Mrs. Kennedy and Me

by McCubbin, Lisa;Hill, Clint

  “Oh, I think it would be a great experience for her,” I said. “And very relaxing for you, too. Just let me know when you finalize your plans because the sooner I know, the better.”

  TYPICALLY, PRESIDENT KENNEDY would join Mrs. Kennedy at Glen Ora on Saturday, but this particular weekend he was in New York City, and wouldn’t arrive until Sunday evening. A Democratic fund-raiser had been organized at Madison Square Garden on Saturday night, May 19, in which fifteen thousand donors paid $100 to $1,000 for a ticket to see a lineup of entertainment that included Ella Fitzgerald, Jack Benny, Harry Belafonte, and Marilyn Monroe. President Kennedy’s forty-fifth birthday was ten days later, and the show was billed as a birthday celebration. Mrs. Kennedy despised these kinds of functions, and it was not at all surprising for her not to attend. She was much happier spending the weekend at Glen Ora with her hunt country friends than making shallow conversation with political donors.

  The morning after the event, it was reported in newspapers across the country how Marilyn Monroe had sung a “sultry rendition” of “Happy Birthday” to the president, after which he had quipped to the audience, “I can now retire from politics having had ‘Happy Birthday’ sung to me in such a sweet, wholesome way.”

  I read the article and I’m sure Mrs. Kennedy did, too, but neither of us ever brought up the subject. It was never discussed.

  I WAS PLEASANTLY surprised to find out that the president and Mrs. Kennedy and the children were going to spend the Fourth of July weekend at Camp David. We had just returned from a highly successful trip to Mexico, where more than two million people had lined the streets in Mexico City to see President and Mrs. Kennedy. After one night at home—just enough time to unpack and repack my suitcase—I was back at the White House the morning of July 2.

  Mrs. Kennedy and the children would fly ahead to Camp David, and the president would join them the evening of the Fourth, after some events in Philadelphia.

  Maud Shaw had brought John and Caroline down to the Diplomatic Reception Room to wait for the helicopter that would be landing shortly on the South Lawn. Little John was twenty months old at this time, and boy did he love helicopters. He was bouncing around the room, so excited he could hardly contain himself. It wasn’t often that he got to ride in the chopper, so today was a special day.

  “Hey, John,” I said, as I squatted down next to him. “You ready to ride in the helicopter?”

  “Yeah!” he squealed in his little-boy voice, jumping up and down. Just then the unmistakable sound of the helicopter rotors could be heard overhead, and he ran toward the doors. “Copter!” he yelled. “Copter!”

  It was quite a spectacular sight—to see a helicopter land in your backyard.

  Watching John’s reaction as we lifted up and flew away from the White House toward the Washington Monument was a joy in itself. Sitting on his mother’s lap, his nose pressed against the window, he could barely sit still. His innocent enthusiasm was precious, and a reminder of just what a privilege this was.

  I HAD SPENT considerable time at Camp David during the Eisenhower administration and for me it was like going home. All familiar territory. Mrs. Kennedy had been there only briefly the previous year, and I had come to learn that one of the reasons she hadn’t been enthusiastic about spending time at Camp David was that there were no stables for her horses. So, as was her way, she managed to have stables built at the presidential retreat. Sardar and Caroline’s pony, Macaroni, were transported by trailer and were there waiting upon our arrival.

  As we were walking along one of the pathways through the woods on the property, Mrs. Kennedy said, “Oh, Mr. Hill, you were right. Camp David is wonderful. It is so secluded and private.”

  “I thought you would like it here,” I said. “It’s a great place to relax and get away from the Washington scene.”

  “Yes, and you know how much I need that,” she said with a laugh. “That reminds me, I have finalized the dates I’ll be in Italy. Caroline and I will leave during the first week of August, and I think we may be gone three weeks. Lee, Stash, and their children will be joining us in Ravello.”

  I had been wondering if the trip was going to materialize, since I hadn’t heard anything since she’d first mentioned it to me in Middleburg.

  “Three weeks in Italy. Sounds wonderful,” I said with a smile. “I better brush up on my Italian.”

  She laughed and said, “Oh, is your Italian as good as your French?”

  “I’m afraid not.” I laughed.

  “Well, I’m not worried about that,” she said. “I have decided, however, that the only staff I’m bringing with me is Provi.”

  She stopped and turned toward me to make a point. “You know, Mr. Hill, I realized that I really don’t need anyone but you—you handled everything so well on the trip to India and Pakistan. I’d much rather have you deal with the press and take care of personal things that come up. You understand how I like things done. Do you think you can handle that?”

  I was somewhat surprised by this—that she wanted me to handle the kinds of details normally taken care of by her personal and social secretaries—but I also understood why. It gets tiresome having people around you all the time, and she wanted this to be a very private vacation.

  “Of course, Mrs. Kennedy. I’ll do the best I can.”

  She smiled and said, “I know you will, Mr. Hill. You always do. There is never any question about that.”

  13

  Another Summer in Hyannis Port

  After the Fourth of July weekend at Camp David, Mrs. Kennedy and the children spent the rest of July 1962 in Hyannis Port, with the president joining the family every weekend. Having a separate residence in Palm Beach away from the hubbub of the ambassador’s house during the winter months had worked out so well that this summer they had rented the home of singer Morton Downey, on Squaw Island, which was just about a mile away from the Kennedy compound. Squaw Island wasn’t really an island, but was connected to Hyannis Port by a narrow beach road that was used only by the small group of residents who lived there. The Downey home was larger than President Kennedy’s own house on the compound, was much more secluded, and with little or no traffic between the two locations, it was ideal.

  Lunch on the Marlin or the Honey Fitz was almost a daily routine. But frequently the president would sail the Victura, the twenty-six-foot Wianno Senior sailboat that his parents gave him on his fifteenth birthday. He loved that boat. He could maneuver it with such grace and ease that it was almost like it was an extension of himself.

  One day at the end of July, the president and Chuck Spalding were sailing the Victura close to shore, just off the dock from the ambassador’s residence. It was a cool summer day, and both were dressed in chino pants and cardigan sweaters. They were in the midst of a deep conversation and didn’t realize they were coming upon some rocks. Suddenly the boat stopped dead in the water, as it got wedged in between the rocks.

  I was in a jetboat nearby, watching the scene unfold, fully expecting the president to get the boat moving again with ease, but the boat wasn’t budging. President Kennedy dropped the mainsail to let the wind out of it, stood up, and turned toward me.

  “Hey Clint, can you give us a little help? We seem to be stuck.”

  “I’ll be right there, Mr. President,” I said as I jumped into the water.

  We were so close to shore that the water was only up to my thighs, so I waded over to the stuck sailboat.

  There was a glare on the water such that you couldn’t see the problem from above, so I took a deep breath and went under the boat. Sure enough, the hull was jammed into some boulders.

  “Looks like you’re wedged in between two big rocks, Mr. President. Let me see if I can rock the boat to get it moving. You may want to sit down.”

  The president laughed and said, “Good idea. But I’m more concerned about the boat than Chuck and myself.”

  I placed my feet on top of one of the boulders and squatted with my back against the bottom of th
e hull.

  “Hang on, Mr. President,” I said. “Here we go.”

  I began to rock up and down and as the boat started to move, I gave one big thrust upward with my body while simultaneously pushing down with my legs. As I did so, the Victura slid off the rocks, causing my feet to slip down each side of the rock on which I was standing. The rock was shaped somewhat like a cone, and that final thrust caused me to go straight down, with the cone-shaped rock crashing into my groin area.

  I gritted my teeth to keep from yelling out in pain, as the president immediately raised the sail and turned the tiller.

  The boat began drifting away.

  “Thanks, Clint!” the president called back to me, completely unaware of what had just occurred under the water.

  “No problem, sir,” I replied. “Glad I was able to help.”

  I walked gingerly through the water back to the jetboat, and as I climbed over the side, I noticed blood running down my legs. I had almost crushed a very important part of my anatomy. Pained and bloody, I continued on for the rest of the day.

  I was completely unaware that Cecil Stoughton, one of the White House photographers, happened to catch the ordeal on film, and apparently word got back to the president that I had been injured. A few days later I received an 8x10 photo of the president and Chuck Spalding standing on the Victura as I waded through the water toward the stuck boat. The president had signed the photo with the inscription:

  For Clint Hill

  “The Secret Service are prepared for all hazards”

  John F. Kennedy

  It was a very nice gesture, and that photo is a treasured memento. The Victura and her passengers were unharmed, and while I did walk a bit funny for the next couple of days, I healed without any permanent damage.

  It was easy to see why the Kennedys loved Hyannis Port so much. It was quaint and comfortable, and despite the big houses on the ocean with the boats and yachts, it was unpretentious. The Kiddie Detail agents—Bob Foster, Lynn Meredith, and Paul Landis—and I were there the entire time, and we really began to feel like part of the family. If things needed to be hauled onto the boat, we’d grab the baskets of food or towels or whatever needed to be brought aboard. There always seemed to be dozens of children around, and they all knew us by name—it was always “Mr. Hill” or “Mr. Landis.” I often wondered if the younger ones thought we were just a few more uncles. Every Friday afternoon the president would arrive in the helicopter, with even more Secret Service agents, and more activity, and then by Monday morning he would return to Washington and we would return to our more casual routine. Summer in Hyannis Port was a very special time.

  Clint Hill holds John, watching Mummy and Daddy aboard the Marlin

  In between the constant activity, I was working with Mrs. Kennedy and Secret Service headquarters on plans for her upcoming trip to Italy. Once again I needed to assemble a team of agents to handle the advance, perimeter coverage, vehicles, travel arrangements, and boats, as well as to assist with the personal security coverage of both Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline.

  When President Kennedy was in Hyannis Port, he tried to spend as much time with John and Caroline as possible, even though so many others were always vying for his attention. Caroline was now four and a half years old and the president seemed to want to share his passions with her more and more. They had a very close father-daughter relationship and it was precious to see the two of them together. The Saturday prior to our departure for Italy, President Kennedy spent all morning with Caroline. He took her to Hyannis Country Club to watch the golfers tee off, shopped in the pro shop, and then, walking hand in hand, they went to visit the ambassador at his residence. Because we had secured the perimeter of the property, the Secret Service agents tried to give the president and his family as much space as possible when they were on the compound.

  As was typical, a lunchtime cruise was planned aboard the ambassador’s yacht, the Marlin. I was down on the dock with a couple of the Navy aides getting the jetboats ready when the president came walking down with Caroline.

  His tan had deepened after spending so much time outdoors, and dressed in a golf shirt, trousers, and sunglasses, he looked like any other father with his daughter out here on the Cape. Sometimes in this casual environment you could almost forget he was the President of the United States.

  “Clint,” he said as he walked toward me, “Mrs. Kennedy will be coming out shortly with my father to go on the Marlin. But first, I’m going to take Caroline for a short sail on the Victura. Just hang close and when I give you the signal, you can come pick us up and take us to the Marlin.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President,” I answered.

  Once Caroline and the president were on the small sailboat, the Navy aides untied the dock lines and gave the boat a push-off. As I watched the president hoist the mainsail, I could see the pleasure he took in this simple, hands-on task. Aboard the Victura was one of the few places where the president could fully relax, his direction determined solely by the wind.

  They sailed gently away from the dock and from a distance I could tell that the president was explaining to his four-year-old daughter how the sailboat worked—how to trim the sails to take full advantage of the wind, how to manage the tiller. He was so intent on sharing his love of sailing with her, and she just adored him.

  After they had sailed for a while the president pulled in the sail, dropped the anchor near shore, and signaled for me to come pick them up.

  I sped over and tied the jetboat loosely to the sailboat for the transfer. I stood up and the president said, “Okay, Buttons, I’m going to hand you to Mr. Hill.”

  The president picked up his daughter and held her toward me. I grabbed her firmly by the waist and said, “Okay, Mr. President, I’ve got her.”

  Transferring kids and dogs from one boat to another seemed to be a constant activity itself, and Caroline knew the routine. As the president stepped into the boat with us I said, “I was watching you, Caroline. You did a good job with that sailboat.”

  She looked up at me with her big blue eyes and grinned. “Thank you, Mr. Hill. But my daddy did most of the work.”

  The president and I looked at each other and laughed.

  It was a beautiful day on the waters off Cape Cod, as the president, Caroline, and I sped off to join Mrs. Kennedy and the ambassador on the Marlin for lunch.

  “Clint,” President Kennedy said to me, “I wanted to mention a few things to you before you leave for Italy.”

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “You know we aren’t sending staff over with Mrs. Kennedy to handle the press, but obviously there are going to be photographers there and they will be constantly trying to get pictures of her.”

  “Yes, sir. Unfortunately that seems to be the case no matter where we go.”

  “The beach is not secluded and I don’t want to see photos of her at luncheons with eight different wines in full view or jet-set types lolling around in bikinis. Do what you can to remind her to be aware of that.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Mr. President.”

  “Jackie has invited Benno Graziani and his wife, Nicole, to stay with her and Lee in Ravello,” President Kennedy continued. “Benno is a lot of fun, but he’s always got his camera in his hand.”

  The Italian Graziani had become good friends with Mrs. Kennedy prior to her marriage, when she was a photojournalist for the Washington Times Herald, and now he had become a well-known photographer for Paris Match magazine.

  “Do not let Benno talk Lee and Jackie into letting him take pictures for the magazine,” the president said emphatically. “And above all, no nightclub pictures.”

  I had met Benno Graziani several times before. He was a lot of fun—always clowning around—and I think he was a relief from the political types that dominated their circle of friends. He was one of the few people with whom Mrs. Kennedy let her guard down, and because they had known each other prior to her becoming the wife of John F. Kennedy, she trusted him.


  About this time we reached the Marlin, and transferred the president and Caroline into the bigger yacht from the jetboat. As I slowly pulled away, the president’s words played over and over in my head and I realized that while he wouldn’t be joining his wife on this holiday, he was going to be aware of everything she did. With no other staff or press people on the trip, it was clear that he was counting on me to protect Mrs. Kennedy’s image as well as her physical safety.

  14

  Traveling with Mrs. Kennedy

  Ravello

  Clint Hill leads Mrs. Kennedy through the constant crowds in Italy

  On August 8, 1962, Mrs. Kennedy, Caroline, Provi, and I departed from New York’s Idlewild Airport on a Pan American World Airways regularly scheduled overnight commercial flight for Rome. The excellent relationship that the White House transportation office and the Secret Service had with the major airlines enabled me to handpick most of the Pan Am crew. There were certain pilots and stewardesses we had flown with before who we trusted to provide not only reliable service but also a confidential environment. Mrs. Kennedy attracted so much attention wherever she went that the last thing I wanted was to have passengers and crew members bothering her on the flight. For additional privacy and comfort, we had reserved extra seats in the first-class section so that Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline could lie down across four seats. Provi and I sat across the aisle in our own first-class seats, both of us appreciative of the fact that we could never afford to travel like this on our own. There were certainly fringe benefits to our jobs.

  We landed in Rome early the next morning and boarded a privately chartered aircraft for the short flight to Salerno. Agent Paul Rundle was there to greet us, along with Prince and Princess Radziwill, a group of cars, a police escort, and, thank God, no press in sight.

  Ravello was only about a ten-mile drive from Salerno, but that was an adventure in and of itself over hazardous hairpin-turn roads high atop the cliffs along the Amalfi coast. There were stretches in the road where only a single car could pass, and even though the Italian police had blocked off the route to normal traffic for our arrival, it was still a nail-biter of a ride, as one minor swerve would send you careening into the sea below. The views were spectacular, however, with colorful stucco villas terraced into the steep and rugged terrain, with the sparkling acqua water below. Mrs. Kennedy loved it.