The Death of a President

by William Manchester

  “I’ve got problems in Texas you don’t understand,” he was saying, “just as you’d have problems I wouldn’t understand if I came to Massachusetts.”

  Kennedy didn’t enter the discussion. He had left that to his lieutenants. Besides, his mind was still on the morning papers. “What kind of journalism do you call the Dallas Morning News?” he fumed at Ken. “You know who’s responsible for that ad? Dealey. Remember him? After that exhibition he put on in the White House I did a little checking on him. He runs around calling himself a war correspondent, and everybody in Dallas believes him.” The President added a highly derogatory statement about the publisher.

  He saw Thomas approaching and motioned him into the bedroom. Sergeant Joe Ayres entered with a dish of fresh pineapple and a cup of coffee; the plane heaved, and Kennedy, shifting his weight, ladled in four heaping spoons of sugar. “What can I do for you this morning, Congressman?”

  “Mr. President, it’s the other way round. If I can’t win after what you did for me in Houston, I don’t deserve to get elected.” There was a tap on the door. Dave Powers handed Kennedy his Trade Mart speech. Thomas added gravely, “But if I were you, I’d be careful what I said in Dallas. It’s a tough town.”

  Kennedy let it pass. Nothing he had seen this morning had encouraged him to soften a word. The Washington correspondent of the Dallas Times Herald, who had seen an advance copy of the speech, had warned his office that it was “a withering blast at his right-wing critics.” The President intended it to be just that.

  “Why don’t you give Kenny a hand?” Kennedy said, glancing at the door.

  “That’s why I’m here,” said the Congressman, and went out.

  Assaulted on two fronts, Connally began to thaw. He conceded that he had been dazzled by turnouts for Kennedy. That was a language any politician could understand. Minutes before they landed he slapped O’Donnell on the back. “All right,” he boomed. “I’ll do anything the President says. If he wants Yarborough at the head table, that’s where Yarborough will sit.”

  It was an uncertain victory. Nellie’s reception had been discreetly bypassed. Her vow stood; she wasn’t going to have the Senator in the Governor’s mansion. And neither O’Donnell nor Thomas was aware of the Governor’s plan for a two-tiered head table. If Connally meant to stick to that, they had won nothing. Nevertheless they believed they had won, and when the President emerged in a fresh shirt, combing his hair, Ken exultantly told him Connally had surrendered.

  “Terrific!” Kennedy grinned. “That makes the whole trip worthwhile.”

  From his burrow of brightly colored knobs and switches Jim Swindal blinked out through 26000’s plastic nose and watched the ribbon of shining concrete race under his landing gear. Air Force One touched down, and he noted the time for his log: 11:38. Taxiing to the left of the green and red terminal building, he crept toward a building marked “International Arrivals.” They were to park there, where, penned behind a cyclone fence, the welcoming crowd leaped and jumped. Obviously security was tight. You could see it from here. Armed policemen stood on every rooftop of the airport’s eastern concourse, and an elderly, hawk-faced agent (it was Sorrels) was chasing a photographer back behind the barrier. But to Swindal it looked like another viva throng. Maybe Dallas had been libeled. Viewed from this cockpit the people seemed to be typical Texans, ready to give Kennedy his most boisterous reception since San Antonio.

  It wasn’t that simple. In San Antonio the President had been greeted by an entire city. Here the greeters were members of the local underground. Unquestionably that underground was out in force. Liberals were making a valiant showing, here and all along the route. A row of school truants held an American flag and a brave “WE LOVE JACK,” and a little Negro boy waved a square of cardboard reading “HOORAY FOR JFK.” In numbers and noise the libs were anxious to outshout Kennedy’s audiences in Houston and Fort Worth. The very fact that they were swamped in Dallas elections, estranged from the majority, and scorned by the city’s most powerful men seemed to have kindled a new spirit in them. It wasn’t easy to be a liberal in Dallas, or even a moderate. Loyalty to Kennedy demanded courage, and the Kennedy supporters of Dallas had poured into the streets to prove their fiber. The effort was gallant. From a window in 26000 it seemed to eclipse everything else. But they weren’t the voice of Dallas. Love Field was a new kind of country. There were differences here, and perceptive Texans spotted them.

  Henry Gonzalez noticed how people would start to wave, then jerk their hands back and glance nervously over their shoulders. Ronnie Dugger, editor of the Texas Observer, saw a Confederate flag held high above the crowd, and he noted that here and there spectators who hadn’t come to applaud were standing grimly with “braced stance, a pipe that was being puffed too rapidly, brows knitted in frowns.” Liz Carpenter thought that the signs that were hostile were the ugliest she had ever seen. “CAN THE CLAN,” read one. “HELP KENNEDY STAMP OUT DEMOCRACY,” read another. A man whose face was contorted with some inner emotion held a placard which simply said, “YOUR A TRAITER” (sic). A board fastened atop a small foreign car declared, “MR. PRESIDENT, BECAUSE OF YOUR SOCIALIST TENDENCIES AND BECAUSE OF YOUR SURRENDER TO COMMUNISM I HOLD YOU IN COMPLETE CONTEMPT.” Others were: “IN 1964 GOLDWATER AND FREEDOM”; “KENNEDY—GUS HALL, LEADERS OF COMMUNIST PARTY WANT YOU RE-ELECTED,” “LET’S BARRY KING JOHN,” and “YANKEE GO HOME AND TAKE YOUR EQUALS WITH YOU.” A large group of hostile teenagers was here despite the school ruling; an entire delegation from Thomas Jefferson High School had come to hiss the President.

  The twelve-man official reception committee reflected the peculiarities of Dallas. Not a single representative of organized labor was present, which for a Democratic President was extraordinary. The local unions had been eager to participate in the ceremonies here and at the luncheon, but after a series of exasperating encounters with the Republicans and right-wing Democrats who dominated the host committee they had given up. The delegation waiting to greet the President consisted of nine Republicans, two Dixiecrats, and a lone liberal, Barefoot Sanders. Appropriately, they had assembled an hour earlier outside the Republic National Bank and driven to the field in long black air-conditioned limousines, and it was equally appropriate that the first man to bound through their reception line should be, not the President, but Governor Connally. The Governor was violating protocol, but this, after all, was his hand-picked team, just as he was their man. Kennedy couldn’t carry Dallas. It was doubtful that he would even make a respectable showing here next November. The Democratic Governor, however, was a local hero. Archconservative Dallasites could find no socialistic tendencies in him. They knew he wasn’t a traitor to their values, and they were prepared to push a Goldwater-Connally ticket in ’64.

  Awaiting the ramp, Kennedy bantered with his valet. George Thomas came from Berryville, Virginia, a tiny crossroads. In the tail compartment the President said quizzically, “You know, George, I think this is a bigger town than you come from.” He winked and stepped out on the top step, narrowing his eyes as he sized up the crowd in one sweeping glance. Mrs. Kennedy appeared beside him, and the underground roared its approval. Dave Powers, the inveterate note-taker, scrawled, “They look like Mr. and Mrs. America.” At the bottom the Johnsons had been waiting patiently for five minutes. For the fourth time in less than twenty-four hours they were welcoming the Kennedys to a new city in their best nice-of-you-to-come manner, and both couples felt slightly silly. Moreover, there would be two more such landings today, at Bergstrom Air Force Base and at the ranch. Lyndon looked up at Jackie, shrugging comically at the absurdity of it all, and she laughed. But ludicrous or not, Johnson never left a job half done. The geyser of energy within him wouldn’t permit it. If being Vice President meant pumping hands, he would greet every passenger to leave Air Force One, and he did just that. Kilduff, at the end of the line, said, “Sir, I’m sure if you shake my hand one more time you’ll be ill.” Johnson squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mac.”
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  Yet once the reception line broke up, the Vice President’s Dallas work was done. His next scheduled performance wouldn’t come until 3:15, when they reached Bergstrom. The massed cheerers on the other side of the chain fence were for the President. Johnson made a token appearance there, but when he saw that the hands were straining toward the Kennedys he led Lady Bird to the gray four-door convertible which Sorrels had borrowed from a local Ford dealer for his use. Hurchel Jacks of the Texas Department of Public Safety was behind the wheel. Joining Jacks in the front seat, Rufe Youngblood tuned his DCN hand set to Baker channel, the Vice Presidential wavelength; with it, he could maintain contact with Agent Lem Johns in the Vice Presidential follow-up car. Apart from Signalmen, Rufe and Lem were probably its only listeners. Everybody else with a set was tuned to the Charlie frequency, the radio link with the Presidential car. That was where the excitement would be, and those familiar with Secret Service code could follow the progress of Lancer and Lace from the dialogue between Roy Kellerman in the car’s front seat and Art Bales in the Signals car at the end of the parade. Bales was methodically checking out all networks. The high points here were the Lincoln and the two Secret Service follow-up cars. In transit there would be a constant link with Jim Swindal on Air Force One and the small Signals switchboard in the Sheraton-Dallas, which had twenty extensions and ten trunks binding the Presidential party to the Fort Worth board and thence to the Secret Service field office in Kansas City, Andrews Field, the Pentagon, and the White House and its thousand extensions.

  Ordinarily Art Bales would have been a mere passenger. Radio frequencies were normally the domain of Colonel McNally. But the Colonel wanted a break. Like many other members of the party, he had decided to skip the trip into town and have lunch in the terminal restaurant. Muggsy O’Leary was there; so were the baggagemen and the aircraft crews, except for Colonel Swindal, Sergeant Ayres, and the guards posted around 26000 and 86970. The Colonel asked Ayres to make him a roast beef sandwich and stepped into the aircraft’s communications shack, turning on the Charlie frequency there. In the staff area Kilduff’s two secretaries had stayed behind to type press releases. Aft of them, George Thomas was sorting out clothes. On the inboard bunk he laid out a complete change for Austin: shirt, socks, shoes, and a lightweight blue suit. Then, reflecting that the President would be tired when he returned to the plane, he thought it would be nice to leave a reminder that tonight at the ranch there would be a respite from speeches and parades. Beside the shirt he put a pair of khaki pants, a light sweater, and a sport shirt.

  Beyond the plane’s left wing the Kennedys were ducking puddles left from the night’s rain. By Love Field’s Gate 28 the President leaned over Annie S. Dunbar, an eighty-five-year-old loyal Democrat and an arthritic who had come in a wheelchair; then he and Mrs. Kennedy walked about fifty yards of fence, smiling and touching fingers. Both had turned away when, on impulse, he turned back. “There he goes,” his wife said fondly, adjusting Dearie Cabell’s bouquet of red roses in the crook of her left arm. “How do you like campaigning?” Chuck Roberts of Newsweek asked her. “It’s wonderful!” she said. The crowd surged toward her. “Where’s my husband?” she asked quickly. Then, relieved: “Oh, there he is.” To her inexperienced eye Dallas seemed unexceptionable, but those who knew and distrusted the city remained on edge. With a half-smile Gonzalez said to Young, “I sure wish somebody had invented a spitproof mask.” He looked at the Confederate flag and added, “And I forgot my bulletproof vest.” At the fence tall Roy Kellerman remained inches behind the President, studying faces and cameras. A local reporter told Roberts, “The Dallas police have learned their lesson. After Kennedy leaves here they won’t let anybody within ten feet of him.” Hugh Sidey, who, as a rule, disregarded airport crowds, left his press bus seat to join them; he felt a general air of tension. Still the Chief Executive continued down the line; he had wandered so far from the main party that Bill Greer moved the Lincoln toward him, shadowing him in order to save time when he decided to quit. The President lingered at the fence for another five minutes. Ronnie Dugger wrote in his notebook: “Kennedy is showing he is not afraid.”

  To Greer the big blue convertible was like 26000, a flagship, and he liked to make the arrival of the captain on board an occasion for ceremony. On the right front fender he unhooded the small American flag. Kellerman held the door for the President, and Greer removed the cover from the blue Presidential flag on the left with a flourish. He always made a ceremony out of it, and it always irritated the younger agents. In their judgment this was a time to be especially vigilant. The driver should be behind the wheel when the President slid in, ready to take off in case of trouble. Somebody else could unfurl the tiny flags. They regarded the chauffeur with affection, but felt that he was too fussy. He ignored them. The Chief of State was entitled to full honors, and his driver intended to make certain that he got them.

  The captain was aboard, Greer was at the helm; they should have cast off all lines and sailed for the Trade Mart at once. Unexpectedly, there was a lot of last-minute running around. The pool car wouldn’t start, and for a sickening moment Kilduff thought he had another dead battery. Then the engine turned over. In the interval Dave Powers had appeared beside the Lincoln. “Lunchtime,” he told Kennedy merrily, “we’re going to hit that captive audience again.” He reminded Mrs. Kennedy, “Be sure to look to your left, away from the President. Wave to the people on your side. If you both wave at the same voter, it’s a waste.”

  On the plane word had been passed that since the flight was so brief no new plans would be issued for the Dallas motorcade; it would be identical to the motorcade in Fort Worth. If a passenger had ridden in the ninth car there, say, he would be in the ninth car here. It didn’t work. The vehicles were unfamiliar, and there was an undignified scramble for seats. Ted Clifton and Godfrey McHugh found an empty station wagon and jumped in. Gonzalez saw Congressman Wright Patman’s son in the crowd and thrust him in the second Congressional convertible. The losers wound up in the lowly VIP bus, and Dr. Burkley and Evelyn Lincoln were again among them. They had talked their way into the Secret Service follow-up car jump seats in Fort Worth, but since O’Donnell and Powers wanted to ride there now, they had been bumped to the end of the line.

  “It’s not right,” Dr. Burkley kept repeating in a shaky, indignant voice.

  The doctor wasn’t concerned about status. He was perhaps more anxious to avoid notoriety than any man there. His code name was Market; it should have been Modesty. The White House press corps, which had dwelt at great length on Dr. Janet Travell’s treatment of the President’s back injuries, was scarcely aware of him. Very few people realized that he was a rear admiral. On social occasions he didn’t even identify himself as a doctor. He preferred to be introduced as plain George Burkley, and the details of his private life—the fact, for example, that he was a devout Roman Catholic—were treated by him as though they were state secrets. Sensitive, introverted, and self-effacing, he would have been delighted to leave all limelight to O’Donnell and Powers. But even on a political trip, he felt, politicians should remember that John Kennedy was more than the leader of a party.

  “The President’s personal physician should be much closer to him,” he told Evelyn. “I don’t see why they can’t put me in that lead car. I wouldn’t mind sitting on an agent’s lap.”

  Of course, there was only an outside chance that he would be needed. But that chance was Dr. Burkley’s sole reason for being here. He wouldn’t be in the way. At the very least, he thought, he could perform little personal services for the President. Kennedy had lost countless pairs of dark glasses; people were forever pinching them for souvenirs. The doctor carried several spares in his black bag. He contemplated the sun, now blinding. This was a day when a man in an open car might need occasional shelter from the glare.

  Evelyn glanced around disconsolately. Most of the faces in the bus were unfamiliar to her. Barefoot Sanders was pacing up and down the aisle. Valenti, whom none of
the President’s people knew, was rubbernecking. Liz Carpenter had led Marie Fehmer and two Dallas women to seats; with irrepressible gaiety she was directing their attention outside to the famous Larry O’Brien.

  As they watched, O’Brien broke into a run. Larry had assumed that the Yarborough problem was solved. Suddenly he realized that the Senator had mentioned nothing about riding with the Vice President here. Simultaneously he saw the President staring at him and cutting his eye meaningfully toward Yarborough, who appeared to be looking for another car. It was the Hotel Texas all over again. Larry grabbed the Senator’s arm, shoved him onto the seat beside Lady Bird, and slammed the door. The motorcade was beginning to move; O’Brien was about to be left. He looked around wildly and jumped into a convertible with Congressmen Mahon, Rogers, and Thornberry.

  All the morning the floor-laying crew had been working on the cleared section of the Texas School Book Depository’s sixth floor. Now it was time for a midday break, sandwiches, and, afterward, the spectacle at the front door. Their feelings about the motorcade were mixed. There was little sympathy among them for the President’s uncompromising stand on behalf of equal rights for Negroes. Roy Truly, who didn’t believe the races were meant to mix, later doubted that “half my boys would have gone out to see the parade if it hadn’t been lunchtime.” He explained, “Except for my niggers the boys are conservative, like me—like most Texans.”

  Still, a parade was a parade. Fifteen minutes before noon the men used both of the building’s antiquated elevators to go down to the street level. As they passed the fifth floor, Charles Givens, a thirty-eight-year-old former Navy steward and senior Book Depository employee, saw Lee Oswald standing by the gate on the fifth floor, watching them go. Their departure left the top stories unoccupied. In effect, the upper part of the warehouse had now met the Secret Service’s definition of the classic sniper’s perch—it was a deserted building.