by Hill, Clint
From the cool remoteness of Kabul we flew three thousand miles to tropical Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. It was nighttime as Air Force Two descended into the modern, prosperous Malaysian capital, and with the tall buildings all lit up, it seemed like we had passed through a time warp from Nepal and Afghanistan.
We had recognized during the pre-survey trip that security in Kuala Lumpur would need to be extremely well planned and orchestrated in light of some strong anti-American sentiment there. In the days leading up to the vice president’s arrival, left-wing political groups circulated pamphlets attacking Agnew’s visit and U.S. policy in Vietnam. Some of the language was very harsh, demanding revenge for the death of a Chinese man shot during anti-American protests when President Johnson visited in 1966. Additionally, riots between the Malay and Chinese factions had been ongoing for the previous seven months, and 1,200 citizens had been killed.
Throughout the trip, I had been pleased with the security arrangements made by the advance agents, and in Kuala Lumpur once again they had done an outstanding job. The sixteen-mile motorcade into the city was well secured, with armed military personnel lining the route and helicopters flying surveillance and cover overhead as we drove from the airport to the Merlin Hotel.
The official activities started early the next morning and included a visit to the Malaysian Rubber Institute for a tour. The vice president’s attempt to slice open a rubber tree to watch the oozing of the latex failed, but astronaut Tom Stafford, who had joined the trip in Nepal, was successful, much to the amusement and pleasure of the Malaysian officials. Agnew appeared to be getting upstaged by the astronauts at every turn, but he didn’t seem to mind a bit. He had a great sense of humor, and he knew how much their presence had added to the success of the trip.
From Kuala Lumpur it was on to Singapore for a relatively relaxing one-night stay that included a round of golf with the prime minister, and then to the Indonesian isle of Bali.
During the advance, we realized that everyone would be exhausted by this point in the trip, and, as it turned out, we were. We had scheduled a stop in Bali as an unofficial visit for rest and recuperation purposes—having just visited eight countries in eleven nights—before heading to Australia and New Zealand. The only problem was that it was the weekend of Super Bowl IV—the Kansas City Chiefs vs. the Minnesota Vikings—and there was no coverage in Bali, which was disappointing to the vice president.
On Tuesday, January 13, we left the tropical paradise and had an easy five-and-a-half-hour flight to Canberra, Australia. Prime Minister John Gorton and officials of the Australian government were there to meet the vice president on arrival, as well as a small group of very vocal antiwar demonstrators. We skirted around them with no problems and then drove directly to the Australian War Memorial. Apparently word had gotten out that we would be there, and there were upward of three hundred people surrounding the monument, many of them holding signs that said: AGNEW IS A DIRTY FASCIST PIG, BEWARE OF GIFT BEARING GREEKS, and MOON ROCKS AND MURDER.
As we got out of the car, the agents and I stayed close to Vice President and Mrs. Agnew, who tried to ignore the chanted slurs as they walked into the courtyard of the elegant white stone monument building. The vice president placed a wreath on the tomb and seemed quietly contemplative as he spent some time reading some of the names of those who had been killed in various wars. When we came out of the monument, Vice President and Mrs. Agnew waved to the crowd—which responded with a chorus of both boos and cheers. Suddenly, a small group started throwing tomatoes, and we rushed to get into the cars before anyone was hit by a splattering red mess.
That evening a dinner was held at the prime minister’s residence, and we were receiving reports that antiwar groups were bringing in busloads of demonstrators from Sydney, Melbourne, and Adelaide for a protest the next day at Parliament House during the time Agnew was scheduled for a cabinet luncheon meeting there. Fortunately, only about two hundred showed up. They shouted “Go home, you murderer!” at the vice president and “Go home, CIA!” at the agents working the outer perimeter—lots of people confuse the Secret Service with the Central Intelligence Agency, but we are two distinctly different organizations. Vice President Agnew’s response to these protests was usually to smile and wave—acting like it didn’t faze him a bit—but after a while, I would think that anyone would get tired of being called such terrible names on a regular basis.
We faced similar protests in New Zealand two days later. Large numbers of protestors battled with police near the Intercontinental Hotel in Auckland, shouting and waving signs with creative messages like WE IMPUDENT SNOBS ARE FOR PEACE, but we managed to get into the hotel without incident. I was informed early the next morning that a man who appeared to be emotionally disturbed had entered the hotel overnight and threatened to kill Vice President Agnew. He was swiftly arrested and taken into custody.
The next day we got a respite from the ever-present protestors as we flew by helicopter across the lush countryside, landing near a town called Whatawhata in the Waikato region, where the Agnews toured sheep, cattle, and stud horse farms. The bucolic reprieve was much appreciated by all of us but short-lived, for the protestors were back in force that evening outside the hotel, chanting “One, two, three, four, kick Agnew, end the war!” as the Agnews attended a state dinner.
The angry mobs and the arduous country-hopping schedule had taken a toll on the entire vice presidential party, and the next day, as we took off in Air Force Two and headed back to the United States, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
It was always a good feeling when we landed on American soil after a foreign trip, but landing in Honolulu, where they greet you with garlands of flowers, was especially nice. It was the perfect way to start a few days of rest before returning to Washington. The only appointment on the vice president’s schedule was a Sunday-morning meeting with Admiral John McCain, Commander in Chief, U.S. Forces Pacific (CINCPAC).
When we got the Agnews checked into the Kahala Hilton near Diamond Head, I discovered that Arnold Palmer and his wife were also guests, and I had an idea.
“Mr. Vice President,” I said, “we’ve learned that Arnold Palmer is staying here this weekend. Would you be interested in playing a round of golf with him if I could arrange it?”
Agnew looked at me with wide eyes. “Of course I’d be interested, Clint. The question is, would he want to play with me?”
“Well, I know he enjoyed playing with President Eisenhower—I got to know him a little bit during my days with Ike—and I’d be happy to make the introduction.”
“Wow, Clint,” Agnew said. “Sure. That would be a great opportunity.”
I contacted Mr. Palmer, and he said he’d be honored to play with the vice president, so a golf game between the two was arranged. They got along so well that Palmer and his wife and the Agnews ended up having dinner together as well.
Despite the consistent protests, the trip had been very successful overall, but to end it with a golf game between the vice president and one of his golf idols was a nice final note.
SHORTLY BEFORE WE had embarked on the Asian trip, I had been advised that when we returned, I was being promoted to Deputy Assistant Director of Protective Forces (DAD-PF), and my office would move to Secret Service headquarters. I had very mixed emotions about this promotion. I recognized it was an acknowledgment of my work, but I was enjoying my position as SAIC of VPPD, and I hated to leave. The Vice President’s Detail was like a family. We worked well together, relied on each other for support, and trusted each other implicitly.
During the year I had been with Vice President Agnew, I had seen him go from “Who is Agnew?” to being number three on the Gallup poll’s most admired list—just behind President Richard M. Nixon and the Reverend Billy Graham. It seemed people either loved him or despised him.
At the time, Mickey Mouse watches had become very popular, and there was a joke going around that Mickey Mouse wore a Spiro Agnew watch. A creative entrepreneur manufactured wat
ches modeled after the Mickey Mouse watch that had a caricature of Spiro Agnew on the face, with his arms spinning around pointing to the time with red-gloved hands permanently affixed in a “V” sign. The Spiro Agnew watches were hugely popular, and I just happen to have one.
For me personally, I got along very well with Vice President Agnew and his wife, Judy. They were genuinely kind, fun-loving, and family-oriented, and they treated all the agents with a great deal of respect.
That weekend in Hawaii, I tried to stay out of everyone’s way, letting my assistant, Sam Sulliman—who would be taking over as SAIC—and his deputy, John Simpson, begin to take charge. I spent most of the time sitting on the balcony of my hotel room overlooking the beautiful waves crashing onto Waikiki Beach, trying not to think about the past, yet wondering what a future behind a desk might hold.
32
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A Visit from Elvis
When I reported to Secret Service headquarters at 1800 G Street N.W., Washington, D.C., I was given an office within the Assistant Director/Protective Forces Suite on the eighth floor. It was windowless and measured about eight feet by ten feet. For the first time since I began my career in the Secret Service, I was deskbound. Although the paperwork and continuous workload of my new position gave me plenty to do and kept me busy, sitting there in that enclosed space also gave me plenty of time to think. And the thoughts that started creeping back into my mind were the memories of 1963 and that dreadful day in Dallas.
From the time I left Mrs. Kennedy and went back on the White House Detail with President Johnson there hadn’t been time to think about anything but the job, and I had somehow managed to put the vivid memories of the assassination out of my mind. It seemed the more physically active I was, the less I thought about it. Now, instead of being constantly on the move, I was sitting at a desk, figuring out budgets and making recommendations on personnel.
After being on the road and away from home more than 90 percent of the time, now I was able to sleep in my own bed and be home for dinner with my family. But, as it turned out, and was to be expected, my wife and sons had developed a routine without me, so I frequently stayed late at the office.
In my new position, I was answering requests from the various protective divisions to better enable their security capability—requests for manpower, both permanent and temporary; equipment requests; and requests for increased training. Since 1963, the Secret Service had, little by little, become responsible for protecting a much larger group of people—both as directed by Congress and also by presidential decree—and yet Congress had not always provided funding to hire the number of agents required to effectively handle the job. When President Kennedy was assassinated in 1963, the Secret Service had the responsibility of protecting the president and his family and the vice president—and we had fewer than fifty agents to do the job around the clock. Less than nine years later, when I started as the deputy assistant director, the Secret Service had been reorganized, and now we had agents assigned to the Presidential Protective Division (PPD); Vice Presidential Protective Division (VPPD); Johnson Protective Division (JPD); Kennedy Protective Division (KPD); Eisenhower Protective Division (EPD); Truman Protective Division (TPD), and the Protective Support Division (PSD). These were just the protective divisions of the Secret Service. The criminal investigation, intelligence gathering, and technical divisions had all expanded as well.
At the time, I was the only agent in the Secret Service who had the experience of being SAIC of PPD and VPPD—as well as having been the SAIC of the First Lady’s Detail and then of the KPD—so I had a good understanding of what was needed. I knew that when requests were being made, it was because the agents were concerned about their ability to protect these individuals under the circumstances. In addition we had personnel and equipment in San Clemente, California, and Key Biscayne, Florida—at the personal residences of President Nixon—and having spent so much time at the LBJ Ranch with President Johnson and at the various residences of the Kennedys, I was well aware of the vast resources required to keep those properties secured.
The Office of Protective Forces also had the responsibility for planning and developing new equipment—including armored vehicles. That took a great deal of time and coordination with the PPD and the Office of the President. We were interested in the protection provided by the vehicle. The Office of the President was interested in aesthetics and maximum exposure of the president to the public. One major problem was that we had to have the cooperation of the president, whoever was the occupant of the office. Sometimes our procedures and their desires were in conflict, which created difficult situations. We did not want the president to have the opportunity to place himself in a dangerous situation—like the ability to stand up out of the roof of a car—making the security situation worse than it already was. Somehow it seemed a president’s ego—or the overriding goal of an overzealous staff—resulted in a constant battle to thwart our efforts. I’ve often said, politics and protection are like oil and water.
In late January 1970, PPD notified my office that President Nixon would be going by train to Philadelphia to attend a concert by the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra and to present to its music director, Eugene Ormandy, the Medal of Freedom. Normally, the president would take a trip to Philadelphia from Washington by helicopter or plane. In 1962, President Kennedy had flown to Philadelphia by helicopter but returned to Washington from Philadelphia by train, after having attended the Army-Navy football game. I suppose that’s where President Nixon got the idea.
President Nixon was at Camp David on the morning of January 24, the day of his train excursion, which would have made the trip much less complicated if he had traveled by helicopter. Instead, he flew by helicopter back to the White House, boarded a train at Union Station, and traveled to the Thirtieth Street Station in Philadelphia, returning to Washington by train that night. It involved more people, disrupting some normal business operations and causing inconvenience to many people, and created more risk than necessary.
We advised against it. The president and his staff overruled.
ONE OF THE larger divisions under the supervision in the Office of Protective Forces was the White House Police (now known as the Uniformed Division), which at the time had about 250 men. Unlike the Secret Service agents on protective details, who typically dressed in business-type suits, the White House Police wore uniforms similar to those of police officers, complete with badge and cap. Fortunately for me, fellow agent Vince Mroz had the responsibility of overseeing that group, and I didn’t have to deal with the fiasco that was about to occur.
Apparently when President Nixon had visited Europe earlier in 1969, he and some of his staff were impressed by the ornate uniforms worn by security officers at state residences, and upon returning they made a request for the White House Police to design, and have manufactured, uniforms of similar appearance. Within a few weeks of my arrival at headquarters, Prime Minister Harold Wilson of Great Britain came to the White House on an official state visit, and it was on this occasion that the new White House Police uniforms were unveiled.
The new uniforms consisted of black trousers and a white long-sleeved jacket with two columns of gold buttons—spaced evenly from each shoulder to the waist—and two buttons at the collarbone just below the stand-up collar. Gold braid accented the bottom of the sleeves just above the wrists, and an additional double length of gold braid looped from the right shoulder to the chest, ending in dangling tassels. Combined with the pointed, gold-trimmed cap with a black vinyl brim, the uniforms made the officers look like they belonged to a college marching band.
They were ridiculous.
It wasn’t my place to comment on the uniforms, but as it turned out I didn’t have to say a word. The press didn’t hold back. Reporters said the police looked like “old-time movie ushers,” and “extras from a Lithuanian movie,” some even going so far as to call them “Nazi uniforms” for “Nixon’s Palace Guard.”
Chicago Tr
ibune columnist Walter Trohan, a Nixon friend, wrote that the uniforms belonged onstage, calling them “frank borrowing from decadent European monarchies, which is abhorrent to this country’s democratic tradition.” They had become a national joke. Fortunately, President Nixon heard the message loud and clear, and it was the one and only time those uniforms were worn by the White House Police.
A few months later, a recommendation was made to enlarge the size of the White House Police force and increase its responsibilities within the Secret Service. It would grow from 250 men to 850, and in addition to protecting the executive mansion and its grounds, it would also be responsible for the protection of foreign missions within the District of Columbia; any building in which presidential offices were located; and foreign missions located in such areas of the United States, its territories, and possessions as the president, on a case-by-case basis, might direct. With these increased roles, the name of the division was changed from the White House Police to the Executive Protective Service (EPS).
AT THIS POINT in Nixon’s administration, despite the large antiwar contingent among youth, polls showed that more than 60 percent of the American people approved of the job President Nixon was doing. Still, Nixon believed the press was part of the antiestablishment, and he was always grumbling about how they didn’t treat him fairly.
Every year there was a white-tie dinner at the Gridiron Club—an elite dining club consisting of the fifty most prominent newspapermen in Washington—and since its inception in 1895, every president except Grover Cleveland had spoken at this annual event. Throughout the dinner, in between the courses of soup, salad, entrée, and dessert—along with, of course, plentiful cocktails and wine—there would be satirical skits and humorous remarks by politicians to keep the audience entertained. The unspoken rule for the many reporters at the dinner was that what went on at this once-a-year event would not be read about in the papers the next morning. But on March 17, 1970, the members of the Gridiron Club saw a show that none of them would ever forget, and which was so newsworthy that the rule was momentarily broken.