by Hill, Clint
Finally, they took their places in the presidential limousine—SS-100-X. Mrs. Kennedy sat in the left rear seat, the president in the right rear. After they were seated, Governor and Mrs. Connally folded down the jump seats, with Mrs. Connally directly in front of Mrs. Kennedy and the governor in front of President Kennedy.
Earlier in the morning it had been raining lightly, but the drizzle had stopped, the clouds were dissipating, and it was clearing up to be a beautiful sunny afternoon. The agents in Dallas had been monitoring the weather, and as soon as the rain stopped, the decision had been made to leave the top off the presidential limousine. Those were standard orders from the president and his staff. The whole idea of this trip to Texas was for the president to be seen by as many people as possible.
At 11:55 a.m. we departed Love Field and headed for the Trade Mart. There were people lining the streets from the moment we left the airport, but as we neared the center of town, the crowds got bigger and bigger. People were yelling and clapping, waving banners and signs. It was a repeat of the day before—large, exuberant, friendly crowds. At various points, the crowds became so large—ten- and twenty-people deep on each side—that the motorcycles had to drop back, and the pace of the motorcade slowed. At these points Agent Bill Greer, the driver of the presidential car, would steer the car closer to the crowd on the left in order to keep more distance between the crowd and the president on the right. But this put Mrs. Kennedy right next to the people—causing them to shriek with delight and reach out to try to touch her. Between the noise of the motorcycles and the people, you could hardly hear yourself think. I didn’t like being so far behind Mrs. Kennedy in this situation, so I made a sudden decision and jumped off Halfback, ran to catch up to 100-X, and leaped onto the rear step of the car. I knew the president didn’t want us on the back of the car, but I had a job to do.
I crouched on the step, in an effort to be less conspicuous, yet still be in proximity should anything happen. Several times I moved back and forth between the follow-up car and the rear step of SS-100-X, depending on the moment-by-moment situation. I constantly scanned the crowd. People were everywhere—yelling, cheering, clapping. There were people on rooftops and balconies and fire escapes. People hanging out of windows. Windows were open all along the route. It was a tremendous reception from the people of Dallas—no different from any of the other motorcades I’d worked with both President Kennedy and President Eisenhower.
At times, both sides of the street were jammed with people so thick that the motorcade could barely make its way through, but at the end of Main Street we turned right onto Houston, and suddenly the number of spectators diminished considerably. The street was wide open, with just a smattering of people here and there on the sidewalk and the open grassy areas on the other side of the street. We had just entered Dealey Plaza.
I looked back at Halfback, let go of the handhold, jumped off SS-100-X onto the pavement, and, in one fluid motion, jumped back to my position on the left running board of the follow-up car as the cars continued at a steady pace.
Immediately in front of us as we traveled down Houston Street was the seven-story Texas School Book Depository. Some windows were open in the building, but there was no indication of anything unusual. We had seen people hanging out of open windows all along the route.
We were headed for the Stemmons Freeway, which would take us to the Trade Mart, and in order to get to the on-ramp, we had to turn left from Houston onto Elm Street. This was an unusually sharp turn, which required the drivers of these heavy, oversized vehicles weighted down with people to slow down considerably. Bill Greer was mindful of President Kennedy’s chronic back pain, and turning too quickly on a sharp turn was something he always tried to avoid.
As the cars straightened out and began to return to the normal parade pace of about ten miles per hour, I was now standing on the left running board of the follow-up car, in the forward position. It was noticeably calmer in this area compared to the enveloping crowds back on Main Street. There were a few people on the triple overpass directly in front of us and a few dozen people on the grassy slope to the right, including a family with small children. I turned my attention to the left, scanning the sparse crowd closest to my side of the car.
Suddenly, there was a loud explosive noise, like a firecracker, that came from behind. Instinctively, I turned toward the noise, which seemed to have come from an elevated position, from the right rear, and as my eyes moved across the president’s car, I saw President Kennedy grab at his throat and lurch to his left. I realized the explosive noise had been a gunshot.
I jumped off the running board, hit the pavement, and ran. My sole intention was to get onto SS-100-X and place myself between the shooter and the president and Mrs. Kennedy. My adrenaline was flowing, as the car kept moving forward and I raced with all my might to catch up.
While I was running, there was a second shot. I didn’t hear it—perhaps because I was so focused on catching up to the car, or because the sounds of the motorcycles on either side of me drowned out the sound—but I am convinced, from all the evidence I’ve seen, read, and studied, that this second shot was the one that hit Governor Connally.
Mrs. Kennedy had turned toward the president at the sound of the first shot and was leaning toward him as he fell slightly to his left, the back brace strapped around his midsection keeping him upright. I thrust myself forward, reaching for the handhold, my eyes now focused on President and Mrs. Kennedy. Her head was nearly touching his.
I was nearly there, running as fast as I could. And then came a third shot. I heard it and felt it. The impact was like the sound of something hard hitting something hollow—like the sound of a melon shattering onto cement. In the same instant, an eruption of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments exploded from the president’s head, showering over Mrs. Kennedy, the car, and me.
My legs were still moving as I desperately reached for the handhold on the presidential vehicle. I assumed more shots were coming, and I had to get up on top of that car.
Just as I grabbed the handhold, Bill Greer stepped on the gas, and the car lurched forward. I slipped, but I wasn’t about to let go. I was gripping with all my strength, propelling my legs forward, my feet hitting the pavement as I held on, trying to keep up with the rapidly accelerating car. Somehow—I honestly don’t know how—I lunged and pulled my body onto the car, and my foot found the step. In that same instant, Mrs. Kennedy rose up out of her seat and started climbing onto the trunk.
The car was really beginning to pick up speed, and I feared she was going to go flying off the back of the car or, God forbid, be shot by the next round. Her eyes were filled with terror as she reached out and grabbed a piece of the president’s head that had flown onto the trunk. I realized she didn’t even know I was there. She was in complete shock. Her husband’s head had just exploded inches from her face.
I thrust myself onto the trunk, grabbed her arm, and pushed her back into the seat.
When I did this, the president’s body fell to the left onto her lap.
“My God! They have shot his head off!” Mrs. Kennedy screamed.
Blood was everywhere. The floor was covered in blood and brain tissue and skull fragments. The president’s head was in Mrs. Kennedy’s lap, his eyes fixed, and a gaping hole in the back of his skull.
“Get us to a hospital! Get us to a hospital!” I screamed at Bill Greer.
Gripping the left doorframe with my left hand, I wedged myself between the left and right sides of the vehicle, on top of the rear seat, trying to keep my body as high as possible to shield the car’s occupants from whatever shots might still be coming as we raced down Stemmons Freeway.
The time between the moment I heard the first shot and the impact of the fatal third shot was less than six seconds. Six seconds that changed the course of history. Six seconds I would relive more than anyone can imagine.
Not a day would go by, for the rest of my life, that something wouldn’t remind me of President Ken
nedy and that day in Dallas. One gunman. Three shots. Six seconds.
IT WAS 12:34 when we screeched to a stop at the emergency area of Parkland Memorial Hospital. Four minutes since the horror began. I jumped off the trunk just as Agent Win Lawson, the Dallas advance agent, raced inside to get two gurneys, and the agents from the follow-up car rushed to the president’s car.
Dave Powers and Ken O’Donnell—President Kennedy’s closest aides—had been riding as passengers in the follow-up car, and when they saw the condition of their longtime friend, they burst into sobs.
In order to get the president out, we first had to move Governor Connally, who had also been shot. Mrs. Kennedy was still in a state of shock, clutching the president’s lifeless body, his bloody head still in her lap. She wouldn’t let go.
“Mrs. Kennedy, please let us help the president,” I said.
On the other side of the car, Paul Landis urged her too. “Please, Mrs. Kennedy.”
“Please, Mrs. Kennedy, please let us get him into the hospital,” I pleaded once more. Yet still she didn’t move.
Knowing her as well as I did, I finally realized that she knew. She knew he was dead. She wouldn’t let go because she didn’t want anyone else to see him like this.
I took off my suit coat and placed it over his head and upper torso, and as I looked into her sad, hollow eyes, she finally let him go.
INSIDE TRAUMA ROOM No. 1 the doctors were doing everything they could to try to save President Kennedy. Meanwhile Governor Connally was moved from Trauma Room No. 2 to an operating room for immediate surgery.
Agent Kellerman asked me to get a line open to the White House to let our SAIC, Jerry Behn, know what had happened. Normally Behn would be on the trip, but as fate would have it, he had decided to take a few days off—his first vacation in years—before the heavy travel of the campaign began.
I was speaking to Behn when the operator cut in.
“Mr. Hill,” he said. “The attorney general wants to talk to you.”
“Yes, Mr. Attorney General,” I said. “This is Clint.”
“What is going on down there?” Robert Kennedy asked.
“Both the president and the governor have been shot . . .” I began. “We are in the emergency room at Parkland Hospital in Dallas.”
And then the president’s brother asked me something that haunts me still.
“Well, how bad is it?”
I did not have the courage to tell Robert Kennedy that his brother was dead. So I simply said, “It’s as bad as it can get.”
WE HAD NO idea who was behind the assassination. Was it one person? A conspiracy? Were they after the vice president or others as well?
What we did know was the sooner we got out of Dallas, onto Air Force One, and back to the White House, the better. But Vice President Johnson wouldn’t leave on the presidential plane without Mrs. Kennedy, and Mrs. Kennedy wasn’t leaving without the body of the president.
Then there was another problem. The Dallas County medical examiner had arrived and informed us that we could not remove the president’s body from the hospital until an autopsy had been performed. Texas state law required that, in the case of a homicide, the victim’s body could not be released until an autopsy was performed in the jurisdiction in which the homicide was committed. It could be hours or perhaps a day or more before the procedure would be complete. This was completely unacceptable to us.
After a much heated discussion, Roy Kellerman, Ken O’Donnell, and Dave Powers convinced the authorities that since this involved the President of the United States, we should be able to take his body back to the nation’s capital for an autopsy.
Finally, the Texas authorities conceded—with one stipulation. We could take the president’s body and return to Washington, as long as there was a medical professional who stayed with the body and would return to Dallas to testify.
“We have the right man for the job,” I volunteered. “Admiral George Burkley, the president’s physician.” The discussion was over. Mrs. Kennedy insisted on riding in the back of the hearse with Admiral Burkley, so I climbed in right behind her. Scrunched together, sitting on our knees, still in our bloodstained clothes, we didn’t say a word on the drive back to Love Field. What could one say? The world had stopped. And there I was, in the back of a hearse with Admiral Burkley, Mrs. Kennedy, and the body of President John F. Kennedy.
VICE PRESIDENT LYNDON Johnson had been secretly rushed back to Love Field shortly before President Kennedy’s death was publicly announced and was waiting aboard the presidential aircraft for Mrs. Kennedy. The crew of Air Force One had removed some seats in the rear of the aircraft to make room for the casket, and now we had to get the casket up the steps and into the back of the plane.
Paul stayed with Mrs. Kennedy while I helped my fellow agents lift the casket out of the hearse. Silently, and with as much dignity as possible, we heaved the heavy bronze casket up the narrow steps of the portable staircase, only to discover that it was too wide to go through the door.
We were all emotionally shattered, and the frustration of the moment was nearly unbearable. We had been trained to think of every possible scenario, to plan every detail down to the minute, but none of us had ever envisioned this. The only solution was to break off the handles in order to get the casket through the door.
Once the casket was in place, Mrs. Kennedy walked up the stairs and sat in the seat next to the casket. For all intents and purposes, Lyndon Johnson was now the president, so the agents on the 4:00–midnight shift were protecting him, but soon we got word that Johnson needed to be officially sworn in by a federal judge before we took off.
Calls were made, and soon thereafter federal judge Sarah Hughes arrived and boarded Air Force One.
Before the swearing-in ceremony began, I was notified that Mrs. Kennedy wanted to see me in the presidential cabin. I walked through the aircraft, past Vice President Johnson and his staff, and into the compartment.
“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, what can I do for you?”
Still in her pink suit, encrusted with blood, she walked toward me and grasped my hands. “What’s going to happen to you now, Mr. Hill?”
I clenched my jaw and swallowed hard. How could she be thinking about me? “I’ll be okay, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”
Minutes later, I stood in the doorway of the presidential suite behind agents Roy Kellerman and Lem Johns and watched as Lyndon B. Johnson took the oath of office with his left hand on President Kennedy’s Catholic prayer book, to become the thirty-sixth president of the United States. White House photographer Cecil Stoughton captured the historic moment, and whenever I see that iconic photo, a crushing sadness washes over me, just as it did that Friday afternoon in Dallas.
At 2:47 p.m. Central Standard Time, Air Force One departed Love Field in Dallas, headed back to Washington with a new president.
IT WAS DARK when we arrived at Andrews Air Force Base at 5:58 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. As soon as the plane came to a stop, the front steps were put in place, and a hydraulic lift was raised to the rear door of the plane to facilitate the removal of the casket. Seconds later, Attorney General Robert Kennedy came bursting down the aisle toward Mrs. Kennedy. No one was closer to President Kennedy than his brother Bobby, and it was heart-wrenching to witness the reunion of the brother and the widow of the president.
It had been decided on the way back to Washington that the autopsy would take place at Bethesda Naval Hospital, and as soon as we were on our way, President Johnson emerged from Air Force One with his wife, Lady Bird.
America was in a state of shock over what had transpired just a few hours earlier, but it was important to know that a peaceful and orderly transition had been made and that our new president was firmly in charge. And so, standing before the blinding lights of the television crews, with Mrs. Johnson by his side, Lyndon Baines Johnson made his first remarks as President of the United States to the American people.
“This is a sad time for all people
,” he began. “We have suffered a loss that cannot be weighed.” His slow, deliberate Southern drawl was markedly different from the crisp Boston accent to which the American people had become accustomed.
“For me, it is a deep, personal tragedy,” Johnson continued. “I know that the world shares the sorrow that Mrs. Kennedy and her family will bear. I will do my best. That is all I can do. I ask for your help—and God’s.”
THE AUTOPSY WENT on through the night, and it wasn’t until 4:24 a.m. that we returned to the White House.
A military honor guard was waiting at the North Portico to carry the casket into the White House to the East Room, where it was placed on a catafalque identical to one used for Abraham Lincoln in 1865. And then the honor guard was posted around the casket to keep vigil during the period of repose.
My good pal Paul Rundle had come to the White House to be there when we arrived.
“Clint, is there anything I can do?” he asked.
I shook my head. No, there was nothing anyone could do. Our president was dead.
When Mrs. Kennedy finally went up to the second-floor living quarters, I went to my office in the Map Room and scrawled some notes about my recollections of the horror I had witnessed. It was hardly necessary, for every detail was seared into my soul.
At 6:00 a.m., I left the White House and drove the seven miles to my home in Arlington. The boys were still asleep, but Gwen was in the kitchen when I walked in the front door. When I saw the look on her face, I realized how bad I must have appeared. Unshaven and still wearing the same clothes I’d had on for the past twenty-four hours, my white shirt and pants still caked with President Kennedy’s blood.