Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

by Clint Hill

  When the service concluded, Mrs. Kennedy with Caroline and John, one in each hand, led the mourners from the cathedral and stood on the outside steps while the casket was removed and placed on the caisson. I was standing just behind and to the right of Senator Ted Kennedy, who was next to Mrs. Kennedy, and the children. When the casket was secured, directly in front of us, the military rendered a salute to their fallen commander in chief. I saw Mrs. Kennedy lean down to John and whisper something into his ear.

  He thrust his tiny shoulders back, raised his right hand to his brow, and in an emphatic gesture never to be forgotten by anyone who saw it, just as the Marine colonel had instructed, three-year-old John Fitzgerald Kennedy Jr. saluted his father.

  It was almost more than I could bear. I looked around and saw colonels and generals and colleagues—some of the toughest men I knew—and they too were fighting to hold back tears.

  THE PLAN HAD been for Caroline and John to accompany their mother to Arlington National Cemetery and ride with her. But at the last minute, Mrs. Kennedy decided to have them return to the White House. We had run out of cars, so Agents Foster and Wells located one being used by the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and confiscated it for their use. Needless to say, the relationship between the Secret Service and the Joint Chiefs of Staff was rather strained for a while.

  While Caroline and John went back to the White House, Mrs. Kennedy rode behind the caisson, the presidential flag, and Black Jack to Arlington National Cemetery. It was now midafternoon as we approached the cemetery. People lined the streets the entire way, and you could see their faces filled with grief, tears rolling down their cheeks. As we inched our way across Memorial Bridge, leading the mile-long procession of limousines filled with dignitaries, I looked up, straight ahead on the hill to the spot Mrs. Kennedy had chosen for the grave site. A sudden realization hit me like a punch.

  I travel across this bridge two times every day, and from now on, I will be looking at President Kennedy’s grave as I cross into Virginia from Washington.

  If only I had reacted quicker, run faster . . .

  We arrived at the grave site and watched as the honor guard removed the president’s casket and carried it to the burial site. As we walked slowly to the burial site, I heard a sound, a slight roar, that got louder and louder as fifty Air Force and Navy jets flew over in tribute. Then, another roar, but this time the sound seemed familiar to me, that high-pitched whine of a perfectly tuned set of jet engines. It was Air Force One flying very low with Colonel Jim Swindal at the controls and the crew on board that knew and served President Kennedy so well. As Swindal dipped the wings of Air Force One in salute, I clenched my jaw. Swallowed hard.

  As the service progressed, I knew there was a moment approaching and I was concerned as to how Mrs. Kennedy would react. It was the twenty-one-gun salute, three volleys by each of seven riflemen. How would she react to gunfire only three days after that sound cracked through the air in Dallas? She was standing next to Robert Kennedy near the end of the casket. I was about to walk to her when the cemetery superintendent leaned over and warned her what was about to happen.

  She trembled with each and every shot, but managed to maintain her composure.

  It was time to light the Eternal Flame. From the moment she started planning this heartrending day, she had the idea of an eternal flame—just like the one at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Paris. She overcame the objections and negative attitudes of everyone who said it was too complicated a job to be done in time. I was proud of her intestinal fortitude and positive attitude, which enabled her to do it. The Eternal Flame was her triumph.

  She was handed a lighted torch and bent forward to ignite the flame. The fire danced as she passed the lighted torch to Bobby Kennedy, who in turn handed it to Ted, each symbolically igniting the flame. The United States flag that had draped the casket was folded and presented to Mrs. Kennedy. It was time for Taps, the final ending to a military funeral.

  The bugler, standing off to the side, started playing and the sound rolled through the hills surrounding Arlington National Cemetery. He was feeling the pressure of performing before thousands in person and millions on TV. He flubbed a note and recovered quickly. I felt sorry for him, knowing he would never forget it, and the world had it recorded for posterity.

  Mrs. Kennedy thanked the military commander and we entered the waiting limousine and drove back to the White House.

  The day was far from over. First there was a small reception in the upstairs Yellow Oval Room, in the residence quarters, for a few special people: Charles de Gaulle; Prince Philip; Emperor Haile Selassie; Ireland’s president, Éamon de Valera. After offering her sincere thanks to these men, she went to the Red Room, where a larger reception was held for the scores of other foreign dignitaries. This involved a lot of people and I was concerned about her being able to stand the strain. If she felt it, she didn’t show it.

  I thought this would certainly be the end for the day and she would go to the second-floor living quarters and retire for the night. Instead, as the reception was winding down, she motioned to me.

  “Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, what can I do for you?”

  “I may want to go back to Arlington later,” she whispered. “I’ll call and let you know.”

  I was exhausted, and she hadn’t slept any more than I had. How she could keep this up I didn’t know. I notified Paul that we needed to make arrangements with the superintendent’s office at Arlington. This was to be completely private, and kept absolutely confidential.

  When Mrs. Kennedy finally went to the second floor, I went to the Map Room and more or less collapsed in my chair. Shortly before midnight, she called.

  “Yes, Mrs. Kennedy,” I answered.

  “Mr. Hill, Bobby and I want to go to Arlington now. We want to see the flame.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Kennedy. I’ll get the car.”

  I called Sergeant Watkins and he brought the car around. We took Mrs. Kennedy and Bobby to the cemetery as Paul followed in another car. As we drove across Memorial Bridge, there straight ahead of us flickering on the hillside was the Eternal Flame. It was a moving, very emotional sight.

  We drove up to the site and walked to the grave. Mrs. Kennedy had brought a small bouquet of flowers, and she placed them on the fresh earth. Mrs. Kennedy and Bobby knelt and prayed, then stood and looked back across the Potomac at the lights of the memorials. We all got back in the car, and returned to the White House.

  No press, no public, complete privacy. Just the way Mrs. Kennedy wanted it.

  PART FIVE

  After the White House

  26

  Our Final Year

  Clint Hill watches as Mrs. Kennedy visits her husband’s gravesite

  The days following the funeral are somewhat of a blur. I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained. I had kept my emotions buried. I could not let Mrs. Kennedy, the other agents, or anyone else, for that matter, be aware of exactly how I felt. I had to be strong and hold up the tradition of the Service. Mrs. Kennedy had been traumatized and she was being so strong. I couldn’t break down. But the truth was, I was overcome with guilt, a feeling of failure, and a sense of responsibility for not being able to prevent the assassination.

  There was no time to grieve, no counseling, no time off. Keeping busy was the only thing that was keeping me going. It was the best medicine I had.

  Mrs. Kennedy was staying busy, too. She knew she had to move out of the White House—the Johnsons had told her to take her time, but she said she would leave after Thanksgiving, on December 6. There were so many decisions that had to be made, so much for her to think about. Even though she had the help of Mary Gallagher, and Provi, as well as her staff and the president’s staff, the final decisions were all hers to make. Where to live? What to do with the dogs, the horses? But first, she had to go see the president’s father in Hyannis Port.

  On Thursday, November 28, Agent Bob Foster and I took Mrs. Kennedy, Caroline, and John to Arlington to visit
the grave site. Mrs. Kennedy’s sister Lee, Provi, and Miss Shaw came along. To see the children at the grave of their father—hollow eyes, a three-year-old’s questions, no more rides on the helicopter. It was gut-wrenching. It was Thanksgiving Day.

  Agents Landis, Meredith, and Wells had flown ahead to the Cape, and after our brief visit to Arlington, we boarded an Air Force aircraft at Andrews to Hyannis Port. It was an extremely emotional time. Mrs. Kennedy was so close to the ambassador and always before, her visits had been a shining light in his days. Now there was no light in anyone’s eyes. This was the third child Ambassador and Rose Kennedy had lost in violent death. Son Joe in World War II, daughter Kathleen, known as “Kick,” in an airplane crash, and now the president to an assassin’s bullet. What was there to be thankful for?

  Paul and I and the children’s agents had assumed we would stay with Mrs. Kennedy and the children until she left the White House. After that, we didn’t know what was going to happen. None of us could bear the thought of leaving them.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 1, we headed back to Washington. Earlier in November, my wife, Gwen, had found a new apartment in Alexandria—one with more space, for just a few dollars more a month. Unbeknownst to me, George Dalton and Jim Bartlett, two Navy men that handled the boats at Hyannis Port—Jim had been the one who had valiantly tried to teach me to water-ski—had shown up on the doorstep and helped Gwen move. I arrived home to the new apartment, piled high with boxes, and beyond grateful for the kindness of two friends.

  The next morning, back at the White House, I received a call from Chief Jim Rowley.

  “Clint,” Mr. Rowley said, “there is going to be a ceremony tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock in the fourth-floor conference room in the Treasury Building. You are going to receive the Treasury Department’s highest award for bravery. Secretary Douglas Dillon wants you there at ten-thirty. Your wife and children are invited to attend as well.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Mrs. Kennedy plans to be there,” Rowley added. “Congratulations, Clint.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Why am I getting an award? I had heard that Rufus Youngblood, the agent who was with Lyndon Johnson in Dallas, was getting an award. He had jumped on top of the vice president and shielded him from the sniper. He was successful.

  I don’t deserve an award. The president is dead.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Thank you,” I finally said.

  I hung up the phone and told Paul what the chief had said. Paul congratulated me, but he knew how I felt.

  I called home to tell Gwen.

  “It looks like you are finally going to meet Mrs. Kennedy,” I said.

  THE NEXT DAY, I arranged for Gwen to park on West Executive Avenue—the driveway of the White House. When she and the boys arrived, I walked out to meet them, and together we walked next door to the Treasury Building.

  There was a small room next to the fourth-floor conference room. Paul Landis had brought Mrs. Kennedy, her sister, Lee, and the president’s sisters Jean Smith and Pat Lawford. I was surprised to see them there—the president’s sisters.

  I introduced them to my family and Mrs. Kennedy said, “You have such fine-looking young sons, Mr. Hill.”

  I looked into her eyes, still so filled with pain. Did mine look the same?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy. They are good boys.”

  At eleven o’clock, we went into the conference room for the ceremony. Some of the press were there. They snapped pictures and took notes as Treasury secretary Douglas Dillon made a speech and presented me with the award. I was embarrassed by all this undeserved and unwanted attention, but I accepted the award and thanked Secretary Dillon, as Mrs. Kennedy stood and watched.

  My family went home, and I went back to my office, glad it was over.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 6, was moving-out day. Two good friends of President and Mrs. Kennedy, Mr. and Mrs. Averell Harriman, had graciously offered their home in Georgetown as a temporary residence to Mrs. Kennedy and the children. Everything had been packed and sorted, with most of the belongings being sent into storage until Mrs. Kennedy decided where she and the children would live on a permanent basis.

  President Johnson had also decided to award the Medal of Freedom, posthumously, to John F. Kennedy, at a ceremony in the State Dining Room, on this day. As Attorney General Robert Kennedy accepted the award on behalf of his brother, Mrs. Kennedy watched, sitting in a small adjacent room, behind a folding screen, her presence unannounced until the ceremony was over.

  Everything had been packed and loaded into trucks. Now it was time to say good-bye. Mrs. Kennedy said good-bye to Chief Usher J. B. West and the household staff—staff that had grown to love John and Caroline. It had been such a joy to have children in the White House. Throughout the entire house, from the upstairs maids to the stewards in the Navy Mess, tears were flowing.

  A few days earlier, Secret Service Chief Jim Rowley had called me into his office.

  “Clint,” he said, “President Johnson has requested the Secret Service provide protection for Mrs. Kennedy and the children for at least one more year. We have agreed to do so.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Rowley. I think it’s a good decision.”

  “The president told Mrs. Kennedy, and said she could have any agents she wanted. Take her pick.”

  I nodded. A lump filled my throat. I would do whatever Rowley requested—he was my boss. I would understand completely if she didn’t want me. Every time she sees me, it must bring back the horrible memories of that day, that dreadful day in Dallas. But I couldn’t imagine not being with her.

  “Clint, Mrs. Kennedy didn’t hesitate. She wants Bob Foster, Lynn Meredith, and Tom Wells to stay with the children.”

  I nodded. Held my breath.

  “And for herself, she said there was no choice to be made at all. She wants Paul Landis and Clint Hill.”

  Tears welled in my eyes.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rowley. Thank you.”

  Clint Hill, Mrs. Kennedy, and Caroline arrive at Harriman residence, 12/6/63

  So on December 6, as Mrs. Kennedy and the children moved out of the White House, so did I. I would no longer have my office in the Map Room. Jerry Behn said Paul and I could share a desk in his office temporarily, but we’d have to figure something else out. We were no longer on the White House Detail.

  Mrs. Kennedy, Miss Shaw, Caroline, and John got into the limousine at the South Portico and we drove from the White House together for the last time. It was quiet. Nothing was said. There was just a heavy sadness inside all of us.

  The Harriman house was at 3038 N Street Northwest—just three blocks down from the house where Mrs. Kennedy and I first met. As we drove through the narrow streets with the historic redbrick homes on each side, the memories came flooding back. Three years earlier, she was eight months’ pregnant, and I was so disappointed to have been given this assignment.

  John was carrying an American flag as he jumped out of the car and went inside. A few neighbors and a handful of curious onlookers were standing nearby, watching us, but far fewer people than I had imagined would be gawking.

  This looks pretty good. Maybe the people will leave her and the children alone, out of respect.

  The Harrimans had left some of their household staff to assist Mrs. Kennedy, and that first night, it almost felt like they were staying in a hotel with personal servants there to help in every way.

  The next weekend Mrs. Kennedy wanted to go to Atoka. “I guess we will have to drive,” she said. No longer did we have helicopters at our beck and call. She told me that from now on she was going to call the house at Atoka “Wexford,” after President Kennedy’s ancestral home in County Wexford, Ireland. It was nice to get back to the country again, to be around the horses she loved so. But still the smile did not return. The laughter was gone.

  When we returned to the Harriman house in Georgetown, she informed me that she and the children would be spending Christmas and Ne
w Year’s in Palm Beach, staying at the C. Michael Paul residence again. We would leave the following Wednesday.

  “I wanted to give you something, Mr. Hill,” she said as she handed me a typewritten letter. “I sent this letter to Secretary Dillon, and I thought you should know. I’d like you to pass it along to the other agents on our little detail, too. Go ahead, read it now.”

  I began to read the letter—it was two-and-a-half pages long, single-spaced, so it took me a while.

  Dear Douglas:

  I would like to ask you one thing that was so close to Jack’s heart—he often spoke about it—

  It is about our Secret Service detail—the children’s and mine. They are such exceptional men. He always said that, before he left office, he was going to see that the highest possible recommendation was left in each of their files—with the suggestion that each of them be really given a chance to advance, as they normally would, in the Secret Service.

  She wrote that this in no way was speaking against the president’s detail—he was devoted to them all.

  They were perfect and the President loved them.

  But, my detail and the children’s were younger men. They all had children just the ages of Caroline and John . . .

  You cannot imagine the difference they made in our lives. Before we came to the White House, the thing I dreaded most was the Secret Service. How wrong I was; it turned out that they were the ones who made it possible for us to have the happy close life that we did.