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

by Hill, Clint

  We got news of the incident almost immediately, and it obviously gave the Secret Service grave concern about President Eisenhower’s trip and how we could protect him if a similar situation were to occur, because when you are in a foreign country, you are really at the mercy of the local law enforcement. The president insisted on continuing the trip despite the risks, so plans moved forward, and two days later we were headed to the Far East. As the rotation worked out I was on the day shift for this trip, so I would be right in the middle of the action.

  I was assigned to one of the charter planes, along with members of the press. Although not as comfortable, it was much more relaxed on the press plane than on Air Force One, and it was on these long trips that the Secret Service agents and the press really got to know one another. Many of us were about the same age—in our late twenties or early thirties—and although our jobs had two entirely different missions, we all had a keen sense of how privileged we were to be traveling with the President of the United States on these historic adventures.

  Air Force One flew to Clark Field in the Philippines, where the president changed to a smaller aircraft, the propeller-driven Columbine III, for the flight into Manila. Meanwhile, our plane flew straight to Manila to await his arrival.

  It was mid-afternoon, and as soon as I stepped out of the aircraft, I felt like I was walking into a sauna. Dressed in my normal working attire of a suit and tie, I immediately started perspiring, and soon my eyes were stinging from the droplets of sweat that streamed down my forehead. By the time the president’s plane landed, I was drenched with perspiration, and I had to continually blink my eyes to be able to focus in the bright sunlight. I thought Washington summers were hot, but this was extreme. My Norwegian, North Dakota–raised blood was unaccustomed to this tropical weather.

  Once the president deplaned, there was the conventional arrival ceremony: host country president meets and greets President Eisenhower, pleasantries are exchanged with members of the reception committee, the honor guard is toured, and an open car is entered for the motorcade into the city. The entrance into Manila, however, was anything but typical.

  Four million people lined the route—four million!—the largest crowd ever before assembled in the Philippines, and the most people we in the Secret Service had ever encountered. It was a wildly exuberant atmosphere that indicated how extremely grateful the Philippine people were to President Eisenhower and the United States for all that had been done for them. Everywhere you looked there were people waving, cheering, whooping, clapping. On top of buildings and hanging out windows, people tossed streamers and threw so much confetti it was as if we were in a cloud of swirling colored paper. At street level, they were fifty to one hundred deep on either side of us, packed in so tightly that they clogged the streets right up against the presidential vehicle so that we were forced to proceed at a crawl. The motorcycle police had started in a perfect diamond formation out front, but at times they were swallowed up by the crowd that kept pressing in, trying to get close to the American hero.

  The only thing we could do was walk alongside the presidential vehicle as an additional barrier between the crushing horde and the president. People were pushing and reaching to try to touch President Eisenhower as we inched forward, and we had no choice but to forcefully shove them away. The adrenaline was on overload as we scanned the millions of faces surrounding the motorcade in front, behind, around, and above for anyone who looked out of place amid the enthusiasm. But the fact was, being encircled by such a tremendous mob, if someone had wanted to cause harm to the president, there was hardly anything we could do. We were at the mercy of the local law enforcement, and they were unable to control the situation. Through it all, President Eisenhower stood, beaming, in the open-top car, taking in all the glorious admiration and respect. He appeared to have no fear, yet through much of the motorcade he kept one hand firmly on the shoulder of Special Agent in Charge Jim Rowley, who crouched like a human shield directly in front of him.

  The ten-mile drive from the airport to Malacañang Palace took well over an hour, but we finally got President Eisenhower safely into his suite. All of us looked like we had been through a war—drenched with dirt and sweat, our clothes ripped and soiled—and thankful that the motorcade was over.

  Meanwhile, in Japan, an entirely different scenario was taking place. As a result of the helicopter rescue of the American dignitaries in Tokyo, the Japanese government had initiated stricter security measures ahead of President Eisenhower’s visit, but rather than deterring the protestors, the police reinforcements incited violent riots. Tens of thousands of Communist-led demonstrators overwhelmed the security forces, broke through the exterior gates, and besieged the Parliament buildings. Clearly, the Japanese government could not guarantee President Eisenhower’s safety in this volatile environment, and just days before he was to arrive in Tokyo, Premier Kishi withdrew the invitation. While the cancellation was a relief to the Secret Service, it required the entire schedule to be revised midway through the trip.

  The next stop was Formosa (Taiwan), the Republic of China island nation located one hundred miles off the coast of Communist-controlled Mainland China. When we arrived in Taipei, the weather was as stifling as it had been in Manila, with 90-degree temperatures and unbearable humidity, and yet the people had come out in droves to welcome the American president to their fortress nation. Enormous crowds lined the wide thoroughfares of the parade route, while every balcony and open window in every building was filled with people enthusiastically cheering, waving, and throwing confetti as President Eisenhower and President Chiang Kai-shek rode together in an open car into the capital city. It was like we were traveling through a Chinese carnival with dancers positioned all along the route, some waving colorful Chinese dragons, while others wore traditional costumes singing with drums and flutes. Fortunately, the boulevards through Taipei were nice and wide, and the local authorities were able to keep the masses of cheering people well contained along the sidelines. It was just the way we liked it—friendly crowds with outstanding security by the host country, which allowed us to proceed swiftly and without incident to our destination.

  The timetable had been revamped, and the next day we traveled to Seoul, South Korea, for a one-night visit, two days ahead of the original schedule. The Secret Service had flown cars to Japan in anticipation of the presidential visit to Tokyo, but when that visit was canceled, the cars were hastily transported to Seoul. This turned out to be a wise decision.

  The itinerary called for a motorcade from Yongsan Golf Club, where the president had arrived by helicopter, to Kyung Mu Dai, the presidential residence. When my shift arrived in Seoul on the charter plane, we were immediately transported to the palace in three U.S. Army automobiles to establish security for President Eisenhower’s arrival. Upon arrival at the palace, we were advised to park the cars outside the palace gates and proceed inside. We had a short window of time to get everyone in place, and although the communications we had were very poor, they were good enough that we were able to track the movement of the president, and we did not envision any problems.

  Because President Eisenhower had played a key role in ending the Korean War, the South Koreans viewed him as a hero, and it seemed the entire country had gathered in Seoul to get a glimpse of the revered American president. Upward of one million people were crammed in the open areas along the motorcade route, cheering and shoving in a giant swarm, desperate to see President Eisenhower.

  The police were unable to control the mass of humanity, and over the radio we heard the sounds of chaos as the roaring crowd inundated the vehicles in the motorcade. The situation was becoming more perilous by the minute, and in a quick-thinking move, SAIC Rowley ordered the driver to make a detour and head straight for the American ambassador’s residence, bypassing the palace altogether.

  Suddenly we were scrambling to get out of the palace and back into our cars to join the presidential party at the new destination. In the short time we had been
inside the palace, an enormous crowd had formed outside in anticipation of the president’s arrival, and a mass of people was flowing through the gates onto the palace grounds. The three vehicles we’d left parked were now surrounded by the huge throng, and there was no way we could move them.

  Our shift leader, Art Godfrey, a fearless World War II veteran who had earned both a Bronze and Silver Star, was not about to let anything stand in the way of our mission. “Come on!” he yelled. “We’ve got no choice but to walk.”

  Guided by the U.S. Army agents, we began to shove our way through the sea of people on foot. It felt like we were slogging through a stampede in the wrong direction, and in an effort to get around the crowd, we jumped over fences, walked through chicken-filled yards, and even traipsed through some private homes to reach the embassy residence.

  Meanwhile, one of our agents, Ron Pontius, was trapped inside the palace grounds, still trying to get out. A pair of Korean police officers on horseback rescued him and brought him to join the rest of us. As for the cars, one was destroyed when the throng of people, unable to get around it, trampled over it. The weight of thousands of people literally compacted the car nearly to the ground. The other two were battered and dented, but were able to be salvaged later.

  Seoul, Korea, was one more lesson in how any crowd, even a friendly one, can easily spiral out of control when you least expect it. Even with the most diligent and thorough advance planning, you can never anticipate every possible scenario, and the key is to remain flexible, always prepared to adjust according to the situation.

  Seoul was the last stop on the journey, and I know without a doubt that everyone on the trip was eager to get home. We departed Seoul at 8:15 p.m., and after flying all night and crossing the International Date Line, it was just after noon the same day when we arrived in Honolulu. It was a long flight at the end of a sixteen-thousand-mile journey with a grueling schedule, and the press noted that President Eisenhower, understandably, appeared weary as he stepped out of Air Force One.

  Hawaii had officially become the fiftieth state less than a year earlier, and 100,000 people had shown up at the Honolulu airport to bid a rousing aloha to the president. Everyone on the trip was exhausted, the press included, but there was the obligatory arrival ceremony, followed by a one-hour-and-ten-minute drive to the Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station, where President Eisenhower intended to relax for the next several days. It was my first time to Hawaii, and while the scenery was simply breathtaking, all I wanted to do was sleep.

  I fully expected the president would take it easy that afternoon, but two hours after arriving at Kaneohe, no kidding, he was on the golf course. At least there were no crowds, no screaming and cheering; just the sound of the ocean breeze blowing through the palm trees and the occasional curse word after a flubbed shot.

  7

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  The 1960 Presidential Campaign

  At the beginning of the year, President Eisenhower’s approval rating had been as high as 77 percent, but by June, as a result of the U-2 incident and the increased East-West tensions, it had plummeted to 50 percent. The perceived loss of respect by the American people, combined with the growing threat of nuclear war, was devastating to the president. Then, in July 1960, things went from bad to worse.

  Eighteen months earlier, thirty-six-year-old Fidel Castro had overthrown the longtime dictator of Cuba, and while the United States initially recognized the new Castro regime, Eisenhower subsequently severed diplomatic relations when Castro took over American-owned oil refineries that had been operating in Cuba for fifty years. In the ensuing months, Castro had become increasingly cozy with Soviet premier Nikita Khrushchev, and on July 9, Khrushchev declared Cuba—which lies just ninety miles off the coast of Florida—a Russian satellite, threatening to use Soviet missiles against the United States “in case of necessity.”

  Eisenhower responded publicly with a sharp warning that the United States would not tolerate the establishment of a regime dominated by international Communism in the Western Hemisphere. Behind the scenes, he had already authorized a Central Intelligence Agency plan to train a group of Cuban refugees to overthrow the Castro regime.

  At this time, the 1960 presidential campaign was starting to get into full swing, and despite the president’s decline in popularity, it was widely accepted that Vice President Richard M. Nixon would have no trouble becoming the Republican nominee. For the Democrats, a young senator from Massachusetts named John F. Kennedy was rising in the polls against the other major candidates, Senate majority leader Lyndon B. Johnson of Texas and Adlai Stevenson II, the party’s nominee in the previous two elections. On July 14, 1960, at the Democratic National Convention in Los Angeles, Kennedy succeeded in receiving the party’s nominee for president. His decision to add his chief rival, Lyndon Johnson, to the ticket as vice president came as a shock to many, but appeared to be a shrewd move to fortify the party and strengthen the Democratic national ticket in the South.

  Eleven days later, President Eisenhower flew to Chicago to attend the Republican National Convention in support of Vice President Nixon. His arrival there was as grand a reception as we had seen all over the world, with showers of confetti raining down on the motorcade as he rode through the downtown streets in an open-top car. The outpouring of respect for President Eisenhower was so phenomenal that even in the diehard Democratic areas of Chicago, people were hanging out of windows, cheering. Not surprisingly, Nixon received the nomination, with Henry Cabot Lodge as his running mate.

  In the weeks before and after the convention, President and Mrs. Eisenhower vacationed in Newport, Rhode Island, staying in the commandant’s house at Fort Adams. It was a nice respite, not only for the president, but for the agents as well. Even though it was termed a “vacation,” the president still conducted meetings with visiting dignitaries and government officials and had daily National Security Council briefings. But no matter the situation, we could pretty much bet on eighteen holes of golf at the Newport Country Club on an almost daily basis. The ninety-two-foot presidential yacht, Barbara Anne—named after President Eisenhower’s first granddaughter—was sailed up from Washington, and while Eisenhower had rarely used the yacht previously, he delighted in using it almost every day as transportation between Fort Adams and his office at the Newport naval base. In order to protect the president on the water, the Secret Service had several small maneuverable jet boats that we used to provide a perimeter of security around the Barbara Anne. A group of Navy personnel drove the boats, while one or two agents would be aboard each one, responsible for keeping other watercraft a significant distance from the presidential yacht. Growing up in Washburn, North Dakota, my only previous experience with water activities had been swimming in the Missouri River, and now here I was zipping along the rocky Rhode Island coastline dotted with extraordinary mansions.

  Between the trips to Newport, the convention, and a trip out to Denver somewhere in the middle, we had been away from Washington for a full month. It was great to get back home to Gwen and Chris, but somehow my own apartment hardly felt like home anymore. Chris had changed from a toddler into a little boy with a growing vocabulary, and Gwen had, out of necessity, become much more independent. There was always an adjustment period, and it didn’t seem to be getting easier. Being away from home was part of the job. If you didn’t like it, there were plenty of guys who’d jump at the chance to take your place.

  ON THE MORNING of September 29, we got word that Mrs. Eisenhower’s mother, Mrs. Elvira Doud, had passed away at her home in Denver. She was eighty-two years old and had been ill for quite some time, but still, the news came with the sadness that death always brings.

  A very private funeral was held at Mrs. Doud’s gray-brick home at 750 Lafayette Street, with just family and close friends. I was standing outside the house, keeping an eye on the crowd that had gathered across the street, when Mrs. Eisenhower came outside.

  “Agents?” she called out in a soft voice, her eyes damp with tears.
“I know some of you spent time here over the years. We’d like those of you who protected my mother to please join us for the service.”

  It was, in the midst of her grief, a surprising but thoughtful gesture that showed the type of person Mrs. Eisenhower was, and I was touched to be included.

  I nodded, walked toward her, and said, “I’d be honored, Mrs. Eisenhower.”

  “Thank you for all you did for her,” she replied with a sad smile. “She appreciated all of you so much.”

  The service was brief but very personal to the family, and as I stood there with my head bowed, the memories of those many nights on duty, right here in this house, swept through my mind: eating those horrible sandwiches Mrs. Eisenhower’s sister Mike made for the agents; spending nighttime hours reading President Eisenhower’s paperback Western novels; and, of course, the unforgettable night we carried the nurse’s dead body down the stairs and quietly slipped her into the coroner’s car. It had been an unusual assignment my first year in the Secret Service, and I was honored to be standing there alongside the Eisenhower family as we mourned Mrs. Doud together.

  ON OCTOBER 14, 1960, President Eisenhower officially became the oldest U.S. president when he turned seventy. It called for a grand celebration, and someone decided it would be a good idea to invite the general public to a party on the White House lawn. The gates were thrown open, and six thousand people flooded onto the South Grounds.

  When President Eisenhower emerged from the South Portico, the crowd burst into a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday,” after which he walked along the temporary fence line that had been installed, shaking hands, pinching ears, and patting heads of youngsters, and graciously accepting small gifts while trading quips with the people in the crowd.

  It was a short event, and agents were spaced around the crowd, but in 1960 there were no magnetometers, no snipers on the roof, no attack dogs. Looking back now, I shudder at the thought. But those were different times. We were still living in an age of innocence.