by Hill, Clint
Shortly before the president was due to arrive, Robert Kennedy showed up at the apartment. Mrs. Kennedy had requested that he be there during the president’s visit. It was well known that President Johnson and Robert Kennedy did not care for each other—to put it mildly—and I wondered if the president had any inkling the attorney general would be there when he arrived.
I was waiting in front of the building to greet the president and his entourage when the unmarked black cars pulled up. The agents in the follow-up car got out and moved into position, and then Agent Rufus Youngblood stepped out of the right front seat of the president’s limousine to open the rear door for the passenger in the backseat.
It was a crisp fall evening, with a slight breeze, and as President Johnson stepped out of the car he straightened his suit coat and smoothed back his hair. He was an imposing man, standing about six feet four inches tall, and as he approached I extended my hand and said, “Hello, Mr. President, I’m Agent Clint Hill.”
He looked at me with a bit of a squint, and then moved his right hand into his rear pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and blew his nose. No handshake occurred. It all happened in front of the agents on the White House Detail, and I will never forget the embarrassment I felt. It was humiliating.
Clenching my jaw, I escorted the president up to Mrs. Kennedy’s apartment and then waited with Rufus Youngblood outside the door of the apartment. The president stayed for twenty-five minutes, and then the door opened and out he came, accompanied by Mrs. Kennedy and the attorney general.
“Bobby and I will escort you to your car, Mr. President,” Mrs. Kennedy said. So down we went, the two Kennedys, the president, Agent Youngblood, and me, crammed into the elevator. I followed closely behind Mrs. Kennedy as the three of them walked outside and stood under the awning at the front of 1040 Fifth Avenue. President Johnson had a great big smile on his face as he grasped Mrs. Kennedy’s hands and said good-bye, while Robert Kennedy’s thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. White House photographer Cecil Stoughton happened to snap a photograph, which he sent to me the next day. The look on my face says it all.
On my last day in New York, Mrs. Kennedy threw a surprise farewell party for me in her office. There weren’t many people there—just her small staff and the other agents. They tried to make it upbeat, and we shared memories of the fun times we had had together. Mrs. Kennedy brought out a large cardboard poster with a cutout picture of an anonymous Secret Service agent wearing sunglasses, and above the agent in big letters it said: MUDDY GAP WYOMING WELCOMES ITS NEWEST CITIZEN. It was a gag gift typical of Mrs. Kennedy’s humor, insinuating I was being sent to some remote town out in the middle of nowhere, and everyone had signed their names.
Then she handed me a black three-ring binder that she had titled: “The Travels of Clinton J. Hill.”
The plastic sleeves inside were filled with photos that chronicled our four years together—a priceless memento of the good days. A reminder that there had been good days before that one dreadful day.
As it turned out, I would not be going to a remote field office. I was being sent back to the White House Detail to protect President Lyndon B. Johnson.
PART THREE
* * *
With President Johnson
From the moment he took office on November 22, 1963, President Johnson was a man on a mission, determined to use his powerful position to create a better life for all Americans, in all aspects of their lives, and by the end of 1965 his administration would pass more transformative legislation than most presidents achieve in their entire terms. His vision for a Great Society and his War on Poverty were not just rhetoric; he proved that strong leadership, combined with knowledge of the political system, could indeed effect change. Things we now take for granted—Medicare, federally funded public education, laws that protect our water, air, and environment, as well as the historic Civil Rights Acts that banned discrimination—were all passed through Congress in LBJ’s first two years as president.
Despite this long list of notable accomplishments on domestic issues, it would be the U.S. involvement in Vietnam that would become his overriding concern, and which would become synonymous with his presidency.
20
* * *
The LBJ Ranch
On November 22, 1963, President and Mrs. Kennedy were supposed to have spent the night at the LBJ Ranch in Stonewall, Texas. One year later, nearly to the day, that’s exactly where I was headed, now as an agent on President Johnson’s Secret Service detail.
It was hard to believe that a year had passed, and somehow the world had kept turning, life had gone on. It had been a rough year, to say the least. My entire focus had been on Mrs. Kennedy, Caroline, and John, making sure they had everything they needed. While I knew they were in capable hands with the new Agent in Charge, it was going to be strange not to be in daily contact.
With my new assignment, I received a pay grade promotion—from GS-12 at $10,605 to GS-13 at $12,075 annually—but the new job was actually a demotion in title and responsibility, as I went from being the Special Agent in Charge of the Kennedy Protective Detail, supervising my own small team of agents, to being a member of one of the three shifts on the President’s Detail. I knew that ultimately it was in my own best interest to leave New York City and return to the White House, but it wasn’t an easy transition.
I had been given a week off before starting my new assignment, which I spent at home with Gwen and the boys. Because I had been gone more than 90 percent of the time over the previous four years, it was always somewhat strained when I got to spend more than a day or two at home. My family had their own routine without me, and it was an adjustment for all of us. It wasn’t an ideal situation for a strong marriage, and sadly, I felt like I hardly knew my own sons. In many ways, I was a stranger to them. It was the same for all the agents on the White House Detail. When the president and first lady traveled, it was our job to be with them. There weren’t enough of us to be able to get time off for special occasions or family events. I had been gone for every holiday, birthday, and anniversary over the past four years. Now, President and Mrs. Johnson were going to be spending Thanksgiving at their ranch in Texas, so that’s where the agents would be too.
THE JOB OF the President of the United States is around-the-clock, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Even when they are on “vacation,” they are never away from the phone or the latest domestic or international crisis. But every president needs a place where they can try to find some relaxation, a retreat away from the White House. President Eisenhower had his estate in Gettysburg; President Kennedy had Hyannis Port and Palm Beach. For President Johnson, there was no better place on earth than his beloved ranch in the Texas Hill Country.
On November 19, 1964, I flew with my shift from Andrews Air Force Base to Bergstrom Air Force Base in Austin, Texas. The agents had negotiated a good rate at the Commodore Perry Hotel, and from there it was an hour-and-a-half drive to the ranch, with not much in between. The drive back and forth added close to three hours to your eight-hour shift, making for long days, but at that time there was nowhere else to stay.
The landscape reminded me of the gently rolling hills around Washburn, North Dakota, where I spent my childhood—lots of wide-open spaces, dotted with pecan and oak trees instead of North Dakota cottonwood and elm, and every once in a while there’d be a white farmhouse set back a ways from the highway, with a few horses, cattle, or sheep in the yard.
The LBJ Ranch was an actual working cattle ranch. Johnson had about four hundred head of Hereford cattle, and the property was close to 2,700 acres. I would learn that there was nothing President Johnson loved more than driving around looking at his land and checking on his prized cows, and within a few short days I saw damn near every inch of the place.
The Texas White House was a large but unpretentious two-story white clapboard house with covered front porches on both the ground and second floors. The main floor consisted of several living and sitting rooms; an off
ice, which had room for the president’s desk and three other desks for staff and secretaries; a big kitchen and dining room; several bathrooms; and two large bedrooms—one for President Johnson and one for Mrs. Johnson. Upstairs were six additional bedrooms and five bathrooms, accessible by the main staircase, as well as a steep, narrow back staircase off the dining room.
Inside, the house was relaxed and informal, filled with comfortable furnishings and family photos, nothing fancy or ostentatious. Outside, an expansive front lawn shaded by a beautiful live oak tree had a commanding view of the Pedernales River, which snaked through the property. Off to one side of the house was a large, kidney-shaped swimming pool, which was frequently used by the president, his family, and guests. Around the back of the house was a carport that held a variety of vehicles that the president had collected—and which he insisted on driving himself whenever he was on the ranch—then beyond the carport was an airport hangar adjacent to a runway that could accommodate small private aircraft, as well as serving as a helicopter landing pad.
I couldn’t help but think what Mrs. Kennedy would have thought of the ranch, had she and President Kennedy come here. It had been the one part of the Texas trip that she wasn’t really looking forward to, but I think she would have found it charming in its own way. Tolerable, at least, for one night.
As it turned out, I almost didn’t get to stay more than one night myself.
Shortly after arriving, I was standing post outside the main house when I heard President Johnson call out to Rufus Youngblood, the Agent in Charge. Rufus responded immediately, and while I couldn’t hear what was being said, I saw President Johnson pointing at me and talking sternly to Rufus. I couldn’t imagine what I might have done wrong, but obviously the president was not happy about something.
After our shift was over, Rufus pulled me aside and explained what had transpired. “Clint, listen, I know you may have overheard some things, and I wanted to set your mind at ease . . . You see, President Johnson saw you today for the first time, and he recognized you.”
“What do you mean he recognized me?”
“He knew that you were new on the shift, and that . . . uh . . . that you had been with the Kennedys.”
“So?” I asked. What did that have to do with anything? Lots of the guys had been with the Kennedys.
“Well,” Ruf began, “the one thing President Johnson demands from everybody around him is loyalty. He questioned your loyalty because you were so close to the Kennedy family.”
I shook my head in bewilderment. “Well, Ruf, you know me. I’m here to do the job.”
“I’m gonna talk to him,” Rufus said. “Look, Clint, I know—we all know—that you would do the same thing again . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked down. He didn’t want to mention it.
I looked directly into Rufus’s eyes and said, “If he doesn’t want me here, then I won’t be here.”
“Let me work this out, Clint. We all want you here.”
I knew the decision wasn’t up to me, or to Rufus Youngblood. It was President Johnson’s call, and I was convinced this would be my first and last day on the detail.
The next day, before I went on shift, Rufus called me into the command post. He and his assistant, Lem Johns, had gone to the president to plead my case.
“We told him you were not political, that you were the consummate professional. That you had no allegiance to the Kennedys, but only to the United States Secret Service and our mission.”
I turned my gaze away from Rufus and looked down at the ground. I was sure what the response would be. President Johnson did things on his terms. He wasn’t about to let the Secret Service tell him who was going to be on his detail.
“Clint, the president wants you to stay.”
I was surprised that President Johnson had agreed to allow me to stay on his detail, but I also knew that all it would take was one minor mistake and I’d be transferred to a field office far from Washington, D.C. I wasn’t about to let that happen.
THE TRANSITION FROM Jacqueline Kennedy to Lyndon Baines Johnson was like sailing on a magnificent yacht along the Amalfi Coast on a cloudless summer day, and suddenly being tossed overboard into an aluminum trough filled with ice-cold water. There were not two more opposite people on the planet. Mrs. Kennedy was soft-spoken, refined, and empathetic, while President Johnson could be crude, demanding, boisterous, and intolerant.
I quickly learned that when President Johnson was at the ranch, there was no set schedule: his activities were completely unpredictable and often spur-of-the-moment. He believed surprise was the best form of defense against anyone who might try to harm him, and that included not informing his Secret Service agents of impending activity. We had to continually be on our toes, ready for movement by foot or car. President Johnson would be in the house and suddenly decide to take a drive. He’d stride out the back door, dressed in his tan gabardine ranch trousers and matching pocketed jacket, a Western-style hat, and boots, headed for the carport, usually with several of his guests in tow. Rarely did he give advance warning to the agents, so as soon as one of us saw what was going on, we’d radio the command post and race for the Secret Service follow-up cars.
President Johnson refused to allow an agent to drive him around on his own ranch, and most times forbade any of us from being in the same car with him. He’d jump into the driver’s seat of his white Lincoln convertible, with the top down, barely waiting for his passengers to sit before he stepped on the gas, kicking up a plume of dust as he sped away. The agents on duty would scramble into a couple of other cars, fast on his trail.
It was often the same situation if he wanted to fly somewhere. Our first notification would be seeing him come out of the house and head straight for the helicopter pad or the JetStar parked at the end of the runway behind the residence. The word would go out on the radios, and simultaneously the aircraft crew would come running out of their standby trailer to try to beat him to the appropriate aircraft. Thinking back on it now, it makes me laugh, but at the time it was extremely stressful, and not conducive to our preferred security methods.
Lady Bird Johnson, on the other hand, was always thoughtful and considerate of those of us who worked in various capacities around the president. A petite woman, Mrs. Johnson was active and energetic, and she always seemed to have a smile on her face. Her given name was Claudia, but apparently when she was an infant a nurse commented that she was “as pretty as a ladybird,” and the nickname stuck. The president simply called her “Bird.”
Because President Johnson had such a domineering personality, Mrs. Johnson might have seemed demure to some, but in reality she was quietly forceful, and very intelligent. She had graduated with honors from the University of Texas with degrees in both journalism and history, and having been married to Lyndon Johnson for over thirty years, she understood his personality, and how hurtful he could be, better than anyone.
One day during that first trip to the ranch, I was on duty when President Johnson stalked over to one of the other agents and began berating him for something that hadn’t gone exactly as the president had wanted. Johnson towered over the other man, and as his voice got louder, he moved in closer until his face was scarcely an inch from the agent’s. For the next ten minutes, Johnson exploded with curse words and accusations, haranguing, scolding, and degrading the poor man until he nearly crumbled.
Finally, it stopped just as suddenly as it had begun, and as the president stormed off, the agent became physically ill, vomiting into the grass. Mrs. Johnson had witnessed the scene from a distance, and as soon as her husband was out of sight, she brought a towel to the agent, gave him a hug, and said, “Oh, Bobby, Lyndon didn’t mean it. He thinks so highly of you. Please forgive him—you do a wonderful job.”
I had just witnessed “the Johnson treatment.” Over the next four years, I would see the same situation played out with senators, congressmen, even the vice president, and nearly every agent on the detail, myself included. No one was immun
e.
THE JOHNSONS HAD two daughters, Lynda and Luci, and the minute their father became president, their lives changed dramatically. At the time, the children of vice presidents did not have Secret Service protection, but within hours of President Kennedy’s assassination, the girls each had agents assigned to them. Lynda was nineteen years old and a student at the University of Texas in Austin, while Luci was living at home with her parents in Washington attending the National Cathedral School for Girls. The Johnsons were a close family, and the girls often joined their parents at the White House and were always at the ranch for holidays.
As the first anniversary of the assassination approached, you couldn’t pick up a newspaper or turn on the radio or television that week without hearing endless recaps and analyses. President Johnson had called for Sunday, November 22, 1964, to be a day of “national rededication” to the ideals of President Kennedy, but a presidential declaration was hardly needed. All across the United States, and all over the world, people were paying tribute to President Kennedy at memorial Masses and somber ceremonies of remembrance. More than thirty thousand people entered the gates of Arlington National Cemetery to personally pay tribute at President Kennedy’s gravesite, among them Bobby Kennedy and Eunice Kennedy Shriver. Meanwhile, Mrs. Kennedy had taken John and Caroline to her leased home in Glen Cove, Long Island, to spend the day privately with her children and her sister, who had flown in from London.
President and Mrs. Johnson attended a memorial service in Austin, accompanied by Texas governor John Connally—who had fully recovered from his injuries—and his wife, Nellie. It was torture for me to be back in Texas on that day one year later. Everything was a reminder—the cloudless blue sky, the Texas twang of the locals, the sound of an airplane flying overhead—and in an instant the horrific images flashed into my mind, haunting me, taunting me, as they did almost every night in my sleep. A year had passed, but the nightmares endured, along with the emptiness and feelings of failure; my heart was as heavy as ever. The only way I knew how to deal with it was to focus on my job—checking and rechecking every detail so that nothing was ever left to chance, being the first one to volunteer for undesirable assignments, and all the while trying to prove to President Johnson that I was worthy of his trust and confidence.