by Hill, Clint
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This book is dedicated to the men and women of the United States Secret Service, past and present, who have worked tirelessly to keep the occupant of the Office of the President of the United States in a secure environment, through good times and bad, without regard to the political party affiliation of the protectee. You served long, tedious hours, under stress and in the face of danger, without complaint to ensure continuity of our government as directed by the Constitution and its amendments. No matter the challenges or obstacles, you remained true to the Secret Service code of honor: WORTHY OF TRUST AND CONFIDENCE. I am proud to have served in your ranks.
Contents
INTRODUCTION: Walking Beside History
PART ONE: WITH PRESIDENT EISENHOWER
1. The Secret Dead Body
2. The White House Detail
3. The Eleven-Nation Tour
4. The South American Tour
5. Spying on the Soviets
6. The Asian Trip
7. The 1960 Presidential Campaign
PART TWO: WITH PRESIDENT KENNEDY
8. On the First Lady Detail
9. Palm Beach
10. Traveling with the Kennedys: Europe
11. Hyannis Port
12. Traveling with the Kennedys: South America and Mexico
13. The Cuban Missile Crisis
14. 1963: Great Expectations
15. Triumph and Tragedy
16. The Trip to Texas
17. Dallas
18. The Funeral
19. The Year After
PART THREE: WITH PRESIDENT JOHNSON
20. The LBJ Ranch
21. Inauguration 1965
22. The Civil Rights President
23. A President’s Burdens
24. Traveling with LBJ: Honolulu and Mexico City
25. Traveling with LBJ: Down Under
26. 1967
27. 1968
28. Loyalty
29. Last Days with LBJ
PART FOUR: WITH PRESIDENTS NIXON AND FORD
30. Vice President Spiro Agnew
31. Beware Greeks Bearing Gifts
32. A Visit from Elvis
33. 1971
34. 1972: The Beginning of the End
35. A White House in Turmoil
36. The Unraveling of a Presidency
37. History Takes Its Toll
38. 60 Minutes
EPILOGUE
PHOTOGRAPHS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT CLINT HILL AND LISA McCUBBIN
INDEX
INTRODUCTION
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Walking Beside History
As a Special Agent in the United States Secret Service, I had the honor and privilege of serving five presidents—Dwight D. Eisenhower, John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson, Richard M. Nixon, and Gerald R. Ford—three Republicans and two Democrats. From my unique vantage point, I had the rare opportunity to observe the human side of these men—the most powerful men in the world—as each dealt with the enormous responsibilities and unforeseen challenges thrust upon them, and how their individual characters and personalities affected grave decisions.
My seventeen years in the Secret Service spanned the period that encompassed the U-2 spy incident; the Cold War; the Cuban Missile Crisis; the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr., and Robert F. Kennedy; the civil rights movement, riots and burning of major U.S. cities; the Vietnam War; Watergate; and the resignations of Vice President Spiro T. Agnew and President Nixon. In less than two decades, America went from being unquestionably the most respected and admired nation in the world to a country whose image had become tarnished by violence, scandal, and deceit.
It is interesting to note that of these five presidents, only Eisenhower had a normal run as president—elected by the people and serving two full terms. Kennedy was elected in 1960 by the slimmest of margins, and his term lasted just one thousand days, cut short by an assassin. Suddenly, the vice president became president. Johnson was reelected the following year, but when the demands of the office and the casualties of the Vietnam War became more than he could bear, he chose not to run for a second term. Nixon was elected in 1968, and again in 1972, but in the wake of the Watergate scandal, he became the first United States president to resign, in 1974. A year earlier, when Nixon’s vice president, Spiro Agnew, resigned in disgrace, Nixon appointed Gerald Ford as vice president. Thus, upon Nixon’s resignation, Ford became president, never having been elected to the office.
It was a turbulent time, and there I was, in the middle of it all.
As with our two previous books, my talented writing partner, Lisa McCubbin, and I have attempted to bring history to life through my experiences. While Mrs. Kennedy and Me focused on my interactions with Jacqueline Kennedy, and Five Days in November detailed those tragic days surrounding the assassination, the Kennedy section in this book focuses on my observations of and interactions with President Kennedy. There is unavoidably some overlap, but the recollections of my years with Eisenhower, Johnson, Nixon, and Ford are revealed here for the first time.
There is no doubt that the assassination of President Kennedy was a defining moment for me, and it would affect me on many levels for the rest of my life. I was thrust onto the pages of history, but it has often bothered me that I would be remembered solely for my actions on that one day. For there was much that led up to that moment, and much that followed.
Like the five presidents I served, there were many things that influenced the decisions I made, the actions I took, the man I became.
It has indeed been an extraordinary journey.
PART ONE
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With President Eisenhower
When I was sworn into the U.S. Secret Service as a Special Agent in 1958, President Dwight D. Eisenhower was well into the second year of his second term. As the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in World War II, he was credited with liberating Europe, which made him a worldwide hero. General Eisenhower had entered politics as a moderate Republican and had earned the respect of the nation, with 85 percent of the country viewing him favorably. The American people trusted his judgment and leadership during a time when the threat of a nuclear attack by the Soviet Union was a very real fear for all of us.
The Eisenhower era was one of peace and prosperity. Just seven months into his term, Eisenhower had ended the Korean War, and his conservative fiscal policies led to unprecedented expansion. Having seen the numerous benefits of the autobahns in Germany, Eisenhower initiated America’s interstate highway system, which created an abundance of jobs as roads and bridges were constructed across the country.
People were proud to be Americans, proud of our country, and proud of our president.
1
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The Secret Dead Body
All I could think of as I stared at the dead woman lying on the bed was How the hell are we going to get her body out of here without anyone knowing?
There were only a few hours of darkness left, so some quick decisions had to be made. It was my first month as a Special Agent in the United States Secret Service, and I knew if I screwed th
is up, my career would be over before it really began.
Fortunately, I had the home telephone number of my supervisor, Earl Schoel, the Special Agent in Charge (SAIC) of the Denver Field Office, in my wallet. I walked quietly downstairs and dialed his number from the phone in the kitchen.
“Hello?” Schoel answered groggily.
“Mr. Schoel,” I said, “it’s Clint Hill. I’m sorry to call you in the middle of the night, but we have a situation here at the Doud residence.”
Few people knew it, but President Dwight D. Eisenhower had ordered part-time Secret Service protection for his eighty-year-old mother-in-law, Mrs. Elvira Doud. There were no outright threats to the president’s mother-in-law, but because she was ill and lived alone, except for a maid and a nurse, there was concern that she could be kidnapped and held for bargaining purposes. Likewise, if there was a major health problem during the night, the agents would have the means to quickly get her the help she needed and also be able to immediately notify the president and Mrs. Eisenhower.
On September 22, 1958, I was given a badge, handcuffs, holster, gun, and ammunition, and officially sworn in as a Special Agent in the United States Secret Service. I was taken out to the shooting range at the U.S. Mint in Denver to make sure I could qualify, and that was it. There was no other immediate training, except for reading the Special Agent Manual. One of my first assignments was on the midnight shift, protecting Mrs. Doud.
Mrs. Doud lived in a three-story brick home at 750 Lafayette Street in Denver, Colorado, and the protection was from seven o’clock in the evening until seven o’clock in the morning, with one agent on duty from 7:00 p.m. until 11:00 p.m., and another agent taking over from 11:00 p.m. until 7:00 a.m.
First Lady Mamie Eisenhower and her sister Mabel—whom everyone called “Mike”—had been visiting their mother over the past week and were so grateful for the agents to stay the night with her that they prepared sandwiches for us each evening and left them in the fridge. It was a very nice gesture, and they weren’t so bad when Mamie made them, but when Mike got involved, let me tell you, those were the worst sandwiches I ever tasted. I never could figure out exactly what she put between the slices of white bread that tasted so bad, but it was almost inedible. The Mike and Mamie sandwiches were a running joke among the agents in the Denver office.
That particular night, I had come to work just before eleven, and the departing agent told me there had been no unusual activity. The house was quiet, with Mrs. Doud and her nurse asleep upstairs on the second floor, and the maid, Mary, in her room on the third floor.
I had been at the house for a couple of hours when I heard Mrs. Doud calling for her nurse. The nurse stayed in the bedroom adjacent to Mrs. Doud, and I assumed she would attend to her needs. A few minutes later, however, Mrs. Doud called out again, this time a bit louder. I waited a few more minutes, listening closely for any conversation upstairs, but there was just silence. When Mrs. Doud called out a third time, I realized that the nurse must be asleep.
I walked up the stairs and into Mrs. Doud’s room.
“Mrs. Doud, I’m Agent Hill. Is there a problem?”
She coughed, and then said, “I’ve been calling for the nurse.”
“She’s probably asleep, ma’am,” I said. “I’ll go tell her you need her.”
I walked into the nurse’s room, and in the darkness I saw the outline of her body on the bed. I called out to her in a firm voice, but she didn’t budge.
An uneasy feeling started to come over me as I walked toward the bed. I placed my hand on her shoulder and started to shake her, but her body was stiff as a board.
Oh God, I thought. The nurse is dead.
From the other room, Mrs. Doud called out, “Agent? Where’s my nurse?”
I did not want to tell her that her nurse was dead. “Just a minute,” I said as I ran up the stairs to the maid’s room on the third floor.
“Mary, wake up,” I whispered as I shook her. “It’s Agent Hill, Mary. You need to wake up. The nurse is dead, and Mrs. Doud needs some help. You need to get up and help Mrs. Doud.”
Mary sat straight up in bed, her eyes like big white marbles against the dark black of her skin opened so wide that I thought they were going to pop right out of her head.
“Oh my Lordy!” she exclaimed.
“Shh, Mary,” I said. “I don’t want to alarm Mrs. Doud. Please go down and see what she needs, and don’t tell her the nurse is dead.”
As soon as Mary went into Mrs. Doud’s room, I went back into the nurse’s room to try to figure out what to do. The problem was that Mrs. Eisenhower had just left Denver that morning, headed back to Washington by train. She was afraid of flying, so she always took the train. I was concerned that if the press got word that a woman had died at 750 Lafayette Street, they would assume it was Mrs. Doud. I sure as hell didn’t want rumors flying and poor Mrs. Eisenhower to think her mother had died before we could clarify what actually happened.
Fortunately, when I called my supervisor, Mr. Schoel, he had a solution. He was a friend of the coroner, and he knew the coroner had a special car—not a traditional hearse, but a sedan in which the backseat had been removed and the two doors on the passenger side opened opposite each other to form an opening wide enough to get a body inside. Schoel said he would call the coroner and send him right over.
Mrs. Doud had fallen back asleep, but poor Mary was still in a state of shock as I explained what we were going to do and why we had to do it.
The coroner arrived and slowly backed the car into the driveway so that the passenger side was opposite the side door of the house leading into the kitchen. We went upstairs, wrapped the nurse in a blanket, and the two of us proceeded to haul her body downstairs. She was a hefty woman and presumably had had a heart attack, but it was clear she had been dead long before I arrived on duty. Her body was deadweight, extremely difficult to maneuver down the narrow staircase, and with every step I was privately cursing the agent who came on duty before me for not realizing there was a dead woman upstairs—or worse, for knowing the woman had died and leaving the situation to me to deal with and then do all the damn paperwork.
The coroner and I managed to get the nurse out of the house and into the car without making too much noise, and no one in the press ever knew.
Of course, when Mrs. Doud awoke that morning, she was informed that her nurse had died overnight, Mr. Schoel notified the president’s staff, and I got to keep my job.
As it turned out, surreptitiously removing a dead body from the president’s mother-in-law’s house in the wee hours of an autumn morning in 1958 was minor-league compared to the situations I would face over the next seventeen years.
I NEVER HAD any intention of becoming a Secret Service agent. Growing up in Washburn, North Dakota, my goal was to coach athletics and teach history. I have come to realize, however, that sometimes your life takes a turn in a direction over which you have no control—and in my case, it started from the moment I was born.
When I was seventeen days old, my mother had me baptized and then, on a snowy January morning, left me on the doorstep of the North Dakota Children’s Home for Adoption in Fargo. Three months later, Chris and Jennie Hill drove to Fargo with their four-year-old adopted daughter, Janice, and out of all the children at the orphanage, chose me to make their family complete.
I had a wonderful childhood. Washburn, North Dakota, is perched on the north bank of the Missouri River, about halfway between Bismarck and Minot, and back then the population hovered around nine hundred. Largely settled by German, Swedish, and Norwegian immigrant farmers, Washburn had numerous churches and a couple of gas stations, but not even one stoplight. It was the kind of close-knit community where you didn’t dare get into trouble because word would get back to your parents before you could race home and sneak in the back door. There wasn’t much for a boy to do but play sports, and that was fine with me. In high school I participated in every competitive sport that was offered—track, football, baseball,
and basketball—and throughout the long winters, my friends and I would play ice hockey until it was too dark to see the puck.
Our family life revolved around the Evangelical Lutheran Church where my sister Janice played the piano and I was an altar boy. My father was the county auditor and also served as treasurer of the church, so on Sundays he would bring home the collection money and we would sit at the kitchen table, counting and registering what had been offered that week while my mother prepared dinner.
My mother was the glue that held the family together, and I rarely saw her sitting down—she was doing laundry, tending to the vegetable garden, canning, or cooking—and while Dad was a man of few words, he taught me lessons I’ve carried with me my entire life. Always be respectful of others, no matter who they are; live within your means and save for the future; strive to do the best job at whatever you do; and never, ever be late.
People who have worked with me know I’m a stickler for promptness—something that goes back to an incident that took place when I was in high school.
My curfew was 10:00 p.m., and one night I walked in the front door at 10:08. My father was waiting for me, as he always did, and before I could offer any explanation, he grabbed my shirt collar with both hands, lifted me off the floor, and slammed me against the wall.
“Clinton!” he yelled. “You are late!” His eyes pierced through me with anger and disappointment as his fists tightened around my neck. “Don’t you ever walk into this house late again!”
I honestly don’t remember why I was late, but I knew that no excuse would have made a difference. From that moment on, whether it was showing up for work, meeting a friend for lunch, or coming home by curfew, rarely was I ever late again. To this day, one of the few things that causes me anxiety is to be running late.