, then carried in a slow, rhythmic march to the grave site.

  As Mrs. Kennedy walks with Bobby and Ted slowly up the grassy hillside, I hear the sound of jet aircraft approaching. Fifty jet fighters, representing the fifty states—thirty from the Air Force and twenty from the Navy—screech overhead in what seems to be an endless stream of three jet V formations. Then the final group roars across the sky in the missing-man formation, one jet short in tribute to their fallen leader. Before the sound of the jets has passed, I hear a very high-pitched whine and immediately recognize the familiar sound of Air Force One, USAF aircraft 26000. In an instant, the whine turns to thunder as pilot Colonel Jim Swindal flies overhead, so astonishingly low it seems he will brush the tops of the trees. Then, with impeccable grace and control, he dips one wing—his final salute to the president he adored and served so well. It is a stunning, unforgettable sight and my heart cracks, knowing how much President Kennedy loved flying on that aircraft and how beloved he was to Colonel Swindal and the dedicated crew.

  The graveside service begins with a silent drill ceremony presented by a special unit of cadets from Ireland called the Irish Guard. They had performed for President Kennedy when he visited Ireland and he had told Mrs. Kennedy how much he had enjoyed them. It is another personal touch, and it is remarkable that she has managed to get them here. As soon as they finish, they march away, making space for the large number of dignitaries to move into position at the foot of the grave.

  A row of seats has been set up alongside the grave for Mrs. Kennedy and the family members, and as they take their seats, Cardinal Cushing steps to the edge of the grave and begins the commitment.

  “O God, through whose mercy the souls of the faithful find rest, be pleased to bless this grave and the body we bury herein, that of our beloved Jack Kennedy, the thirty-fifth president of the United States, that his soul may rejoice in Thee with all the saints, through Christ the Lord. Amen.”

  After leading the Lord’s Prayer, the cardinal steps back.

  Boom! The initial sound of the twenty-one-gun salute, fired by a cannon a short distance away, is startling to the civilians in the crowd, but the military ranks expect it, and in unison, they raise their right hands in salute. Immediately at the foot of the coffin, the incongruous sight of the towering Charles de Gaulle aside the diminutive Haile Selassie, both in full military dress, saluting their fallen comrade, is a moment that symbolizes the reach and breadth of President Kennedy during his short time in office.

  Cardinal Cushing glides in to bless the casket, and now comes the part of the program I’ve been dreading. Three shots, or volleys, will be fired by a squad of riflemen. How will Mrs. Kennedy react? I saw her flinch at the low boom of the cannon, but the sound of a rifle, the same sound she heard just three days ago, in those seconds of horror, is going to be far worse. I stride toward her to warn her of what’s coming, but before I can get there the cemetery superintendent, John Metzler, moves to her side and quietly alerts her.

  Mrs. Kennedy shudders with each shot, but fortunately it’s over quickly. A short distance away a lone bugler stands, bugle in hand, lips pursed, and he begins to play taps. It is a solemn moment and he alone has the stage before thousands in front of him and million
s watching on television. He begins perfectly and then, on a high note, he falters. My heart sinks for him, but he recovers quickly and plays to the end with a memorable tribute to President Kennedy.

  As the U.S. Marine Corps Band plays “Eternal Father Strong to Save,” the eight-man military honor guard reach for the flag that’s covered the coffin since leaving Bethesda Naval Hospital, and with white-gloved hands swiftly fold it into a rigid triangle so that only the white stars on the blue background are showing. They present the flag to Superintendent Metzler, who in turn places it in Mrs. Kennedy’s hands.

  It is a moment that seems so final. She clutches the flag to her heart, as if she holds the last remnant of her husband’s life in her arms. Bobby walks toward her, and grasping her with his hands, offers her the consoling touch of the one person whose despair matches her own.

  While she may not have known the procedure of the funeral until now, she realizes that what comes next is her most important stamp on this funeral, and on her husband’s legacy. She moves the folded flag to hold it securely under her left arm, just as she did the bouquet of red roses she received upon arriving at Love Field, so that her right hand is free. A military officer presents her with a lighted torch, which she takes in her right hand, and at the head of her husband’s grave, she ignites the Eternal Flame.