Five Days in November

by Clint Hill

  “Please, Mrs. Kennedy,” I plead. “Please let us get him into the hospital.”

  She looks up at me, her eyes hollow with shock. I’ve spent nearly every day with her for the past three years, and know her so well, I can read her emotions. It suddenly hits me. She won’t let go because she does not want others to see the president in this condition. It is a gruesome scene, beyond the imagination. But worse, her husband’s normally sparkling eyes are unblinking, his magnetic smile gone.

  I pull off my suit coat and place it over his head and upper torso. She looks up at me and finally releases her husband. His feet are wedged under the jump seat, so Agent Lawson moves them, and together, Win Lawson, Roy Kellerman, Dave Powers, and I lift the lifeless body of our president onto the gurney.

  Mrs. Kennedy holds on to the side of the gurney as we race into the emergency room.

  Someone guides us past Trauma Room Two, where doctors are already working on Governor Connally, to Trauma Room One, and suddenly doctors and nurses appear from all directions. Medical professionals crowd around the president in the tiny trauma room, desperately trying to save his life.

  Dallas police stand guard around the limousine. The decision is made to put the top on the car, to shield the bloody mess inside from gawkers or photographers eager to get a photo, and to preserve evidence.

  The White House press and local reporters who were in the motorcade, too far back to see what actually happened, are frantically trying to figure out what’s going on.

  Agent Win Lawson, the advance agent, takes charge of securing the hospital. Nonessential employees are forced outside and agents take posts to make sure no unauthorized people get inside.

  Back inside the hospital, Agent Kellerman asks me to contact the White House, while Agent Landis stays with Mrs. Kennedy.

  The White House switchboard connects me to Jerry Behn, the Special Agent in Charge of the White House Detail.

  “Jerry, it’s Clint.” I’m wondering how I’m going to explain the indescribable horror, when Kellerman grabs the phone from my hand. But before he can speak, a doctor calls out that the president is still breathing.

  Kellerman hands the phone back to me and bolts into the trauma room.

  On the other end of the line, Jerry Behn can sense the tension.

  “Clint, what’s happened?”

  “Shots fired during the motorcade. Both the president and the governor have been hit,” I begin. “The situation is critical, Jerry. Prepare for the worst.”

  The White House operator cuts in. “Mr. Hill,” he says, “the attorney general wants to talk to you.”

  The attorney general, Robert F. Kennedy. The president’s brother.

  “Yes, Mr. Attorney General, this is Clint.”

  “What is going on down there?”

  I explain that both the president and the governor have been shot and we are in the emergency room at Parkland Hospital.

  “Well, how bad is it?” he asks.

  A lump sticks in my throat. I don’t have the courage to tell him his brother is dead.

  I pull my emotions in tight and answer simply, “It’s as bad as it can get.”

  Without another word, he hangs up. I keep the line open with Mr. Behn and suggest he notify the rest of the president’s family members before they hear it from the press.

  Inside Trauma Room One, the doctors work feverishly on the president. Vice President Johnson is now in a room down the hall, the door guarded by agents. Other agents are posted around the hospital, trying to maintain security. Everybody is doing the best they can, but nothing prepares you for seeing a man alive one second and his head exploding in front of you the next.

  Ken O’Donnell, who was riding in the follow-up car and saw everything, is in sheer agony. He and the president are longtime close friends. Fighting tears, O’Donnell spots Agent Jack Ready, who he knows is a devout Catholic.

  “Jack, can you get a priest to come to the emergency room? Immediately?”

  “Of course,” Jack says, his face tormented with pain. The reality of what has happened is sinking in.

  I stay on the line with Jerry Behn, giving him a minute-by-minute account of what’s happening. Two priests arrive and are escorted into the trauma room.

  Moments later, Mr. Kellerman walks out and in a low voice says, “Clint, tell Jerry this is not official, and not for release, but the president is dead.”

  I knew it, of course, I saw the impact, but to say it out loud, to tell Mr. Behn, is difficult. President Kennedy chose Jerry Behn to be the Agent in Charge at the beginning of his administration, and the two of them had a close and respectful relationship. Normally, Behn would be on this trip, in Kellerman’s place, but for the first time in three years he decided to take a few days off.

  “Jerry,” I say, “Roy says this is not to be released, but . . . but the president is dead.” There is stunned silence on the other end of the line. I lay the receiver down on the desk and take a deep breath.

  It feels like I’m in the middle of a nightmare. Truly, this is as bad as it gets. Down the hall, Agent Landis is with Mrs. Kennedy—I know he won’t leave her side.

  Ken O’Donnell approaches me, his eyes red, welling with tears.

  “Clint, we need a casket for the president.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Having never been to Dallas before, I have no idea who to call, so I ask one of the hospital administrative people if he can tell me the name of the best mortuary in the area. He takes me to a room near the trauma rooms in which there’s a desk and a phone, and I call Oneal Funeral Home.

  “I need a casket delivered to Parkland Hospital’s emergency entrance,” I say. “Right away. The best one you have.” My voice cracks as I add, “It’s for the president. The casket is for President Kennedy.”

  I return to the hallway, where Mrs. Kennedy is now sitting in a chair, outside the trauma room, as Agent Landis, Kenny O’Donnell, and Dave Powers try to provide comfort. She is still in shock, completely devastated. She was inches from her husband when his head exploded before her eyes. It is unfathomable.

  When the casket arrives, I sign for it and help wheel it inside. The intention is to transport the president’s body back to Washington, D.C., as soon as possible. The Texas authorities, however, tell us we cannot remove the president’s body from the hospital until an autopsy is performed. State law requires that before the body of a homicide victim can be released, an autopsy must be performed in the jurisdiction in which the homicide occurs. The assassination of the President of the United States, at this time, is not a federal offense.

  This is not acceptable to any of the presidential staff or to us in the Secret Service. How long will an autopsy take? The reply: depending on how difficult the procedure becomes—anywhere from three hours to a day or more.

  This means Mrs. Kennedy would need to sit and wait for the autopsy to be completed. None of us are willing to agree to that. A heated discussion between O’Donnell, Kellerman, and the Texas authorities ensues. Our argument is that the president is the leader of all the people, and thus the autopsy should take place in the nation’s capital. The Texas authorities insist the body cannot be moved. The tension rises, but I have no doubt what is going to happen. Texas law or not, we are taking the president’s body back to Washington, on Air Force One, immediately.

  Meanwhile, the president’s body is put in the casket. When the local authorities realize they cannot physically stop us, a decision is reached that the autopsy can be performed in Washington as long as a medical professional is present with the body at all times, right up to the autopsy.

  “We have the right man for the job,” I volunteer. “Admiral George Burkley is the president’s physician, and he’s here. He can remain with the body.”

  For security reasons, it is decided that President Kennedy’s death will not be publicly announced until Vice President Johnson leaves the hospital and is secure aboard Air Force One. Even though he has not been officially sworn in, constitut
ionally, Lyndon B. Johnson is now the President of the United States.

  At 1:35 P.M. Johnson leaves Parkland, crouched secretly in the backseat of an unmarked police car driven by Dallas police chief Jesse Curry.

  Finally, Mac Kilduff, the assistant White House press secretary, makes the formal announcement to the press. Within minutes, CBS Evening News anchor Walter Cronkite breaks into regular programming and, fighting back his own emotions, reads from the newswire: “From Dallas, Texas, the flash apparently official: President Kennedy died at one p.m. Central Standard Time, two o’clock Eastern Standard Time, some thirty-eight minutes ago.”

  Outside Parkland Hospital, the world has stopped. People listening to car radios pull over, unable to drive; women sob openly as men force back tears. Children struggle to understand why their parents, grandparents, and neighbors are crying. Whether they are young or old, black or white, the moment people hear the news is forever seared into their memories.

  My emotions, as well as those of the other agents, must be suppressed because we cannot allow personal feelings to interfere with the job we have to do. We must act stoically. We do not know if this shooting of President Kennedy and Governor Connally is a singular act or if it is part of something much bigger. Some of the agents from the follow-up car have gone to protect Vice President Johnson, to bolster his protective detail. The agents that were at the Trade Mart have come to Parkland Hospital and are providing perimeter security. We must ensure the continuity of government at all costs. We must be more vigilant than ever. This is no time for us to mourn.

  We all share a sense of loss. The President of the United States has been cut down on our watch. We have failed in our responsibility to protect him. That fact cuts deep into the heart and soul of every agent. But we must control our feelings. We must stay on task. We must maintain the proper decorum. The time for our grieving will have to come much later.

  16

  * * *

  A New President

  Paul Landis and I escort Mrs. Kennedy as the casket is wheeled outside to the waiting hearse.

  Another car is positioned behind the hearse and, turning to Mrs. Kennedy, I say, “Mrs. Kennedy, we can follow the hearse in this car.”

  “No,” she says. “I’m going to ride in the hearse with the president.”

  Admiral Burkley is already seated in the back, so I help Mrs. Kennedy get in and I climb in after her. There we are, Admiral Burkley, the casket containing the President of the United States, Mrs. Kennedy, and me.

  At 2:04 P.M. we depart Parkland Hospital in the white hearse, its windows shrouded with curtains, and drive to Love Field in a silent, unannounced motorcade.

  Air Force One stands on the tarmac, its engines running. The agents who accompanied President Kennedy to Dallas work together to remove the casket from the hearse. It is bronze, and very heavy. Fortunately, there are handles to help carry the weight. Now we must get it up to the rear door of the airplane.

  Mrs. Kennedy stands at the bottom of the ramp, watching as we heave the casket step by step.

  Even with all of us using all our strength, though, it is an extraordinary struggle to haul it up the narrow portable stairway. Every one of us is giving our all, honoring the president we love, in this heartrending moment we will never forget. Finally, we reach the top and the open door of the aircraft.

  Carefully, respectfully, we begin to push the casket through the door. But it won’t go. The casket won’t go through the door. The doors of Air Force One are not designed to welcome a casket.

  We realize the problem is the handles. With the handles attached, the bronze coffin is too wide to go through the door. We are used to working as a team, silently, with hand and eye signals. Not a word is said. Someone begins banging a handle with his fist. The message is understood. Balancing the casket as best as we can, we use a free hand to force the handles up and down, pulling, banging, forward and back, using as much force as we can muster. They don’t come off easily, but finally we manage to wrestle them off so we can get the casket through the door.

  The Air Force One crew has removed seats in the rear compartment to create a space for the casket. The sight of the casket is devastating to the crew, who remained here at Love Field, and when Mrs. Kennedy comes aboard, her rose-colored suit encrusted with blood, it is almost more than anyone can bear.

  As the agents on the First Lady’s Detail, Paul Landis and I stay with Mrs. Kennedy, but all the other agents are now concerned with Johnson. It strikes me that perhaps we should keep an agent with President Kennedy’s body—out of respect for both President and Mrs. Kennedy, and in light of the questions that were raised at Parkland Hospital about taking the body back to Washington for the autopsy. This way, if there is ever any doubt about whether Dr. Burkley stayed with the body until the autopsy, or suspicions about tampering, there will be a Secret Service agent who also remained with the casket and can vouch for the integrity of the body.

  Agent Dick Johnsen is selected for the post because he is an agent who was with President Kennedy from the beginning and is familiar to Mrs. Kennedy, O’Donnell, and Powers.

  Mrs. Kennedy chooses to remain in the rear of the plane, near the casket, with Ken O’Donnell, Dave Powers, and Admiral Burkley. Once she is situated, I walk forward to find out the plans for departure. Vice President and Mrs. Johnson and some members of his staff, as well as members of Congress, are congregated in the presidential stateroom. I’ve been so preoccupied with making sure we could get out of Parkland Hospital and concerned about Mrs. Kennedy that I completely forgot that Vice President Johnson was waiting aboard Air Force One for Mrs. Kennedy and the president’s body to arrive.

  The area of the presidential suite is quite small, and now very crowded, as I make my way forward. It turns out we have another problem. The attorney general has advised that the vice president should be sworn in as president while we are still on the ground in Dallas. A federal judge is necessary to conduct the swearing-in ceremony and an attempt is being made to locate one. We won’t leave Dallas until Lyndon B. Johnson is officially sworn in as the thirty-sixth President of the United States.

  It’s not long before Judge Sarah Hughes, who was appointed a federal judge by President Kennedy in 1961, and who lives nearby, arrives. White House photographer Cecil Stoughton is the only photographer aboard, and as he begins taking shots, more people swarm into the small space, all jockeying for a visible position in what will undoubtedly be the photo on every front page of every newspaper in the country tomorrow morning. I find it repulsive, but this is politics.

  Mrs. Kennedy is still in the rear compartment, and before the swearing-in ceremony begins, I receive word that she wants to see me.

  She stands as I approach her. As I look at her face, streaked with tears, her eyes so hollow and lifeless, a wave of guilt and shame washes over me. She’s just thirty-four years old, and now a widow, with two young children.

  How did I let this happen to her?

  “Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, what do you need?”

  She reaches out her hands, takes mine, and says, “What’s going to happen to you now, Mr. Hill?”

  I clench my jaw and swallow hard.

  “I’ll be okay, Mrs. Kennedy. I’ll be okay.”

  It is astonishing to me that she should be concerned about me at this time. She has just witnessed her husband being assassinated and now must be present for the swearing-in ceremony of his replacement; her clothes are stained with the president’s blood and brain matter; she is making no attempt to change or clean up; and yet she is concerned about me, my future, and my well-being. She is a remarkable lady.

  We are advised that the swearing-in is about to take place so I walk forward with Mrs. Kennedy to the presidential suite. Vice President Johnson asks Mrs. Kennedy to stand next to him as he takes the oath, and she obliges. I have no desire to be in the photograph, so I stand in the doorway, behind Agent Kellerman. Lyndon B. Johnson places his left hand on President Kennedy’s Catholic prayer book and r
aises his right hand.

  As he takes the oath of office, the reality of what has happened begins to sink in. Three hours earlier, we arrived in Dallas on Air Force One with a vibrant, charismatic president, whom I greatly admired and respected, and now we are returning to Washington with his body in a casket, his widow, and a new president.

  It is a historic moment, but crushingly sad for all of us who witness it.

  Mrs. Kennedy returns to her seat near the president’s casket, and at 2:47 P.M. Central Standard Time, Air Force One is airborne from Love Field, Dallas, for Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland.

  The flight to Andrews Air Force Base is surreal. You want to just break down and sob—and there are those who do—but certain things have to be done. The new president consults with members of his staff about organizing their administration. Mrs. Kennedy, Ken O’Donnell, and Dave Powers discuss what needs to be done upon arrival in Washington regarding the autopsy. Where will it be done? Walter Reed Army Hospital or Bethesda Naval Hospital? The radio operator is perhaps the busiest person aboard as General Ted Clifton, Admiral Burkley, and Roy Kellerman are sending and receiving messages dealing with the arrival and all the details that need to be in place before we land at Andrews. There is a great deal of confusion as people at one end of the aircraft are making decisions without consulting those at the other end. Admiral Burkley assumes the autopsy will take place at Walter Reed, while Mrs. Kennedy decides that it should be done at Bethesda, since President Kennedy was a Navy man. Plans are made, then changed. Mr. Kellerman seems to be the only one who really knows what is going to happen upon our arrival. He makes sure all the agents involved are fully briefed.

  Prior to our touching down at Andrews, Dave Powers approaches Agent Kellerman.

  “Roy,” he says, “Mrs. Kennedy wanted me to tell you she would like the agents who worked for President Kennedy, along with those of us on his staff, to carry the casket off the aircraft.”