by Hill, Clint
One day in early July, we were at the LBJ Ranch when something unusual happened. The president’s tailor, Irving Frank, had come to the ranch to deliver some clothes he had made for the president. He’d been a guest for lunch, and then had the president try on the clothes to make sure they fit. I was in the Secret Service office when I got word that the president wanted to see me out by the pool.
As I rounded the corner of the house, I saw the president standing in the doorway that led from his bedroom to the pool area, while Mr. Frank was just outside, his tape measure slung around his neck.
As I approached, President Johnson turned to Mr. Frank, pointed at me, and said, “Measure him.”
Without hesitation, Mr. Frank began measuring my shoulders, chest, sleeve length, waist, and inseam, scribbling down the numbers on a pocket notepad. The president was watching intently with a mischievous grin on his face, and when the tailor was finished, Johnson looked at me and said, “You can go now, Clint.”
There was no explanation, and I had no idea what this was all about. There was no more mention of it for the rest of the day, and that evening we departed the ranch and headed back to Washington.
ONE OF THE results of Robert Kennedy’s death was that the Secret Service was now protecting major presidential candidates, and in order to meet the added responsibilities, the White House Detail—of which I was the SAIC—had been cannibalized. Because of the stamina required on the campaign trail, we had moved many of the experienced, younger agents to the candidates’ details, and replaced the President’s Detail with older agents who had plenty of experience but weren’t necessarily as fit or agile. The theory was that the new protective details would be much more active because they were constantly on the go, while the president, presumably, wouldn’t be traveling so much. This was true, but it concerned me—especially as we headed into the Republican and Democratic conventions with a severe shortage of manpower.
The Secret Service was protecting four Republican candidates when the Republican convention opened on August 5 in Miami Beach, Florida. At the same time, Democratic candidates Hubert Humphrey and Eugene McCarthy were being protected, as well as George Wallace, the American Independent Party candidate. Meanwhile, the replacement agents I had with President Johnson were agents who had worked on the White House Detail with Presidents Roosevelt and Truman, and alongside me with Eisenhower, and were now back doing a job meant to be done by much younger men. They were hanging in there, but the long hours and extended periods of travel—not to mention Johnson’s unpredictability—were taking their toll.
President Johnson remained at the LBJ Ranch during the Republican National Convention, and other than a couple of trips to San Antonio for his annual physical examination and tests, there was only the usual ranch activity with guests flying in and out and tours of the ranches and the birthplace. On August 8, the Republicans named their ticket for the upcoming presidential election: Richard Nixon for president and the governor of Maryland, Spiro Agnew, as his vice presidential running mate. Shortly after the official announcement, President Johnson invited Nixon and Agnew to the ranch for a briefing on foreign relations.
Johnson was still working tirelessly for a peace agreement with North Vietnam—it was his greatest hope that he could bring a successful conclusion to the conflict before he left office—and plans were under way for peace talks in Paris. There had been speculation that Nixon would try to undercut the negotiations as a campaign tactic, but in his acceptance speech at the convention, he promised not to say anything during the campaign that might destroy a chance for peace.
On August 10, when I arrived at the Secret Service security office, I was handed a package that had been delivered, addressed to me. Inside were a pair of tan gabardine pants and a Western style shirt, identical to the ones President Johnson wore around the ranch. The mystery of the tailor measuring me by the pool was now solved.
After an early morning swim, the president came out of the house with Tom Johnson and secretary Marie Fehmer, headed for his white convertible, and said, “Goin’ for a drive.”
I didn’t mention the clothes I’d received, but at some point during the drive, President Johnson said, “Clint, did you get that package I sent you?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” I said with a smile. “I received it this morning. Thank you very much.”
“Well, sometime this afternoon I want to see you in those clothes and make sure they fit. I’ll make a Texan out of you yet.”
This was the day that Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew were coming, as well as all of the president’s top advisors. I did not think it was a good day for the president and me to be dressed in matching outfits.
We got back to the main house just in time to greet Secretary of State Dean Rusk, Director of the CIA Richard Helms, and Cyrus Vance—one of the negotiators at the Vietnam peace conference in Paris—as they landed on the runway in a JetStar. About an hour and a half later, a helicopter carrying Richard Nixon and his party arrived at the landing strip. Accompanying Nixon were Governor Spiro Agnew, a couple of Agnew’s aides, and three of Nixon’s aides: Dwight Chapin, H. R. “Bob” Haldeman, and Ron Ziegler.
It was a hot August day, and President Johnson—dressed in his casual ranch clothes—was very much at ease on his home turf as he welcomed the Republican entourage, all of whom were wearing traditional business suits with starched shirts and ties. As LBJ escorted the group from the landing strip toward the main house, he pulled Nixon aside and said, “While they get settled, let’s you and me go on a little drive. I’ll show you around the place.”
I motioned to one of the other agents to get into the follow-up car, and I jumped in the right front seat just in time to tail behind as President Johnson sped off in the convertible with Richard Nixon. Of course we had no idea what his intentions were—how far he’d be going or for how long—but on this occasion he just made a quick twenty-minute tour around the ranch, showing Nixon his birthplace and then looping back to the house.
The others had already gathered in the living room, and as soon as the president and Mr. Nixon arrived, the serious briefing began. The mood lightened during lunch, which was served in the family dining room as President Johnson held court, telling humorous stories and sharing memories of his long political career. If you didn’t know any better, you might have thought these were a bunch of lifelong friends at an annual reunion rather than political rivals.
The visit lasted only about two hours, but before the guests departed, President Johnson once again pulled Nixon aside and walked him to the porch outside his office for one last private chat.
I stood nearby as President Johnson escorted the Nixon entourage back to the runway, memorizing faces and mannerisms and taking mental note of who was who and the apparent pecking order as they boarded the helicopter; for although the election was still three months away and anything could happen, there was a good chance that Richard M. Nixon would be the next President of the United States of America—and in all likelihood, I would be in charge of his protection. I knew very little about Nixon, other than what I had observed when he was vice president under President Eisenhower, and since then he had brought in many new staff members. On that August day in 1968, I could not have imagined what lay ahead, and the turmoil these men would eventually bring upon themselves, the nation, and, yes, even me.
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, after all the guests had left, I received a message in the command post.
“Clint, the president is requesting you put on your new ranch clothes. He’s in the pool, and he wants to see how they look on you.”
Oh jeez. I had hoped that the visit with Mr. Nixon might have made him forget about the gift he’d given me. No such luck. I had no choice but to put on the outfit.
I put on the shirt and pants in the security room while my fellow agents were laughing and making smart remarks about me becoming a permanent resident of the Texas Hill Country.
“It’s meant to be, Clint!” they said, laughing, “Fits y
ou like a glove.”
It was true, the tailor had done a fine job, and I had to admit the clothes were pretty comfortable. But still, it was damn embarrassing.
I walked out to the pool area, where the president and his secretary Marie Fehmer were in the pool cooling off from the intense heat of the late afternoon sun, and modeled the uniform.
“Look at that!” President Johnson exclaimed. “Doesn’t he look fine, Marie?”
“Oh yes,” Marie said with a grin. “You look mighty fine, Mr. Hill.”
Ken Gaddis, one of the presidential stewards, happened to be nearby, and he made some smart remark about how the president’s tailor must be a miracle worker if he could make a Secret Service agent look like a rancher.
After everybody had a good laugh at my expense, I said, “Okay. The fashion show’s over. Time to get back to work.”
As soon as I got back to the security room, I changed into my regular clothing and folded the ranch clothes neatly back in the box. I couldn’t imagine myself wearing them—and being Johnson’s twin—but I realized the gift was his way of saying I had finally been accepted, that despite his initial doubts about my loyalty, I had proven to be worthy of his trust and confidence.
A short while later the president went driving around touring the ranches—I am not kidding; this was a daily, often twice daily activity—and at one point as I got out to open one of the gates, he said, “Clint, where are the ranch clothes?”
Think fast, Clint.
“I didn’t want to get them dirty on the first day, Mr. President,” I responded. He could see right through me, but he grinned and said, “Good idea. Take good care of them and they’ll last a long time.”
Later that evening, former presidential assistant Marvin Watson and his wife arrived by plane. Although Watson had accepted a new job as postmaster general, it appeared to me that he was still the president’s man in the political arena, and I couldn’t help but wonder if something was brewing.
We stayed at the ranch for nine more days, and on August 19, with little notice, the president informed me he was flying to Detroit to speak at the National VFW convention. A few days earlier, he had pulled a similar stunt, informing us at the last minute of a quick in-and-out trip to Houston. With many of the field offices drained of personnel to cover the presidential candidates, this no-notice-surprise-visit philosophy was getting riskier all the time. Fortunately, both the Houston and Detroit field offices stepped up to the challenge, but it was not without a great deal of anxiety for the Secret Service.
The day after we returned to Washington, President Johnson got a hand-delivered note from the Soviet ambassador with a message from Premier Kosygin that the Soviet Union was invading Czechoslovakia. The president held meetings well into the early morning hours and released a taped statement urging the Soviet Union to withdraw its troops. It seemed like every time he turned around, another crisis dropped into his lap. With all of this going on, I was surprised when President Johnson suddenly decided to go back to the LBJ Ranch on Friday, August 23, three days before the start of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago.
Something is going on.
I was aware that Marvin Watson and some of Johnson’s other political advance men had been sent to Chicago, while at the same time President Johnson was taking two speechwriters with him to Texas. Additionally, the president’s birthday was coming up on August 27, in the middle of the convention, and while I was sure there would be a tribute to Johnson at some point, knowing him as I did, I thought the possibility of his flying to Chicago and appearing at the convention was a real one. He had been keeping his speaking appearances very close to the vest, not letting anyone know exactly what his intentions were, and on top of all this I had never dismissed the notion that LBJ might actually reconsider running again.
I decided to fly to Chicago to snoop around, putting my Assistant SAIC, John Paul Jones, in charge of Johnson’s security at the ranch, and telling him to keep his eyes and ears open on that end.
Agent Dave Grant—one of the agents on the White House Detail—was originally from Chicago and knew Mayor Richard Daley and his special events director, Jack Riley, so I had him accompany me to make sure we had all the information we needed and could make our own plans in the event President Johnson decided to make a surprise visit to the convention. Deputy Director Rufus Youngblood and Assistant Director Lem Johns were already in Chicago dealing with candidate protection, and while they had informed us of some intelligence reports that caused grave concern, when I arrived and saw what was actually happening I knew we were in for some serious trouble.
Chicago’s black gangs were reportedly stockpiling weapons in apartments near the International Amphitheatre—the convention site—with the intention of stirring up violence in the streets, and an informant had tipped off police that one of the gangs was planning on gunning down Vice President Hubert Humphrey and Senator Eugene McCarthy. Meanwhile, anti–Vietnam War groups had promised to bring in 150,000 protestors and agitators, and they were already arriving by the busload as part of a coordinated effort to disrupt the convention, assembling in Lincoln and Grant Parks. Equally disturbing were rumors that a pro-Nixon group, partially funded by Richard Nixon’s close friend Bebe Rebozo, was headed to Chicago to incite disorder.
To combat the expected demonstrations, Mayor Daley had orchestrated unprecedented security arrangements: 12,000 Chicago police officers were on twelve-hour shifts; 7,500 U.S. Army soldiers were posted at strategic points in and around the city; 5,600 National Guardsmen were on standby; and 1,000 federal agents would be guarding hotels and mingling with the crowds. The Secret Service’s Chicago Field Office was already spread thin, and while the local agents would automatically assist us if President Johnson made a last-minute drop-in visit, we simply didn’t have the bodies to adequately protect the President of the United States in such a contentious atmosphere.
The International Amphitheatre was located in the Chicago Union Stockyard area on Chicago’s South Side, while the majority of delegates were staying in downtown hotels. We had rooms in the Conrad Hilton on Michigan Avenue, directly across from Grant Park, which just so happened to be one of the main gathering places for the demonstrators. On Monday night, the first night of the convention, police clashed with a large group of protestors right in front of our hotel. I could hardly believe my eyes when I looked down at the street below and saw police officers swinging their billy clubs at protestors who refused to leave the premises. In the next instant, there was a series of loud pops, and then plumes of tear gas filled the air, sending people running and screaming in a panicked herd. The windows were closed, but the gas was so strong it seeped into the hotel.
Meanwhile, I was keeping in touch with the agents at the ranch on an hourly basis to make sure I was aware of what the president was doing at every moment. I knew we would have only about three hours of flight time—ranch to Austin to Chicago—to get things in place, and the more notice I had, the better. We had selected an aircraft arrival point, planned a motorcade route, and identified a concealed entry point to the convention location. It wasn’t going to be easy, and there were plenty of things that could go wrong, but at least I felt comfortable knowing we had a plan.
On Tuesday, August 27, the president spent the morning of his birthday in his bedroom at the ranch making phone calls, and then went out to the pool, where he swam and had lunch with Mrs. Johnson, Luci, and his grandson, Lyn. Around three o’clock in the afternoon, Agent Jones called me.
“Clint, he’s been on the phone with Marvin Watson in Chicago and George Christian for the last half hour. I don’t know what’s being discussed, but I’ll keep you posted.”
An hour later, Jones reported, “He’s called Watson again, and he just got off a conference call with Mayor Daley. But so far, no movement from the house.”
At about 4:45, Jones checked in again. “He just got off the phone with Humphrey and advised us to get the helicopter ready. He says he’s going to L
uci’s residence.”
Yeah, right.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m not going to jump to any conclusions just yet, but the minute he veers off that plan, you let me know.”
As it turned out, the president did actually go to his daughter Luci’s house in Austin, with the press in attendance, and then returned to the ranch to welcome Lynda and some other guests who were arriving by plane. The president spent the rest of the evening with his guests in the living room, watching the convention on television. There were still two days left in the convention, though, so we weren’t out of the woods just yet.
The turbulence within the city continued to escalate to the point that the streets of Chicago looked like a battlefield with armored vehicles, troops armed with assault rifles, and tear gas fired when the crowds couldn’t be controlled. Inside the convention hall, tempers flared as the splintered Democratic Party struggled to nominate their candidate, delegates complained about overzealous security, and speakers railed against Mayor Daley and the “Gestapo tactics” going on outside. Members of the news media were caught in melees both inside and outside, and as the horrifying images splashed across America’s television screens, protestors chanted, “The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!”
It was a goddamn mess.
Despite what seemed at one point to be insurmountable differences within the party, Vice President Hubert Humphrey won the nomination and selected Senator Ed Muskie of Maine as his running mate. In the end, President Johnson did not show up at the convention, and when it concluded, I took a flight to Austin and drove out to the ranch. I never told President Johnson I had been at the convention standing by in case he decided to attend, but just as I was monitoring his every move, his people were reporting back to him, and I am sure he knew.
WE RETURNED TO Washington in early September, and as the presidential campaign of 1968 got into full swing, President Johnson continued to be mired in the problems that had plagued him all year. Despite the impressive amount of legislation he had passed during his administration, it appeared that his legacy was going to be his failure to negotiate a resolution in Vietnam. Still, he worked tirelessly, and while many presidents would be winding down at the end of their administration, he continued at the same frenzied pace.