by Hill, Clint
He was smiling as big as could be, shaking hands, and waving—acting very much like a presidential candidate. As the other agents and I formed a protective envelope and gradually got him through the Southwest Gate onto the White House grounds, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was having second thoughts about running. If there was one thing I had learned about Lyndon Baines Johnson, it was that anything was possible.
It was almost the end of the presidential primaries for 1968, and it so happened that voting was taking place that day in South Dakota, New Jersey, and California. Up until a few weeks earlier, most predictions had Kennedy winning all the primaries and thereby sewing up the Democratic nomination. But Senator Eugene McCarthy had taken Oregon and Vice President Humphrey had won Pennsylvania, and it appeared that Kennedy’s campaign might be in trouble unless he was able to win California.
When I went home that night after the state dinner, I turned on the television to get some election results. It appeared that Robert Kennedy was winning, and I retired for the night.
At 3:50 a.m. I was wakened by the ringing of the White House phone next to my bed.
“Clint Hill,” I answered.
The Secret Service agent on duty was on the other end of the line.
“Mr. Hill,” he said. “Senator Kennedy has just been shot in Los Angeles.”
Oh my God. I hung up the phone, jumped out of bed, and went down to my basement to turn on the TV. All three networks were broadcasting—something that, at that time, was highly unusual at this hour of the morning—and details about the shooting were still coming in. I was so stunned, I could hardly believe what was being said. Bobby Kennedy shot.
He had just finished making a victory speech in the ballroom of the Ambassador Hotel to an enthusiastic crowd of supporters and was exiting through the kitchen, thanking the kitchen staff, when a man approached and fired a gun at point-blank range. Bobby’s wife, Ethel, pregnant with their eleventh child, was by his side as he lay bleeding on the floor, while pandemonium broke amid calls for medical assistance.
My mind swirled with the memories of that dreadful day in Dallas, four and a half years earlier: bracing myself on the back of the car; President Kennedy’s bleeding head in his wife’s lap, his eyes fixed. At that time I knew almost immediately there was no hope for him, and now, I prayed that Bobby Kennedy’s wounds would not be fatal. I knew the horror Ethel was experiencing, and how this would bring the memories right back for Jacqueline Kennedy. It was almost beyond belief that this had happened again to the same family. It felt like our country was unraveling at the seams.
I knew Senator Kennedy had a former FBI agent working with him handling security, but it was a pretty loose operation. One man, no matter how good he is, without additional help, cannot really be effective. At that time the Secret Service did not protect presidential candidates, but I was certain that was about to change. The thought of such a massive operation, to be undertaken instantly, without adequate preparation, gave me a cold sweat. There was no going back to sleep, so I shaved, showered, made myself a little breakfast, and headed for the White House.
As I walked down the West Drive toward the entrance to the West Wing, I had a million thoughts running through my head. Personally, I was shocked and saddened for the Kennedy family. From a professional standpoint, I realized the security ballgame had changed, and the Secret Service would be at the forefront of that change.
By the time I arrived at my office, President Johnson already had the wheels in motion. He had telephoned Director Rowley as soon as he’d learned of the shooting and requested Secret Service personnel be assigned to all the candidates immediately. Within hours, Rufus Youngblood was in the president’s office briefing him on all the assignments. Hubert Humphrey currently had Secret Service protection as vice president, and agents had already been dispatched to protect the other candidates—Nelson Rockefeller, Harold Stassen, Richard Nixon, Eugene McCarthy, and George Wallace. A short time later Ronald Reagan was added to the list. Youngblood made sure I was kept in the loop on all the activity, because this sudden increase in the number of protectees resulted in a manpower drain on the entire organization—manpower that we relied on whenever we took the president on any movement outside the White House perimeter.
At the same time, we were trying to get as much information as possible on the shooter, a twenty-four-year-old recent immigrant from Jordan named Sirhan Bishara Sirhan, who had been wrestled to the ground by witnesses and was now in police custody.
Was he in our files? The answer came back no. Like Lee Harvey Oswald, Sirhan Sirhan seemed to have emerged out of nowhere, and now the life of yet another national figure—another Kennedy—hung in the balance. Sirhan had fired eight shots in a matter of seconds, and along with Senator Kennedy, six bystanders were wounded.
President Johnson spent the day on the phone, receiving updates on Robert Kennedy’s condition and making calls to members of Congress prodding them to act swiftly on new legislation authorizing the Secret Service to protect presidential and vice presidential candidates. I remained at the White House all day and into the night, making sure we had every possible thing covered.
At 8:50 p.m., we got a call from our Los Angeles office with information that Robert Kennedy’s heart was getting weaker, and a doctor who was only to be called if the situation became very critical had arrived at the hospital. Five minutes later, our L.A. office reported that all members of the family had been asked to gather at the hospital. It seemed it was just a matter of time.
At 1:25 a.m.—now the morning of June 6—I was in the command center when President Johnson called from the residential quarters. He wanted to make sure we were fully staffed and were receiving the latest intelligence information.
“I need you to stay on top of this, Clint,” he said. “And keep me advised of any late developments.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” I said.
“I’m going to eat dinner and then go to bed. Let me know if anything new develops.”
I hadn’t eaten dinner myself, and since there wasn’t much more I could do at that point, I decided it was best for me to go home and get some rest. Despite how exhausted and mentally drained I was, I had trouble sleeping, wondering how Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy, Caroline, and John were coping.
At 5:00 a.m. the White House phone rang. “Sir,” the on-duty agent said. “We have just received word that Robert Kennedy has died.”
We had been receiving updates on his condition throughout the previous day, so while the news did not come as a surprise, to hear it said aloud still tied my stomach in knots.
“Has the president been informed?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Rostow delivered the news just before I called you.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
THE FLAG OVER the White House was already at half-staff when I arrived. President Johnson had directed that American flags on all U.S. government and military installations at home and abroad be lowered until after Robert Kennedy’s burial on Saturday. Sunday, he proclaimed, would be a national day of mourning.
A somber mood enveloped the White House as the press and staff began arriving. No one said much. We were all in a state of disbelief.
One of President Johnson’s first calls was to Senator Ted Kennedy, who was in Los Angeles at the hospital where his brother had just died. The president expressed his condolences and offered the Kennedy family anything they needed—planes, vehicles, no request was too big or too small. Despite the long-standing hostility between Lyndon Johnson and Robert Kennedy, the two staffs worked together to assist the grieving Kennedy family in every possible way.
JetStars, Secret Service agents, and government vehicles and drivers were made available for the Kennedy family members spread around the country. The president had offered to send one of the presidential jets to Los Angeles to fly the family and the body of Robert F. Kennedy back to New York City, where funeral services would be held at St. Patrick’s Cathedra
l, and the family gratefully accepted.
A few hours later, we got word that Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy, Caroline, and John would be on board the aircraft with the casket, and Mrs. Kennedy had requested that it not be the same plane that was used for President Kennedy. When I heard that, a wave of vivid memories crashed into my mind—calling the funeral home in Dallas to order the casket for President Kennedy; signing for it; squatting in the back of the hearse with Dr. Burkley and Mrs. Kennedy on the silent ride back to Love Field; struggling with the other agents to lift the heavy casket up the stairs to the door of Air Force One; and then the breaking point, when we realized the door of the presidential plane was not wide enough.
Oh God. I immediately got on the phone to Rufus Youngblood, who was working with Tom Johnson on the president’s staff to make all the arrangements.
“Ruf,” I said. “The casket. If they want it to go topside, they have to make sure it’s narrow enough to fit through the door of the aircraft. Remember . . .”
“Thanks, Clint,” Rufus said. “I’ll get the measurements of the doorway and let them know as soon as possible.”
WITHIN HOURS OF President Johnson’s request the previous day for legislation authorizing Secret Service protection for major candidates, both Houses of Congress passed a joint resolution doing just what the president had proposed, and at 6:30 on the evening of June 6—less than forty-eight hours after Senator Kennedy had been shot—I was among those present with Director Rowley, Deputy Director Youngblood, and other Secret Service officials as President Johnson signed the resolution into law.
President Johnson realized that in the midst of this national anguish, he had a window of opportunity, which he used to persuade Congress to take action on a many-faceted crime-control bill that included a ban on mail-order sales of handguns—a bill he had been unsuccessful in getting passed due to powerful opposition. Once again, it was Lyndon B. Johnson at his best—making swift decisions in the midst of a crisis, and then, because of his long-standing relationships with members on both sides of the congressional aisle and his unmatched knowledge of the political process, new legislation got passed.
But with two assassinations of national figures in two months, just four years after the assassination of our president, the bigger question on all Americans’ minds was: What is happening to our country? And where do we go from here? It felt like hatred and violence had taken the helm, thrusting our civilized society into a downward spiral. Hoping to find answers and lasting remedies, President Johnson quickly formed a committee to look into the “Cause and Prevention of Violence and Assassination.”
SENATOR KENNEDY’S BODY lay in state at St. Patrick’s Cathedral all day Friday, June 7, as people came from all over the country to pay their respects. The Requiem Mass was scheduled for the following day, June 8, at ten in the morning, after which the body of Robert Francis Kennedy would be taken by train to Washington for burial at Arlington National Cemetery.
The president had decided to take a JetStar to New York instead of the presidential jet, and because of its limited capacity, Deputy Director Rufus Youngblood accompanied the president while I flew ahead with a group of agents to be on the ground for the president’s arrival.
As our motorcade proceeded slowly through the streets of Manhattan, the scene was eerily reminiscent of November 25, 1963. Thousands of people lining the city streets, somber, silent, weeping.
I had been concerned about seeing Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy at the funeral—what would I say? How would she react to seeing me? It turned out that with Youngblood there, he accompanied the president inside the cathedral while I stayed outside, supervising the agents on the perimeter, and while I saw Mrs. Kennedy from a distance, there was no opportunity for us to speak to each other.
As soon as the funeral service concluded, we flew back to Washington and carried on with normal business, while the Kennedy family traveled by train from New York’s Penn Station through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Maryland. An estimated two million people lined the tracks—they were black, white, young, old, rich, and poor, their faces hollow with shock and sorrow for the family that had endured so much tragedy—and you could see the desperation in their eyes, wondering, as nearly every American was: Why?
The funeral services were scheduled to take place in the late afternoon, but the train trip took more than four hours longer than had been anticipated and didn’t arrive at Washington’s Union Station until after nine that evening. We brought President Johnson to the train station so that he and Mrs. Johnson, along with Vice President and Mrs. Humphrey, were there to greet the Kennedy family as they arrived.
I was standing immediately next to President Johnson as the narrow, flag-draped casket was moved from the train to the hearse. As President Johnson spoke briefly to Ethel, Teddy, and Robert Kennedy Jr., I saw Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy emerge from the train with John and Caroline. Our eyes met, and she walked toward me.
“Hello, Mr. Hill,” she said. “How have you been?”
She was wearing a black dress—was it the same one she had worn for her husband’s funeral?—with a black veil that covered her hair and hung down softly against the sides of her face. And her eyes—oh, her eyes. They revealed the depth of her grief—unbearable grief. And yet she had the grace to inquire How have you been?
“Hello, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “I am so very sorry for your loss.”
She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments, and when they opened, glistening with pain, she replied, simply, “Thank you.”
At that point, the president was moving toward the waiting limousine. Much as I would have liked to talk to her longer, to find out how she and the children were doing, I needed to move with the president.
“It was nice to see you, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said as I tried to muster the semblance of a smile, and then I turned and walked away.
I rode in the front seat of the presidential limousine—we were the fifteenth car in the motorcade procession—and as we slowly made our way down Constitution Avenue, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of loss. Darkness had long since fallen, and the monuments—the sparkling white marble tributes to past presidents—were lit up against the rainy black sky. As the motorcade turned in front of the majestic memorial to Abraham Lincoln—another leader slain by an assassin—and headed onto Memorial Bridge where, up ahead, the eternal flame at President Kennedy’s gravesite flickered on the hillside, my heart was heavy with grief, but also deep concern. Our leaders were being gunned down. Every day we were informed of new threats against President Johnson, and the anger directed against him on college campuses across the nation had become explosive. I shuddered at the thought of what another assassination would do to our country. We simply couldn’t let it happen. I couldn’t let it happen.
The other agents and I walked with President and Mrs. Johnson as they joined the Kennedy family around the gravesite where forty-two-year-old Robert Kennedy would be laid to rest, a stone’s throw from where his brother had been buried four and a half years earlier. As the solemn ceremony proceeded, I stood several paces behind President Johnson, surrounded by Kennedys and Shrivers and Smiths—and it was hard to remember the times before the world changed, before our innocence was shattered. My heart ached for Ethel and her children, for Mrs. Kennedy, Caroline, and John standing with them in sad solidarity, and it was all I could do to focus on surveying the crowd, keeping my mind on the reason I was there.
But when Robert and Ethel Kennedy’s older children took their younger siblings by the hands and solemnly knelt to kiss the flag-draped casket of their father, the memories came rushing back—Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline in the rotunda, the heart-wrenching sight of John’s three-year-old salute, Robert Kennedy holding the hand of his brother’s widow at the lighting of the eternal flame—and I was thankful for the darkness and the misty rain gliding down my cheeks.
President and Mrs. Johnson knelt and prayed with the Kennedy family, and when the services were over, we moved them away
from the crowd and promptly departed the cemetery. As it turned out, my brief encounter with Mrs. Kennedy at the train station in the shadow of Robert Kennedy’s casket would be our last meeting. I would never see or speak with Jacqueline Kennedy again.
28
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Loyalty
As we rolled into the summer of 1968, racial tensions simmered just below the boiling point, American casualties in Vietnam mounted, antiwar demonstrations multiplied, and, with the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy still raw wounds, Americans were desperate for hope.
President Johnson had become a virtual prisoner in the White House, and one of the few things that gave him joy was his grandson, “Lyn”—Luci and Patrick Nugent’s son. The president delighted in bringing the infant into the Oval Office and onto Air Force One, and when he was with his little namesake, it was as if all the burdens of the office evaporated.
Meanwhile, Lynda’s husband, Marine Captain Chuck Robb, had begun his tour of duty in Vietnam at the end of March, and shortly thereafter the White House announced that Lynda was pregnant. Having a son-in-law in Vietnam—with another grandchild on the way—seemed to make President Johnson even more determined to find a peaceful solution to the war that was ripping the nation apart. Captain Robb provided the president with firsthand details of what it was like for the soldiers on the ground, giving him information that sometimes differed from what his military advisors were telling him.
Even though President Johnson had publicly declared that he would not run for another term, there were signs that perhaps he was indeed still thinking about it—especially now that Robert Kennedy was no longer a factor. I was definitely keeping my ears open for anything that might indicate he was changing his mind.