Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

by Clint Hill

  “It really was a marvelous evening, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “You should be very proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hill,” she said with a smile. “I’m so glad that you were able to enjoy the evening. I know it wasn’t the same as if you had been a guest, because you were working, but I wouldn’t have wanted you to miss such a special experience.”

  “I do appreciate that, Mrs. Kennedy. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

  “I hope you know that I appreciate everything you do for me, Mr. Hill. You’ve certainly changed my view of the Secret Service.”

  ON FRIDAY MORNING, November 17, I drove Mrs. Kennedy from Glen Ora to ride with the Piedmont Hunt, while her horse Bit of Irish was transported by trailer.

  It had been a long time since she’d ridden and she was excited to be back in the Virginia hunt country. Dressed in jodhpurs, a blazer, and boots, with not a stitch of makeup on, she looked even more beautiful than she had in her fancy gown at the Casals concert. This was the Mrs. Kennedy I had come to know—at ease and comfortable in her own skin, away from the public eye.

  “We might have quite a long ride today,” she said. “I’ll be joining everyone for the hunt breakfast when we are through so I may be longer than usual.”

  “That’s fine, Mrs. Kennedy. Just enjoy yourself and I’ll catch up with you when you’re ready to leave.”

  Behind her, the riders were assembling, as the hounds scattered around barking. I noticed the handler seemed to be having a bit of difficulty with her horse.

  “Bit of Irish looks anxious to go,” I added. “Be careful out there.”

  She glanced at the horse and said, “Oh, he can be a handful, but I’ll be in control. Don’t worry, Mr. Hill.” Then she broke into a grin and said, “You be careful driving over all that rough terrain trying to keep up with me!”

  I laughed and watched as she walked toward the rest of the riders who had gathered in the meadow.

  “Good morning, Jackie!” they called. “So great to see you!”

  “Good morning!” she replied. She was so relaxed in this environment. Here she was just another rider in the Hunt Club. They didn’t treat her any differently than anyone else, and that is what she loved. Here she could shed the first-lady moniker and just be Jackie.

  I watched as she put her foot into the stirrup and mounted the horse. Then I drove the station wagon to place myself in a position where I could observe the group as they started on their ride across the rolling hills of the Mellon property. The whips were cracking, the hounds were yelping, and I wondered how the hell they thought they could sneak up on a fox with all that racket.

  The riders set out along the course for the day and one by one they would jump over the rail fences and hedges at various points. Mrs. Kennedy loved to jump, and she was very good at it. I drove slowly along the country roads trying to keep the group in sight, but it wasn’t always easy.

  Things were going along well on this particular morning, when I noticed a man crouched down in the field, just ahead of the riders.

  Oh crap. As I got a bit closer, I recognized the man as Marshall Hawkins, a local photographer noted for his pictures of horses and the various hunt clubs in the area. He had positioned himself near a fence the group was about to jump. The hounds were running silently, and the only sound you could hear was that of the horses’ hooves hitting the ground as they galloped closer and closer. I was on the road, a good hundred yards from the fence, too far away to do anything other than yell. Yelling, though, I figured, could potentially make matters worse. I didn’t think Mrs. Kennedy was in any danger, but I knew she would be furious if Hawkins managed to get a photograph of her.

  I got as close as I could and stopped the car, just as the group began jumping the rail fence, one by one. Hawkins was still crouched in the grass, not making a sound. Then, just as Mrs. Kennedy approached the fence, he suddenly stood up and started snapping away.

  The sudden movement and sound of the camera caught Bit of Irish by surprise, and the horse reacted by digging in his front feet in an abrupt stop.

  I watched in horror as Mrs. Kennedy went flying off, over the head of her horse, and over the rail fence, headfirst.

  I jumped out of the car, and was about to leap over the property fence that bordered the road when Mrs. Kennedy got up, remounted, and rode away with the rest of the group without saying a word. She had put her arms out in front of herself to break her fall, and thank God she appeared to be all right. Now my fear for her safety turned to fury at the photographer.

  I ran across the meadow, adrenaline coursing through my body.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I screamed.

  He hadn’t realized I was watching and seemed startled to see me coming toward him in a rage.

  Seconds later I was standing eye to eye with him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I repeated.

  “What I always do,” he answered caustically. “Taking photos of the hunts in the field.”

  “Damn it! You could have got Mrs. Kennedy seriously injured.”

  I reached for his camera and said, “Give me that goddamn film, Marshall.”

  “Oh no,” he said as he clutched the camera to his chest. “This is mine and I’m keeping it.”

  Unfortunately, this was a personal issue, not a matter of national security, and I was pretty sure he knew that. I would have to bluff him into giving me the film.

  “You don’t want to embarrass Mrs. Kennedy, do you?” I asked. “If you use that photo of her falling, she will be humiliated. Is that what you’re after?”

  “I’m not giving you this film, Clint.”

  I tried to convince him but realized it was futile. He knew he had a valuable shot, and he wasn’t falling for my efforts to get the film. I had to get back to the car and catch up with the hunt, so I just shook my head in disgust and walked away.

  “Tell Mrs. Kennedy I’m sorry if I caused her to fall,” he called after me. “I’ll print a copy for her, if she likes.”

  I felt like turning around and punching him in the face, but I knew that wasn’t going to solve any issues, so I broke into a jog and made my way back to the station wagon.

  I drove down the road that surrounded the Mellon property and saw the hunt just as they were dismounting. Everybody was gathered around Mrs. Kennedy.

  Oh God, I hope she’s not hurt. I couldn’t see her facial expression, but she was at least standing.

  I jogged up to her just as she was taking off her helmet. With her helmet in one hand, she used the other hand to run her fingers through her hair.

  “Mrs. Kennedy, are you all right?”

  She turned toward me, and smiled.

  “Yes, Mr. Hill, I’m fine,” she said softly.

  Then, concerned, she asked, “Did you talk to the photographer? Did you get the film?”

  “I’m afraid he won’t give it up. I’m going to see what I can do about it after I get you back to Glen Ora. I’m just glad to hear you’re not hurt. That was quite a fall.”

  She laughed and said, “Oh it wasn’t the first time I’ve fallen off a horse, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

  Her friends laughed and somebody said, “Who wants breakfast?”

  “Enjoy your breakfast, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “I’ll be standing by.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hill,” she said as I started to walk away. “I really am all right. But I sure would like to get that film.”

  Yeah, me too. I was so relieved she wasn’t hurt, but I knew that I would be typing up a lengthy report on the details of what happened, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  I contacted Marshall Hawkins several more times, but his position remained the same. The last time we spoke he said, “I’ll print a copy for you, too, Clint.”

  I knew he would be attempting to sell that photo to the highest bidder, and that is exactly what he did. Mrs. Kennedy was embarrassed when it came out in Life magazine, and I felt terrible that the
incident had happened on my watch and I wasn’t able to confiscate the film.

  A few weeks later a poster-sized framed photo of Mrs. Kennedy falling off the horse arrived at the White House to my attention. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I took it home and stuck it in a closet.

  THE PRESS, AND probably many Americans, seemed to think that President Kennedy was on a permanent vacation when he was in Hyannis Port or Newport, when in reality the responsibility of the job never leaves the occupant of the office of president. The international situation had deteriorated as the Soviets, together with the East Germans, had begun to tie a noose around West Berlin, tightening the borders and building a wall which caused great concern throughout the Western world. The United States promptly called up some 150,000 reservists to active duty. Then 40,000 regular Army troops were sent to Europe, increasing U.S. strength on the continent to 290,000. Cuba remained a major concern after the Bay of Pigs disaster earlier in the year, while the situation in Southeast Asia including Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam was heating up and required concentrated attention. Domestically, attempted hijacking of commercial airliners necessitated the placing of armed federal personnel on board some flights as air marshals. And racial segregation had become an issue that could no longer be ignored.

  Mrs. Kennedy was well aware of the tremendous responsibility and the constant and continued attention the job required. She tried very hard to make the time the president spent with family and friends as comfortable and relaxing as possible. She might invite Paul “Red” Fay and his wife, Anita, for a weekend at Middleburg or an intimate dinner at the White House. Red and JFK had been friends since the president’s Navy days and they shared a similar sense of humor, along with a love of sailing. Chuck Spalding and his wife, Betty, were frequent guests. Chuck had been an usher at the Kennedys’ wedding and had worked on the president’s campaign.

  And then there was Lem. Lemoyne “Lem” Billings and Jack Kennedy had known each other since their prep school days at Choate, and they were almost like brothers. Lem seemed to be a permanent fixture at the White House, and would often be with the president when he arrived by helicopter to Middleburg, Hyannis Port, or Palm Beach. He was a tall, lanky guy, rather effeminate, and he just always seemed to be around. Mrs. Kennedy tolerated him, much like a somewhat annoying sibling, but Lem’s antics and quick wit made the president laugh, and that was worth a lot.

  On November 22, 1961, it was back to Hyannis Port for Thanksgiving with the president’s parents, Rose and Ambassador Kennedy, along with as many members of the extended family as could possibly make the annual event. I wondered what the family would do in the cooler weather since so many of the summer activities revolved around the water. They were such an active, competitive family. I soon found out that Thanksgiving on the Cape meant touch football games and ice-skating at the Kennedy Memorial Skating Rink in Hyannis.

  The Lieutenant Joseph Patrick Kennedy Jr. Memorial Skating Rink was built in honor of Ambassador and Rose Kennedy’s oldest son, who had been killed in World War II. Most of the family would go on daily outings to the rink, skating and laughing, just enjoying being together. It was such a wonderful sight to observe, and I so wished I could join them.

  Growing up in the frozen plains of North Dakota, ice-skating had been one of my favorite after-school activities. There was a vacant dirt lot in Washburn, about half a block in length, that was flooded at the first freeze in the fall and stayed frozen until Easter, and that was our skating rink. When I wanted to be alone I would head to Painted Woods Creek, and skate for miles and miles in peaceful solitude. My mother worried about me when I’d go to the creek, though, because you had to watch out for air pockets, where the ice was thin. There had been a few kids who had drowned. I never worried about my own safety, but if I was with my sister or some friends, I wanted to be the one in the front of the pack, looking out for the soft spots ahead.

  It didn’t matter the outdoor temperature—20 degrees below zero was commonplace for me—skating gave me energy and brought a smile to my face. I saw that same enjoyment on the faces of Mrs. Kennedy, the president, Caroline, and the rest of their family as they glided across the frozen surface with sheer delight.

  Weather permitting, it was touch football time. Somebody—usually it was Bobby who instigated a game—would start rounding up players and picking teams. Quite often they were short a player, and Bobby or younger brother Teddy would call me at the command post.

  “Clint, come on down here. We need another guy for our team.”

  I had played football in high school and college and I loved it. They didn’t have to ask me twice.

  The president rarely played, because of his back problems, but Bobby and Teddy would be out there, along with their wives, Ethel and Joanie; sisters Eunice and Jean, and their husbands Sarge Shriver and Steve Smith; and any guests who might be there and willing to participate. It was great fun, and quite competitive. Ethel especially hated to lose, and boy was she tough. God, Ethel—the thought of her out there playing still makes me chuckle. She was a ball of energy.

  The rough-and-tumble nature of the Kennedy football games wasn’t Mrs. Kennedy’s style, so she would usually be sitting on the porch with the ambassador, watching with amusement, as we huddled and scrambled out there on the lawn. They treated me just like one of them—almost like part of the family. I thoroughly enjoyed it—not just for the sport, but also because it gave me the opportunity to occasionally throw a good hard block across certain family members. Payback time for things they had done causing me extra concern and work. Like using one of the Secret Service cars on the spur of the moment without asking permission or advising any of the agents what they were going to do. We learned never to leave keys in any of the cars even within the secured area, because if we did, you could count on Eunice or Sarge Shriver or Teddy taking off with the vehicle. It always seemed to happen just before Mrs. Kennedy or the president was about to go somewhere. They were always trying to pull pranks. Believe me, it wasn’t funny at the time.

  At this point, I had been on the First Lady’s Detail for just over a year, and it had been nothing like I’d first envisioned. What had started out as uncertainty for both Mrs. Kennedy and me, had turned into a comfortable and enjoyable working relationship based on mutual trust and respect.

  It was nearly Christmastime, and once again, we were headed to Palm Beach for the holidays.

  9

  Another Palm Beach Christmas

  The president and Mrs. Kennedy had realized the previous year that the Secret Service somewhat hindered the activities of the rest of the family when the president stayed at his father’s house in Palm Beach, so they had made arrangements to rent the nearby home of family friends Colonel and Mrs. C. Michael Paul for the winter of 1961–62.

  “It will be so much better for us,” Mrs. Kennedy told me. “It has a beautiful heated swimming pool, and eight bedrooms, so there’s plenty of room for our own guests. It’s not far from the ambassador’s house, so it will be very convenient.”

  “It sounds ideal,” I responded. Then, teasing, I said, “You don’t think you’ll get bored with the peace and quiet?”

  She laughed and said, “Mr. Hill, you know as well as I do that peace and quiet when the Kennedys are all together is something that is next to impossible. But at least I’ll have a place to which I can escape and spend time with Caroline and John.”

  John had turned one year old on November 25, and had become quite active. A typical little boy, he loved to climb and jump, and as soon as he learned to walk, he rarely walked—he ran. Because John and Caroline began doing more activities separately, it was decided that an additional Secret Service agent was needed permanently on the Kiddie Detail to assist Bob Foster and Lynn Meredith. Paul Landis was the perfect man for the job.

  At twenty-six years old, Paul Landis was the youngest agent on the White House Detail, and previously had been assigned to the Eisenhower grandchildren. Born and raised in Ohio, he came from a
close family with a strong work ethic, and he took his protective duties extremely seriously. Even though he was unmarried and had no children of his own, he had a warm, playful personality that endeared him to the children. He was five foot, nine inches tall, slender, and physically fit—as all of us were required to be—had sandy brown hair, brown eyes, and a boyish look about him that made him appear younger than he actually was. The rest of us couldn’t help but tease him about his youth—and when he joined the Kiddie Detail, he was given the code name “Debut.”

  As a matter of security, code names were used for all radio communication. To make them easier to remember, each group of people had names beginning with the same letter, and we tried to come up with names that described the individual in some way. Each administration had code names designated beginning with a letter used only for that administration, chosen at random, with no significance. The Eisenhowers had been “S,” while the code names for the Kennedys all began with the letter “L.” JFK was “Lancer,” Mrs. Kennedy was “Lace,” Caroline was “Lyric,” and John was “Lark.”

  Not all the Secret Service agents had code names—only the chief, the supervisors on the president’s detail, and those of us with Mrs. Kennedy and the kids. The code names for the Secret Service all began with the letter D. Bob Foster on the Kiddie Detail was “Dresser”—because he was always impeccably dressed and took great care with his appearance; Lynn Meredith was “Drummer”—he was the musician in the group. My code name was “Dazzle.” I have no idea who came up with it, or why, but from the time I started on Mrs. Kennedy’s detail, I was “Dazzle” and that remained my code name for the rest of my Secret Service career.

  Paul Landis comforts John after a fall

  THE SUN WAS shining and the temperature was pleasantly balmy when we landed at Palm Beach International Airport at 7:30 A.M., Monday, December 18, after a whirlwind three-day visit to South America and Puerto Rico.