Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

by Clint Hill

  I twisted around to make eye contact with the follow-up car. They had to know how bad it was. With my one free hand, I gave them the thumbs-down sign and shook my head.

  My head turned back to the gruesome scene in the car. Nellie Connally was hunched over the governor. And Mrs. Kennedy had her husband’s head in her lap.

  “Jack, Jack, what have they done to you?”

  Thoughts swirled in my head. Will we get there in time? Go faster, go faster! He’s not breathing. Hang on Mr. President. Hang on. My God, what more can happen to her?

  And then came the thought that haunts me still: How did I let this happen to her?

  CHIEF CURRY, DRIVING the lead car, had slowed down to see what happened.

  “Take me to the hospital, quick!” Bill Greer yelled.

  Curry immediately sped up and got in front of us. We were now traveling on a multilane freeway going very fast. Sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour. Still wedged up high, I was holding on with every ounce of strength in my arms and legs.

  I turned my head and my sunglasses blew off.

  Governor Connally lifted up and I realized for the first time that he also had been shot.

  All time had stopped. It took an eternity to get to the hospital. Finally, we pulled up to the emergency section of a hospital. The sign said: PARKLAND MEMORIAL HOSPITAL.

  It was 12:34, four minutes since the first shot rang out in Dealey Plaza. An eternity.

  Sam Kinney had stayed right behind us the entire way. When the cars stopped everyone raced to the presidential car. Emory Roberts took one look at the condition of President Kennedy and said, “I’m taking my men to Johnson.”

  Everyone knew it was the right thing to do. The agents in the follow-up car had seen the impact.

  Agent Lawson had run into the emergency room to get help and gurneys because no one was outside to assist us. He came out with two gurneys and an orderly. The first thing we had to do was remove Governor Connally from the car. We couldn’t move the president until the jump seat was folded up.

  We got the governor on a gurney and he was taken inside. Mrs. Connally had remained amazingly composed, and went inside the hospital with her husband.

  Mrs. Kennedy had not moved. She was holding on to the president, his head still in her lap.

  “Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “Please let us help the president.”

  She would not let go.

  “Please Mrs. Kennedy,” I pleaded. “Please let us get him into the hospital.”

  She looked up at me. She was in shock. Her eyes were looking, but not seeing. And then I understood: She doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. Nobody should see the president like this. I understand, Mrs. Kennedy. You’re right. Nobody should see the president like this.

  I took off my suit coat and placed it over his head and upper torso.

  Now no one will see him, Mrs. Kennedy. It’s okay now.

  She still hadn’t said a word, but as soon as my coat was covering the president, she released her grip.

  Together, Agents Win Lawson, Roy Kellerman, Dave Powers, and I lifted the president’s lifeless body onto the gurney.

  Three shots had been fired in Dealey Plaza. And the world stopped for four days.

  24

  Parkland Hospital

  Doctors and nurses were everywhere—it was a blur of white coats—as we passed Trauma Room No. 2, where Governor Connally had been taken, and wheeled the president into Trauma Room No. 1. Mrs. Kennedy was holding on to the gurney, staring at her husband’s body, my coat still over his head and torso.

  As someone reached to pull my coat off, I grabbed her firmly by the arm and said, “Mrs. Kennedy, let’s go wait outside.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m staying in here with him.”

  “Clint,” Roy Kellerman interrupted, “contact the White House. And keep the line open.”

  I looked at Mrs. Kennedy, not wanting to leave her, but Kellerman was right. We had to let the White House know what had happened.

  Paul Landis stood outside the door of the trauma room, while I found a telephone and dialed the number for the special switchboard in Dallas that would get me straight to the White House.

  “This is Clint Hill. Give me Jerry Behn’s office in Washington and keep this line open.”

  Just as Jerry Behn, the Special Agent in Charge of the White House Detail, answered, Roy Kellerman came out of the trauma room and grabbed the phone.

  As Kellerman began to explain the horror of what had happened less than ten minutes before, a medic rushed out of the trauma room.

  “Does anybody know the president’s blood type?”

  “O. R-H positive,” Kellerman blurted out.

  Just then, Mrs. Kennedy came out of the trauma room. Her face, still spattered with blood, was expressionless.

  I strode over to her, afraid she might faint.

  Landis called out, “Somebody get a chair for Mrs. Kennedy.”

  There were agents and medical staff and policemen all over the place. People running around back and forth, in and out of the two trauma rooms. Somebody brought a chair and I said, “Mrs. Kennedy, sit down.”

  She sat down and looked at me. Our eyes met, and it nearly broke me. The light was gone, and all that was left in those beautiful brown eyes was pain. Sheer, unbearable pain.

  A medic rushed out of the room and called out, “He’s still breathing!”

  Mrs. Kennedy stood up and asked, “Do you mean he may live?”

  Oh God, I thought. Please, nobody answer her. I saw what happened.

  Nobody answered, but as soon as Kellerman heard that the president was still breathing, he looked at me and said, “Clint, take the phone.”

  I left Mrs. Kennedy with Paul and took the handset from Kellerman.

  “Clint, what happened?” Jerry Behn asked.

  “Shots fired during the motorcade. It all happened so fast,” I said. I tried to remain as composed as possible, as I kept my eyes on Mrs. Kennedy. “The situation is critical, Jerry. Prepare for the worst.”

  Before Jerry could answer, the operator cut into the line. “The attorney general wants to talk to Agent Hill.”

  The attorney general. Robert Kennedy. The president’s brother.

  “Clint, what’s going on down there?!”

  Staring at Mrs. Kennedy, I repeated, “Shots fired during the motorcade. The president is very seriously injured. They’re working on him now. Governor Connally was hit, too.”

  “What do you mean seriously injured? How bad is it?”

  I swallowed hard, as the image of the president’s head exploding replayed in my mind. The image of his lifeless body lying across Mrs. Kennedy’s lap. His eyes fixed. His blood and brains all over her, all over me.

  How do I tell him his brother is dead?

  Looking away from Mrs. Kennedy, I closed my eyes, squeezed the phone hard, and said, “It’s as bad as it can get.”

  THE SECRET SERVICE agents from the President’s Detail who had been stationed at the Trade Mart had raced to Parkland Hospital as soon as they heard the president had been hit. With them was Admiral George Burkley, the president’s physician. Dr. Burkley had been in the VIP bus at the back of the motorcade. He had no idea how bad the situation was until he got into Trauma Room No. 1.

  I knew the doctors at Parkland Hospital, along with Dr. Burkley, were doing everything they could to save the president, but I knew there was no hope.

  Dr. Burkley walked out of the trauma room, his face contorted with pain.

  Mrs. Kennedy stood up as soon as she saw him and said, “I’m going in there.”

  A nurse tried to stop her, but Dr. Burkley intervened and led Mrs. Kennedy back into the trauma room, so she could be with her husband when he took his last breath.

  I was still on the line with Jerry Behn, when two priests arrived.

  “Two priests just walked into the trauma room,” I said.

  Perhaps they will be of some comfort to Mrs. Kennedy, I thought. At least they’
ll know the right things to say.

  A few moments later, Agent Roy Kellerman walked out of the room and came toward me. In a low voice, he said, “The priest has just administered Last Rites. This is not for release, and is not official, but the president is dead.”

  I had known it, of course. There was no way he could have survived. But still, to hear it said out loud. I could hardly breathe.

  “What is it, Clint?” Jerry Behn asked on the other end of the phone. “What did Kellerman say?”

  My chest tightened as I took a deep breath.

  “The president is dead, Jerry. Roy said it’s not to be released, but the president is dead.”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Jerry Behn had been the Special Agent in Charge since President Kennedy’s Inauguration. He was with the president all the time, just like I was with Mrs. Kennedy. They had a great relationship. The president loved him, trusted him. With the campaign getting ready to get started, Jerry had decided to take a week off, to get some things done around the house. We all understood how that went. His first annual leave in three years. And now, the president was dead.

  The world had stopped, but I had to keep going. Bobby’s words echoed in my mind.

  How bad is it?

  “Jerry,” I said, “I think you should advise the attorney general and the other members of the president’s family immediately. They need to know before they hear it in the press.”

  The president is dead. Oh dear God. The president is dead.

  KENNY O’DONNELL, ONE of President Kennedy’s closest friends and his chief of staff, had been riding in the follow-up car. He was beyond distraught.

  “Clint,” he said, “I need you to call a funeral home. We need a casket.”

  A casket. For the president. For Mrs. Kennedy’s husband.

  At least I had something to do. As long as I had something to do, the images would leave for a few minutes. When I stopped, or when I looked at her, still caked in blood, I couldn’t see anything but the car moving away from me, the sudden explosion, and then Mrs. Kennedy, climbing onto the back of the car.

  As long as I had something to do, that slow-motion picture in my mind would pause for a while, and I could hold it together. Keeping busy was the only way I was going to get through this day.

  I found one of the hospital administrators and said, “I need to contact a mortuary and obtain a casket.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, as he led me to a small office. He found the number for the Oneal Funeral Home—they were the best, he said—and left me to make the call.

  My hand trembled as I dialed the number.

  “I need a casket delivered to Parkland Hospital’s emergency entrance. Right away. The best one you have.”

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “My name? My name is Clint Hill. Put it in my name. I need the best damn casket you have. Do you understand?”

  Oh, God. Oh, God.

  “It’s for the president . . . the casket is for President Kennedy.”

  I hung up the phone and went back into the hallway. Paul Landis was still standing outside the door to the trauma room. Stoic and strong, he was holding it together. Somehow, we were all holding it together.

  Mrs. Kennedy walked out of the trauma room, followed by the two priests.

  “Thank you,” she said to them, looking each of them in the eyes. “Thank you so very much.”

  I started walking toward her.

  Down the hall, I heard Emory Roberts’s voice telling some of the agents to get to Love Field. He wanted everything secured, all the buildings cleared.

  “Only our people and local law enforcement. That’s it. And call Colonel Swindal and tell him we’re heading back to Washington.”

  I LOOKED AT my watch and realized the casket should be here any minute.

  We were going back to Washington—with the president in a casket. Oh God.

  I went back to the room with the phone and dialed the Dallas White House Switchboard.

  “This is Clint Hill. I need to speak to Bob Foster, immediately.”

  As I waited for Bob Foster, the lead agent on the children’s detail, to get on the phone, I nearly lost it.

  The president’s words as he said good-bye to his almost three-year-old son played over and over in my mind.

  Take care of John for me, won’t you, Mr. Foster?

  John would be waiting for the helicopter. When he heard the helicopter, he’d run to the window, knowing his daddy was in the helicopter. But this time, his daddy was coming home in a casket.

  Take care of John for me, won’t you, Mr. Foster?

  Agent Foster and I decided that John and Caroline should be taken to Mrs. Kennedy’s mother’s home in Georgetown. They’d be safe there.

  And John would be spared the sound of the helicopter.

  I swallowed hard and walked back into the hallway.

  I looked at Mrs. Kennedy, now sitting in the ordinary portable straight-backed chair that had been drug into the hallway. She looked so all alone. Paul was with her, there were people all around, and yet she was alone in her sorrow. Oh how I wished I could relieve her pain.

  EMORY ROBERTS CAME to me and said, “Clint, we need to get Vice President Johnson to Air Force One and go back to Washington. We don’t know how big this situation is and we need to remove him from the area.”

  “That makes sense,” I replied.

  “He wants Mrs. Kennedy to come with him—tell her that.”

  “I’m sure she will not leave the president. But I’ll ask.”

  I walked over to her. She looked so fragile.

  “Mrs. Kennedy, Vice President Johnson is going to go back to Washington and he would like you to go with him.”

  She looked up at me. Her eyes told me before she said it.

  “Tell the vice president I’m not going anywhere without the president.”

  There was no mistaking the determination in her voice.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  I went back to Roberts with the answer to his question.

  Soon the answer came back from Roberts. Vice President and Mrs. Johnson were going to Love Field and would board Air Force One, but would not leave until Mrs. Kennedy went with them.

  The casket arrived and I signed the receipt. We were wheeling it in and I could see Paul, Ken O’Donnell, and Dave Powers trying to shield Mrs. Kennedy from seeing it. The sight of the casket made everything so final. I could see the anguish on her face, I could feel it in my heart, and there was nothing I could do.

  WE STILL HAD no idea who was behind the assassination. Was it one person? A conspiracy? Were they after the vice president or others?

  What we did know was the sooner we got out of Dallas, onto Air Force One, and back to the White House, the better. But Vice President Johnson wouldn’t leave on the presidential plane without Mrs. Kennedy, and Mrs. Kennedy wasn’t leaving without the body of the president.

  And now there was another problem. The Dallas County medical examiner had arrived and informed us that we could not remove the president’s body from the hospital until an autopsy had been performed. Texas state law required that, in the case of a homicide, the victim’s body could not be released until an autopsy was performed in the jurisdiction in which the homicide was committed.

  A homicide? The president has just been assassinated. This is no ordinary homicide.

  It could be hours or perhaps a day or more before the procedure would be complete. This was completely unacceptable.

  Roy Kellerman, Ken O’Donnell, and Dave Powers tried to convince the authorities that since this involved the President of the United States, we should be able to take his body back to the nation’s capital for an autopsy.

  The Texas authorities said no.

  The discussion continued and became somewhat heated. Very heated. This was all happening in a very small area—a hallway, really. Paul Landis and I looked at each other. We knew what was going to happen. Texas law or not, we
were taking the president’s body back to Washington.

  Inside the trauma room, the president’s body was being placed in the casket. The hearse from Oneal Funeral Home was waiting at the emergency room entrance. Andy Berger, one of the agents from the President’s Detail, was sitting in the driver’s seat. Paul stayed close to Mrs. Kennedy as I made sure the corridor between Trauma Room No. 1 and the hearse was secure.

  Finally, the Texas authorities conceded—with one stipulation. We could take the president’s body and return to Washington, as long as there was a medical professional that stayed with the body and would return to Dallas to testify.

  “We have the right man for the job,” I said. “Admiral George Burkley, the president’s physician.” The discussion was over.

  Mrs. Kennedy walked silently with us, as we wheeled the casket down the hall. She watched as we strained to lift the casket, with her husband’s body inside, into the back of the hearse, and then as Admiral Burkley got in there with it.

  I turned to Mrs. Kennedy and gently touched her arm. “We can ride in this car right behind the hearse, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  She looked at me, her eyes pooled with pain. “No, Mr. Hill, I’m riding with the president.”

  So I opened the door of the hearse and Mrs. Kennedy climbed in. I climbed in right behind her, and we scrunched together, sitting on our knees, still in our bloodstained clothes. There we were, in the back of the hearse—a casket containing the President of the United States, Admiral Burkley, Mrs. Kennedy, and me.

  LOVE FIELD HAD been completely sealed off from the public. Agent Andy Berger drove the hearse to the rear steps of Air Force One, and I helped Mrs. Kennedy out. Paul Landis had ridden in the car behind us, and rushed to Mrs. Kennedy’s side.

  The crew of Air Force One had removed some seats in the rear of the aircraft to make room for the casket. Now we had to get the casket up the steps into the back of the plane.