Five Presidents: My Extraordinary Journey With Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, and Ford

by Hill, Clint

I grew up listening to college football games on our Philco radio, and I had visions of playing football for the University of Michigan, but when the local chapter of the Lutheran Brotherhood awarded me a one-hundred-dollar scholarship to attend Concordia College in Moorhead, Minnesota, which was Lutheran-affiliated, the decision was made for me.

  I took my studies seriously, but my real passion continued to be sports. I played football and baseball, and had the benefit of a wonderful football coach and mentor named Jake Christiansen. Coach Jake was already a legend at Concordia by the time I got there, and other than my parents, he had more influence on my character, ethics, and values than anyone.

  I didn’t have much confidence or experience with dating, but in the spring of my freshman year, I met a young lady named Gwen Brown. Gwen was a year older than me, but she was a friend of some girls who were dating some of my football buddies, and we all hung out together. Gwen grew up on a farm where the nearest town was an even smaller town than Washburn, so we had that in common, and we shared a love of music. She was a member of Concordia’s elite concert choir, and I sang in an a cappella male quartet. One by one, the couples in our group got engaged, and on February 28, 1953, during my junior year and her senior year, Gwen and I got married at the Trinity Lutheran Church near the Concordia campus. We were so young—too young—but things were different in those days, and like smoking cigarettes because everybody else was doing it, we just didn’t know any better.

  When I graduated from Concordia in the spring of 1954, my intention was to return to North Dakota to find a job in a local high school teaching history and coaching athletics. The U.S. Army, however, had different plans for me.

  No sooner did I have my degree in hand than I was notified by the draft board in McLean County, North Dakota, to report to an office in Fargo for processing and I was sworn into the U.S. Army. From there it was straight to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, for eight weeks of demanding physical training, along with a few written intelligence tests. Apparently, my scores on those tests gave them an indication that I had something the Army was looking for, and upon completion of basic training I was instructed to report to Fort Holabird, in Dundalk, Maryland, to attend Army Intelligence School, where I would learn how to be an agent in counterintelligence.

  I had two weeks off before I needed to be at Fort Holabird, and during this time my father suffered a stroke. Fortunately, I was able to spend a few days with him, talking and reminiscing, but he died two days after I left. It was a devastating blow, and I had to come to grips with the stark realization that, at twenty-two, from that point on, there was no one to guide me—I was on my own.

  I threw myself into the courses at Fort Holabird. The program was rigorous and intense, as we were taught investigative, surveillance, and interrogation techniques, and then tested by using those techniques in practical exercises. We would be assigned to interrogate someone who was suspected of committing a crime or sent on a mission to surveil a suspect around Baltimore and the surrounding area. They were real-life situations, with our professional instructors role-playing the parts of the suspects, using every con artist and thug trick in the book to try to mislead us, and I found it both fascinating and challenging.

  In January 1955, after four months at Fort Holabird, I was assigned to Region IX 113th Counterintelligence Corps (CIC) Field Office in Denver, Colorado, where my work consisted mostly of running background investigations on individuals who were being considered for various security clearances in the U.S. government—up to and including “Top Secret.”

  Nine months after I arrived in Denver, President Eisenhower happened to be in Colorado for a golf and fishing vacation when he suffered a heart attack. He was rushed to Fitzsimons Army Hospital in Aurora, and although the White House press office termed it a “mild” heart attack, the president remained there for seven weeks. I had some investigations that required me to check records at Fitzsimons, and I ended up meeting several members of Eisenhower’s Secret Service detail. Dressed in suits with white shirts and ties, the agents were resolute in their protective measures, and certainly could be intimidating if necessary, but they were at the same time courteous and respectful to the nurses, doctors, family members, and friends who had authorization to come in close contact with the president. I was impressed with their professionalism and the way they conducted themselves, and suddenly had a newfound respect for all that was required to protect the President of the United States. Still, it never entered my mind that I would ever be among their ranks.

  MY TOUR OF duty was scheduled to be completed in July 1956, just about the same time Gwen and I were expecting our first child. Rather than suddenly have to find a new job and possibly move just as the baby arrived, I decided it made a lot more sense to stay in the Army for at least one more year so the baby could be born in the military hospital.

  On July 21, Gwen went into labor, and in the early morning hours of July 22, she delivered a baby boy. Unfortunately, there was a problem during delivery, and he had to have a blood transfusion. When I first held him in my arms, there was a white bandage on the top of his little head where they had done the transfusion, but other than that, he was absolutely perfect. We named him Chris Jeffrey Hill—Chris after my father, and Jeffrey so he could have the same CJH initials as both my father and I had. A year later, I was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army in Fort Carson, Colorado, and my intent was to return to North Dakota to find a job coaching athletics and teaching history.

  For the next several weeks, I interviewed at dozens of schools all over North Dakota and Minnesota, but with no previous teaching experience, the only jobs available were in small towns, with small salaries and few benefits. The responsibility of providing for my family weighed heavily on me, and I eventually came to the conclusion that perhaps I should consider alternative careers. I reflected on my father and how he had been able to buy a home for our family, as well as put aside enough money to send both Janice and me to college, and I was determined to do the same. Even though my dad was no longer alive, I believed he was still watching me, and I wanted to make him proud. I realized I had enjoyed the investigative work in the CIC and had made a lot of connections in the Denver area, and that was probably the best place to start.

  It didn’t take long for me to land a job as a credit investigator with a credit company, and shortly thereafter I found a better position with the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad as a railroad detective, investigating theft and ensuring security of their facilities. One day I was driving past Fitzsimons Army Hospital, and I remembered the Secret Service agents I had met in 1955. I had no idea what it took to become an agent, but I figured I might as well give it a shot, so I drove straight to the Secret Service in Denver to find out what the possibilities might be.

  I learned that there were 269 agents in the entire Secret Service organization, and rarely were there openings. Even if you could pass all the background checks and score highly on the intelligence tests, the only way you were going to get in was if an agent died or retired. It was a long shot, but I decided to fill out an application and hope for the best. I went back to work at the railroad and didn’t think much more about it.

  A few months later I got the phone call that would change the course of my life. It turned out that because of retirements, three openings in the Secret Service had occurred simultaneously. One of them was in Denver, and I was being considered for that position. Since I had just come out of the CIC the year before, my background check was a breeze, and on September 22, 1958, I was hired and sworn in as a Special Agent in the United States Secret Service in the Denver Field Office.

  THE U.S. SECRET Service is one of the oldest law enforcement agencies in America, created in 1865. Its original mission was to investigate and prevent counterfeit currency, which was rampant after the Civil War and threatened to destabilize the country’s economy. The legislation to establish the “Secret Service Division” of the United States Treasury was on Abraham Lincoln’s desk the
night he was assassinated, but it wasn’t until after the assassination of President William McKinley in 1901 that Congress assigned the duties of presidential protection to the Secret Service. To this day, the agency has two distinct missions—investigating and preventing financial crimes, and the protection of our nation’s leaders.

  In the Denver office, while we had the responsibility of protecting President Eisenhower’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Doud, the majority of our time was spent investigating financial crimes—counterfeiting and forged checks. However, when President Eisenhower would come to town, we dropped everything in order to assist the White House Detail—the small group of agents who protected the president and his family. I had no specialized training other than watching the detail agents and following their directions. I took mental notes of everything they did, the way they used hand and eye signals to communicate with one another, blending in with the other people around the president while simultaneously moving purposefully to create an invisible barrier of protection.

  These were the guys I had met back in 1955—the best of the best—and I wanted to be one of them.

  2

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  The White House Detail

  The Secret Service today has stiff entrance requirements and consistent and rigorous training, and in order to even be considered for the White House Detail—presently called the Presidential Protective Division (PPD)—you will have to have been an agent for five to nine years, depending on the needs of the organization. When I joined the Secret Service, every new agent was sent to Washington during the first year on the job for thirty days’ temporary duty on the White House Detail to determine if you were the type of agent the Secret Service wanted assigned to the White House on a permanent basis. I had been on the job in Denver for about six months when my evaluation period came around.

  It was the summer of 1959, and hotter than hell. Compared to the dry, crisp air of Colorado, the Washington humidity was smothering, and from the moment I stepped off the airplane at National Airport, I was in a constant state of sticky perspiration.

  The Treasury Department had negotiated cheap rates for agents to stay at a boardinghouse about two blocks from the White House, run by a woman everyone called “Ma Bouma.” While Ma kept the rooms clean, it was no-frills and there was no air-conditioning—but all I could think about was that I was being given the chance of a lifetime.

  I had been instructed to report to the Northwest Gate of the White House and present my credentials.

  “Good morning,” I said as I handed the uniformed guard my blue leather commission book, trying to sound as if walking up to the White House and expecting to be let in was perfectly natural. A wave of apprehension washed over me as he scrutinized the photo, looked at me, looked back at the photo, and then began flipping through some papers.

  Finally, he handed my commission book back to me and said, “Good morning, Agent Hill. You can go in through the West Wing door. Mr. Rowley is expecting you.”

  As I entered the White House for the first time, my anxieties dissipated, and all I could feel was an overwhelming sense of pride. Portraits of past presidents lined the walls, gazing down on the people who were bustling around with urgency and purpose, seemingly oblivious to the history surrounding them. As I was escorted to Mr. Rowley’s office, I tried to take it all in, making mental observations of every detail so the next time I saw my mother I could tell her what it was like to be inside the White House.

  Fifty-year-old James J. Rowley was the Special Agent in Charge of the White House Detail and, having been in the position since Franklin D. Roosevelt was president, was highly respected by all the agents. Rowley’s office, which he shared with his administrative assistant, Walter Blaschak, was just inside the West Wing lobby. Crammed into the small, windowless office were two desks facing each other in the middle of the room, while a couple of metal filing cabinets and a well-worn couch were squeezed against one wall. Standing ominously on the opposite wall was a large gun case stacked with .45-caliber Thompson submachine guns, 12-gauge shotguns, and .30-caliber carbines.

  Mr. Rowley stood up from his desk as I entered the office and greeted me warmly with a smile and a firm handshake.

  “Welcome to the White House, Clint,” he said. “I understand you’ve been doing good work out there in Denver.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Mr. Rowley had an affable personality with an easy smile belied by steely eyes that could size you up in an instant, without revealing what he was thinking. The son of Irish Catholic immigrants, he had a toughness that came from being raised in the Bronx during the Depression and having to support his family after his father was killed in a job-related accident with the city of New York highway department. There was a no-nonsense air about him, and I liked him immediately.

  Mr. Rowley explained that I would be assigned to a shift, and over the course of the next thirty days I would always be with an agent on that shift to witness firsthand how the detail operated. He handed me a black notebook that had metal pins holding it together so pages could easily be added or removed and said, “Here’s the White House Detail manual. This should answer a lot of your questions, but certainly don’t hesitate to ask anyone if there’s anything you don’t understand. We have no room for error or miscommunication.”

  Printed in silver on the cover of the manual was a Secret Service star, and beneath it: WHITE HOUSE DETAIL. In the lower right hand corner was the number 9. Mr. Rowley explained that there were a set number of copies of the manual and each one was assigned to a specific agent. Inside was detailed information about the automobiles and aircraft we used; people to be notified when the president left the White House; the protocol for arrivals and departures both domestically and internationally; the formation of motorcades for various situations; and a litany of other details that only the agents protecting the president were to know. Under no circumstances was the manual to be shared with anyone outside the detail.

  By the time I left his office, the enormity of the responsibility I was about to undertake had begun to set in, and I hoped I could prove to be worthy of the trust being placed in me.

  EVERY ONE OF the next thirty days was exhilarating and exhausting. There was so much information to take in, and all my training was on the job.

  In that month on temporary duty, I worked midnight shifts in the pitch-black darkness at Eisenhower’s Gettysburg farm and at Camp David, the nearby presidential retreat in Maryland’s Catoctin Mountains; traveled to New York City as part of the White House Detail protecting President Eisenhower as he toured the Soviet Exhibition of Science, Technology, and Culture; traveled to Canada and helped secure the area for President Eisenhower and Queen Elizabeth to participate in the opening of the St. Lawrence Seaway; stood post at designated points within the White House; helped man the Secret Service follow-up car in fast-paced, police-escorted motorcades through downtown Washington; and posed as a golfer along the fairway at Burning Tree Country Club, carrying a golf bag filled with a couple of beat-up old clubs and a carbine rifle. It was an interesting and educational experience, and I enjoyed every aspect of it.

  I would learn later that it was not only the top-level supervisors who would determine whether I qualified to be on the White House Detail, but that the agents on my shift, my peers, would weigh in as well. At the end of the thirty days, the shift would take a vote, and I would be either in or out. It wasn’t up to the president or his staff or even the chief of the Secret Service. The guys who mattered were your immediate supervisors and the agents you worked with day in and day out, and they had to be certain you were a team player—reliable, trustworthy, and willing to work in the worst of circumstances without complaint. When the thirty days were up, I returned to Denver knowing I’d done my best, but not knowing if it was good enough.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long. Just a few weeks later, I got notification that I was being transferred from Denver to the White House
Detail, effective November 1, 1959. I was bursting with pride to know that I had been accepted, but it was daunting to think of the responsibility I was about to face—the responsibility to protect the President of the United States, at all costs. To put his life before mine or anyone else’s, for the good of the country.

  The first order of business, however, was to find a place for Gwen, Chris, and me to live in the Washington area. My friend and fellow agent Paul Rundle had been transferred from the Denver office to the White House Detail a few months earlier, so I called him for advice.

  “Don’t worry, Clint,” Paul said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Before we even left Denver, Paul and his wife, Peggy, found us a semidetached two-bedroom home for rent at 3704 South 3rd Street in Arlington, Virginia, which was within our budget and was an easy seven-mile commute to the White House. When we arrived with all our belongings, the Rundles had already stocked the house with food and the necessary staples, and they helped us unpack and get settled. I was grateful to Paul for making that part of the transition so easy, and when I thanked him, he said, “You’re on the detail now, Clint. We take care of each other. It’s what we do.”

  PRESIDENT DWIGHT D. Eisenhower was sixty-nine years old when I started on his protective detail. Even though he had suffered from some major health issues in the nearly seven years since he had first taken the oath of office, outwardly he appeared fit and competent, with no indication of slowing down.

  I was immediately placed on one of the three shifts of agents who provide security for the president twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. He is never left alone. The day shift covered 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., the evening shift 4:00 p.m. to midnight, and the midnight shift ran from midnight to 8:00 a.m. Each shift had only nine men, and with some agents on regular days off or handling advances for an upcoming presidential trip or off-site, that meant there might be only five or six agents around the president at any given time. Depending on the president’s schedule, your shift might start early or get extended because there was always a team that went ahead of the president to provide protection for arrivals, departures, and on-site posts. Rarely did you have an eight-hour day, and then every two weeks the teams rotated shifts, which meant that just as your body was getting used to a sleep pattern, you’d start a new one.