The Day Kennedy Was Shot

by Jim Bishop

  The Johnsons were comfortable in their car, but it had no jump seats; two Secret Service men were in front; the Johnsons used most of the rear seat. Two cars ahead, they noticed a commotion. The Kennedys had discovered that their car also held but five passengers. The front seat had William Greer, Secret Service agent assigned to drive the President’s car, and Roy Kellerman, head of the Dallas office. Governor and Mrs. Connally were to ride with the Kennedys, but there was room for only one of them on the back seat.

  The President was apologetic. Nellie Connally said it was understandable, and that her husband should ride with the President. For the short trip to Carswell, she would go back with the Johnsons, who were old friends. Up ahead, at the level of Main Street, the police motorcycle escort had started the assortment of explosions which always signified the imminence of departure. Mrs. Connally hurried back to squeeze in beside the Vice-President.

  Sunlight flicked on bright and hot. Seth Kantor, a journalist, found the Eighth Street side too crowded for leaving the hotel. He hurried out the Main Street entrance and down the side street, looking for the press bus. A raincoat was on his arm, and his notes were clutched in his hand. People in the motorcade watched him step off the curb between cars and one foot came to rest in fresh manure. Mr. Kantor went down, left arm trying to break the fall, and the hand braced itself in the manure. Whatever earthy humor there is in such a situation is beyond analysis, but laughter swept the motorcade.

  Two congressmen left their cars (Henry Gonzalez and Olin Teague) to help the reporter to his feet. They brushed his clothes and both observed that, journalistically, no matter where Kantor went, he managed to step in this substance. Malcolm Kilduff hurried to Kantor’s side to inform him that, unless he could find a way of diminishing the residual odor, he would have to ride on top of the press bus. Kilduff, assistant press secretary to Pierre Salinger, was the man in charge of the press on the Texas trip.

  O’Brien escorted Yarborough to the Johnson car and helped him in beside the Vice-President. Under his breath, Lyndon Johnson muttered, “Fine” to O’Brien, and Mrs. Johnson, in the middle, turned a friendly smile to the Senator. On the far side of the seat, the door opened and Nellie Connally was trying to squeeze in. Gallantly, the Senator began to back out. Larry O’Brien saw the broad hips he had just assisted into the car backing out toward him. He glanced at Mrs. Connally in mute appeal. She, gracious and confused, backed out as O’Brien’s shoulder jammed the Yarborough hips back into the car. Mrs. Connally got out of the car, walked around the back, and got in the front seat between a policeman and Secret Service man Rufus Youngblood.

  No one, except O’Brien and Johnson, seemed to comprehend this complex game of musical automobiles, but the Secret Service men nodded to each other from the back of the motorcade to the front, and the Fort Worth police stopped all traffic on Main and slowly began the run to Carswell. The crowd cheered, the Kennedys waved, and the excitement around the Hotel Texas died in a pall of blue smoke.

  The people of Fort Worth were confused by the route chosen by Kellerman and O’Donnell. The direct way to Carswell would have been Route 20, the east-west freeway, between Trinity Park and Forest Park and then the residential section of Arlington Heights to White Settlement and the base. It was 10:40 A.M. and the decision-makers wanted to use a half hour, so the motorcade swept up Henderson Avenue and onto Jacksboro Highway in a north-northwesterly direction, although Carswell was west of the hotel, then a big swing left onto Ephriham Avenue, which melts into General Arnold Boulevard, passing the airport on the opposite side, to the south.

  Someone in authority must have thought that this would be good exposure for the President, but, as the morning breeze cupped the ears of the riders, they saw but a thin rime of citizens standing on the curb. In the press bus, reporters saw a few shapely women out on the sidewalk in housecoats. One said: “Hustlers?” A second said: “This early?” Seth Kantor, looking ahead, saw a big automatic farm forklift at the side of the road with two men sitting high in the shovel waving to the Kennedys. They were old friends: Harry Rubin and George Levitan. Mr. Kantor had been married in Levitan’s house eleven years ago.

  The sun, still tentative, seemed a bit more positive and flashed light and heat across the lush fairways of Rockwood Park and Shady Oaks. President Kennedy squinted at the sky and smiled. He was a man who liked to make his best showing, and a good portion of truculent, independent Dallas might come out on the streets to swell the attendance if he could have sunshine as an ally.

  His wife, flicking the lower strand of dark hair back from her eyes, held onto the little pink hat and said the weather was warm for November. It was, but in this matter her husband would not attribute it to the vagaries of high and lows and unusual isobars. It was General Godfrey McHugh’s fault. Kennedy had asked him specifically to get a good advance reading on the weather, and McHugh had the pooling of several meteorologists at his command: the Dallas Weather Bureau; the Air Force; Carswell; Fort Worth; the national meteorological projection for all areas, issued at the observatory in Washington, and McHugh had come up with “cool.” It wasn’t cool; it was hot, and Mrs. Kennedy was now in cold-weather wool. Before noon, the temperature might climb to the seventies. If it did, the President’s temperature was going to climb higher, especially in the presence of Godfrey McHugh.

  11 a.m.

  The pace of the clock was deliberate and unhurried, the large second hand flicking a leg like a British soldier executing a slow march. It is the most exasperating of man’s inventions because it must prevail and can never be dominated. The timepiece displays an impassive face and man moves at a pace faster than he wishes. He fights this index to events and movement and must always lose the final engagement.

  It was so with the Fort Worth motorcade. Surprisingly, there were a few bands tootling music as a welcome to the President, and he waved, turning backward in the seat to grin as his thick hair lifted high over his head, but the speed began to accelerate as the O’Donnells and the Kilduffs noticed that the schedule was six minutes late.

  The air was damp and uncomfortable, and, as the dwellings and curbside watchers thinned, the cavalcade turned off onto Meandering Road to the gate at Carswell Air Force Base. The guard of honor, sparkling in the sporadic sunlight, stood at present arms as the cars inched through the security checks. The commanding officers stood in array, the white laurels on their peaked caps proclaiming rank.

  Mr. Kennedy turned on his youthful smile, but he was in a hurry. The post band began the solemnly punctuated “Hail to the Chief,” and everyone remained at rapt attention until the last note. There were greetings to be exchanged with generals and some wives who wanted to be presented, and there was no way to hurry the takeoff to Dallas. Mrs. Kennedy, gracious and smiling, met the ranking officers and their ladies with the poise that was always hers. The President, fingering the top button on his suit jacket, murmured to O’Brien: “This certainly has been an interesting and pleasant morning.”

  The President was sure that he could board Air Force One at once, because Carswell is so security-conscious that young officers who left the base for a movie often wondered how they would get back in. When Major General Montgomery was the commanding officer, he assigned new lieutenants to live in Fort Worth and ordered them to try daily to “sneak” into his base without proper credentials.

  The President and First Lady, with the accounterment of generals, began to move toward Air Force One. They almost reached it. Suddenly, a group of mechanics in coveralls burst through the lines and engulfed the party. There were yells and hurrahs and grimy hands were thrust forward. High in the flight deck of 26000, Colonel James Swindal looked down and saw the Kennedys disappear in the enthusiastic maelstrom.

  Lyndon Johnson and his group hurried over to Air Force Two and boarded at once. The press, with a Pan American Clipper 707, was ready to go. No one could move until the President was ready, and Secret Service men tried to insulate the First Family against all those hands waving near
their faces. But the President, pleased at the outburst, began to lend himself to it and he held both arms above those nearest to him to reach and shake a wheel of arms.

  Secret Service men waved everyone else aboard, urging the passengers to hurry. Mrs. Lincoln, who had stopped the President at the elevator with her relatives’ relatives, waited to get a picture of the Kennedys with a new camera. The captains of the three aircraft received clearance to taxi. The breeze was out of the northwest and slight, and Swindal—even though his plane was traveling light—chose to taxi south and use the long runway north over Lake Worth.

  The doors of the press plane closed, and the ramp was pulled away. Aboard AF-2 were thirty-two passengers, including ten Secret Service men. Of the remaining twenty-two, Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson had as guests seven congressmen and Texas Attorney General Waggoner Carr and Mrs. Carr. General Ted Clifton, The Bagman’s boss, was aboard, but The Bagman was manifested on Air Force One. Elizabeth Carpenter, the stout, jolly, and observant secretary to Mrs. Johnson, put on her seat belt, blew a sigh, and hoped that Dallas would behave itself.

  The Kennedys inched their way toward the rear ramp of Air Force One. Military police were now trying to pry the well-wishers from the couple, but many of the workers had waited a long time for this opportunity, and they had no intention of going home tonight saying: “No, I did not shake hands with the President.”

  There were thirty-six aboard Air Force One, not counting the crew. This was the powerhouse group. No matter how friendly the relationship between the people on AF-1 and AF-2, there was always an aura of condescension from the first to the second. The planes were the same model, same size, almost the same accommodations, but rank and precedence are important. The personnel on both planes shared a spirit of camaraderie, but, when opinions diverged, it was AF-1 which prevailed.

  Besides the President and Mrs. Kennedy, AF-1 had Kenneth O’Donnell, Lawrence O’Brien, and David Powers, the Athos, Aramis, and Porthos of the President’s private circle. General Godfrey McHugh was aboard, proud and officious. Mary Gallagher, who was not en rapport with Mrs. Kennedy this morning, sat quietly with Mrs. Lincoln and hoped that the First Lady’s squall of displeasure would blow away with the rain.

  Malcolm Kilduff, bright and tough, was in charge of the press but he rated AF-1 in case the President might wish to commune about stories in the Dallas press. Dr. George Burkley, rear admiral and physician to the President, walked up and down the aisle, a mild gray man who felt that he should be close to the President at all times, but who was often ordered to the back of the line by Kenny O’Donnell. It seemed pointless to Burkley to have a doctor at a distance from the President of the United States—of what use would he be in an emergency?—but he was also thankful that the President, other than a chronically bad back and a chronic cortisone deficiency, was a healthy animal.

  Governor and Nellie Connally had to be on AF-1. So, too, did Ralph Yarborough. Roy Kellerman, the tall, wavy-haired man who was in charge of Secret Service on this trip, was also aboard, sitting at a breakfast nook in the back of the plane. So was Clint Hill, whose function was to protect the First Lady.

  Four members of the press, representing all the others on the Pan American plane, were permitted aboard AF-1. The dean was Mr. Merriman Smith of United Press International, who would, if the opportunity arose, flash a story to UPI and, on leaving the only telephone in the area, yank it from its moorings.

  Practically, this flight was ludicrous. Three giant jets were about to fly thirty-three miles. There had been considerable surprise among the crews when the order had come down that all the infinite care and preparation for a flight overseas would be put into operation for a small commuter run between twin cities. Automobile drivers on the expressway made the trip in thirty minutes. The commercial air companies referred to Love Field as the Dallas—Fort Worth Airport, as though both cities were one.

  The situation had already created a traffic problem. No bombers were taking off from or landing at Carswell. The B52s on the hardstands stood like tired birds in pools of rain. Any aircraft en route in was ordered to remain clear or proceed to Bergstrom Air Force Base. The small private planes at Luck, Oak Grove, Plyon, Arlington, Blue Mound, Grand Prairie, Red Bird, Greater Southwest International, and White Rock had been ordered to clear the air. For weeks the big commercial companies which had flights coming into Love Field, or outbound, had been warned to cancel, postpone, or move ahead. The FAA monitors at Love Field had been told to “pick up” the three presidential planes on radar the moment they lifted off Carswell.

  The soft drawling Alabaman, Colonel James Swindal, filed a flight plan asking for 5,000 feet altitude. AF-1 could make the climb in two minutes, but a jet is inefficient under 24,000 feet, and Swindal would be swinging into the Greater Dallas area before he could get higher. He could climb north to the outer perimeter, swing slowly to starboard, remaining mostly in the turbulent cloud cover, pass over Grapevine and on toward Richardson and Garland, then southeast to Mesquite, turning northeast over the Trinity River, dropping slowly as he passed the skyscrapers of downtown Dallas, then up the alley between Hines Boulevard and Lemmon Avenue to runway 31, which is close to 310 degrees on the compass.

  The colonel saw his prime passengers climb the ramp, and, when the exit door light flicked off on his panel, he lit number three pod, and then the others. The first officer passed the word that Air Force One was ready. The President and Mrs. Kennedy proceeded to their private cabin, slightly aft of the big silver wing. The seat belt sign went on. Colonel Swindal watched the press plane move out, a broad, ugly, rocking thing on concrete but a flash of white swan in the sky.

  Behind it, the Vice-President’s Boeing 707 whined at a slow pace as it moved to the bottom of the two-mile strip of concrete. The air began to crackle with repeated flight plans, courses, and handoffs. Dallas came in to warn two commercial jets, now twenty miles northeast of Love Field, to please hold at their respective altitudes and positions for the next fifteen minutes.

  The crew of Air Force One flew the world’s most pampered airplane. The exterior, blue and white trim, had been selected by President Kennedy. The interior had been designed by him, with assistance from Mrs. Kennedy and a decorator. The paired seats in the front of the plane are turned backward because it is more conducive to safety; at the wing section there is a bulkhead with the Seal of the President of the United States. Behind it is a combination office and lounge, with a desk, a presidential telephone, a long settee, an overhead television set, deep pile rugs, an electric typewriter and, behind this, a narrow walkway on the port side of the plane. Facing the walkway is the private cabin of the President and First Lady, with twin beds, a makeup table, a desk, and flowers. Here, the current newspapers and magazines were laid out in rows for the Kennedys.

  Behind the private cabin is an aft area with a breakfast nook and facing benches, a few stuffed seats against the opposite bulkhead, and a storage compartment in the tail of the aircraft. Up front, behind the flight deck, is the most elaborate communications equipment ever devised for air travel. The President may, if he chooses, speak to anyone in the world who has a telephone. Should any part of the system fail, there are “backup” facilities. At the press of a button, soft music floods the plane from ceiling loudspeakers. A motion picture can be shown. A Secret Service man may depress a button on a separate telephone system and speak to his confreres anywhere.

  The plane cost the American taxpayers $6 million with fan jet engines; communications ran to $2 million; there was even an original painting of a French farmhouse over Mr. Kennedy’s bed. News came in on a teletype machine and the sheets were ripped off and placed before the Chief Executive as they were enunciated. The plane had a small device which would encode a message and decode it. The rug underfoot was blue with a taloned golden eagle and stars representing the original thirteen states.

  Swindal turned his four big engines up, and concrete began to slide under the nose. He watched the press plane pass hi
m, going the other way, and he saw it lift off into the low billowing gray over Lake Worth. Its gear was tucked in at 11:17 A.M.;AF-2 roared north one minute behind it, still in the turbine turbulence of its predecessor. Colonel Swindal waited until 11:20, completed all his last-minute checks, and poured the JP-4 to the engines. The few in the passenger area who would not sit when the stewards requested it, felt themselves hanging onto seats to keep from sliding back down the aisle.

  In a moment, 26000 was airborne. Swindal asked for seven thousand feet instead of five and got it. He could have asked for anything because nothing else was permitted to fly in the area, and only three blips showed on the radar screens. He throttled down to 225 knots, and started his big lazy swing to the right. The Colonel didn’t know it, but the FAA monitors at Dallas had him on their scopes before he cleared Fort Worth.

  For John F. Kennedy, landing at Dallas would complete 75,682 miles of travel in Air Force One—approximately three times around the world in one year.

  Dispatcher Henslee at Dallas Police Headquarters noticed a swelling volume of traffic. He was handling Channel Two and the voices were coming in from all parts of the city to ask questions or to contact other officers. A deep voice came in calling “30.” This was Sergeant R. C. Childers’ number. “When you start receiving information from the tower on that plane,” he said, “advise 531 (radio dispatcher’s telephone extension).” Sergeant Gerald Henslee announced his agreement. “Ten four,” he said. “Will be on Channel Two.” He called Deputy Chief N. T. Fisher at the airport. “Four. Will you advise as to crowd estimate and weather condition.” Fisher was not willing to predict weather. “Ten four,” he said. “It’s not raining now and we have an estimate of a crowd of eleven hundred people.”