Five Days in November

by Clint Hill

  Roy nods.

  “And she wants Bill Greer to drive the vehicle being used to transport the president to Bethesda Naval Hospital,” Powers says. He gulps, his red-rimmed eyes filling with tears, and adds, “She said how much Jack loved Mr. Greer, and all of you, and she knows how much you’re suffering.”

  The only Secret Service personnel available on board to carry out her wishes are Kellerman, Greer, Landis, and myself. The other agents from the White House Detail traveling on Air Force One, those from the 4:00–midnight shift and the few agents who had been assigned to LBJ as vice president, are now covering President Johnson.

  17

  * * *

  Return to Washington

  Darkness has fallen on the nation’s capital when Air Force One lands at Andrews Air Force Base. It is 5:58 Eastern Standard Time. As soon as the aircraft is parked and a stairway rolled to the front door, Attorney General Robert Kennedy races up the steps, through the passenger section and the presidential suite without acknowledging anyone, until he reaches Mrs. Kennedy and the casket containing his brother. No one was closer to President Kennedy than his brother Bobby, and it’s a heart-wrenching scene as he and his sister-in-law hold each other, in shared grief, sobbing.

  Outside, a hydraulic lift, normally used to raise and lower food or baggage to the passenger compartments, is raised at the rear door of the plane to facilitate the removal of the president’s body. The door opens and those of us Mrs. Kennedy has requested lift the casket up and onto the waiting platform.

  Holding hands, the attorney general and Mrs. Kennedy step onto the platform next to the casket. I join them, along with Mrs. Kennedy’s secretaries, Pam Turnure and Mary Gallagher, and President Kennedy’s devoted secretary, Evelyn Lincoln. Several thousand Air Force personnel are there to greet us, along with a large representation of senators and congressmen. Television and radio stations have sent crews to cover the arrival live. But unlike the arrivals we experienced in Texas, this one is marked by dead silence.

  The lift is lowered to the ground as the world watches, still stunned that President John F. Kennedy is dead. Air Force personnel and body bearers from Fort Myer join the Secret Service agents in moving the heavy casket into the awaiting Navy ambulance.

  “Mr. Hill,” Mrs. Kennedy says, “Bobby and I are going to ride in the ambulance with the president.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Kennedy,” I reply. “Mr. Landis or I will be with you constantly.”

  The lift stops about three feet off the ground. Mrs. Kennedy jumps down, unconcerned with protocol or how she might appear, and approaches the ambulance with Robert Kennedy. Before I can reach her, she tries to open the rear door herself, but it’s locked. I’m trying to get it unlocked for her, with no success, when the Navy driver realizes what we are trying to do and unlocks the door for us.

  Mrs. Kennedy climbs into the back with the attorney general, Bill Greer takes his requested place in the driver’s seat, while Admiral Burkley and Agents Kellerman and Landis cram themselves next to him on the front bench seat. I get into the first limousine immediately behind the ambulance with Mrs. Kennedy’s obstetrician, Dr. John Walsh, who has come here to be with her, and the three members of President Kennedy’s “Irish Mafia”—O’Donnell, O’Brien, and Powers. At 6:10 P.M., our small motorcade departs Andrews Air Force Base, headed for Bethesda Naval Hospital. I can only imagine the emotion inside the ambulance or what, if anything, is said. All I know is that during the entire trip to Bethesda, I can barely control my own emotions as the three men in the backseat, three men who until this afternoon held more power than anyone other than the president, weep for the forty-five minute drive.

  As soon as the motorcade is gone, the new president, Lyndon B. Johnson, emerges from Air Force One. He makes a brief statement to the nation, and then he and Mrs. Johnson, surrounded by the agents, board the Army helicopter and take off for the White House.

  During the time Air Force One is en route to Washington, Dallas police apprehend twenty-four-year-old Lee Harvey Oswald. An employee at the Texas School Book Depository, he is arrested for allegedly shooting a police officer shortly after the assassination. Now in custody, he is being interrogated by Dallas law enforcement and Federal Bureau of Investigation agents.

  If he is the assassin, the looming question is why?

  At Bethesda Naval Hospital, Agents Kellerman and Greer accompany the body of President Kennedy into the autopsy room along with Admiral Burkley and General Godfrey McHugh. A special suite has been reserved on the seventeenth floor for Mrs. Kennedy and the attorney general to await the autopsy results. We set up a checkpoint to screen people because we know friends and family members will be arriving—President Kennedy’s sister Jean Kennedy Smith; Mrs. Kennedy’s mother and stepfather, Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Auchincloss; close friends Ben and Tony Bradlee; and Mrs. Kennedy’s social secretary, Nancy Tuckerman.

  Paul Landis and I wait outside to give them as much privacy as possible. We hear the soft sobs through the door and can do nothing but look at each other. There is nothing to say.

  Meanwhile, President Lyndon B. Johnson has landed by helicopter on the south grounds of the White House, but he has no intention of staying the night. The mansion is still Mrs. Kennedy’s and her children’s home, and despite the fact that it would be the most secure place for him, he refuses to move in until the Kennedys have moved out. Instead he walks through the West Wing, across West Executive Avenue to his office in the Executive Office Building, where he makes phone calls and gets the security briefings vital to a new president.

  At around 9:30, the Secret Service detail takes him to his private residence, the Elms, at 4040 Fifty-Second Street, fifteen minutes from the White House. As the vice president’s house, the Elms had minimal security, but in the hours since the assassination, the Secret Service and the White House Communications Agency have installed new surveillance equipment, and a strong police presence is in place around the perimeter.

  Lyndon B. Johnson finally has the job he has coveted and envisioned. But never did he imagine it would happen like this. With the power of the role, he has also inherited the sorrow of the nation. In his address at Andrews Air Force Base he stated humbly, “I will do my best. That is all I can do. I ask for your help. And God’s.”

  At midnight, I realize November 22, 1963, has finally ended. It is a day that is seared into my mind and soul, a day I will relive a million times over.

  What could I have done differently?

  Could I have reacted faster?

  Run faster?

  For the rest of my life I will live with the overwhelming guilt that I was unable to get there in time.

  DAY THREE

  NOVEMBER 23, 1963

  18

  * * *

  Autopsy at Bethesda Naval Hospital

  The night drags on, interminably, as we wait for the autopsy to be completed. Agent Landis and I remain at the checkpoint, controlling access to the seventeenth-floor suite at Bethesda Naval Hospital, and this in itself is excruciating. We are the only ones who can identify the people who are allowed into the suite—we know all of Mrs. Kennedy’s friends, and all the relatives. And they know us. It’s so difficult to look them in the eyes as they arrive throughout the night. Stoically, we greet them, log their names and times of arrival. It is a great comfort to Mrs. Kennedy to have this time in private, beyond the glare of the press—to be able to cry and hug.

  I check my watch constantly, comparing it to the clock on the wall. The hour hand seems not to move—it’s like everything is in slow motion. At 2:45 A.M. the phone rings. It’s Kellerman.

  “Clint, we need you to come down to the autopsy room.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be right down.”

  I hang up the phone and tell Paul where I’m going. He looks at me, his eyes pained with the knowledge of what I’m being asked to do. We have not discussed anything, he and I. Haven’t talked about the horror we both witnessed, or the feelings of guilt and responsibility we b
oth share.

  Special Agents are not supposed to cry; there’s no one to hug. We still have a job to do.

  Paul simply nods. And I know he will take care of everything here.

  Uniformed guards are posted along the corridor leading to the autopsy room and Roy Kellerman is standing outside the door, waiting for me. He’s been through hell, too, and it shows on his face.

  “Clint,” he says, “I know this isn’t going to be easy, but since you are closest to Mrs. Kennedy, we need you to see the body, now that the autopsy has been completed, in case she has any questions.”

  I clench my teeth; my jaw twitches. I know she will never ask me about the wounds. We will never discuss what happened today. But I understand this is something I must do.

  There are more people in the autopsy room than I expected to see. Admiral Burkley, General McHugh, and Agent Greer are there, along with some other men in plain clothes, who are introduced as agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A number of white-coated doctors are standing next to the table, which holds President Kennedy’s body, covered with a white sheet. The lead doctor folds the sheet back, first exposing the president’s head and then his torso. They’ve cleaned the blood from his face and his hair, and he looks so peaceful and silent, like he’s just sleeping.

  The doctor points to a wound in the throat and explains that this is where the emergency tracheotomy was done at Parkland Hospital, which covered up the area where a bullet had exited.

  He rolls the president slightly onto his left side and points to a small wound just below the neckline, slightly to the right of the spinal column in the upper back. This, he says, is where the bullet entered, and then came out the front of the neck. The bullet that caused these wounds hit nothing but soft tissue.

  Those wounds, I knew without a doubt, came from the first shot. It corroborates what I saw—the president suddenly grabbing his throat immediately after the first explosive noise.

  The doctor points to a wound on the right rear of the head. This, he says, was the fatal wound. He lifts up a piece of the scalp, with skin and hair still attached, which reveals a hole in the skull, and an area in which a good portion of the brain matter is gone. I close my eyes for a moment, wincing, as the doctor keeps talking.

  Difficult as it is, I try to focus on what he is saying. The fatal shot, he explains, entered the rear of the head and exited on the right, creating this flap of hair and skin. The impact of the bullet hitting the skull was so severe, it caused an eruption within that area of the brain, as the flap dislodged and was flung forward on the head.

  Yes, that is exactly what happened. You don’t have to tell me. I saw the president’s head explode. His blood is still on my clothes.

  “This was not a survivable wound,” the doctor concludes.

  I know. I saw his head fall into Mrs. Kennedy’s lap. His eyes were fixed. I knew in that moment he was dead. I saw it happen. Heard it. Felt it. No one could have survived that.

  It’s all I can do to maintain my composure. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I saw the president happy, vibrant, and full of life. Now he lies here, silent, lifeless.

  “Do you have any questions, Mr. Hill?”

  Why isn’t it me lying there under the sheet? Oh, God, why isn’t it me?

  “No, sir. Thank you.”

  He places the sheet back over President Kennedy’s head. I leave the autopsy room with the images of President Kennedy’s pallid, lifeless body and the wounds that killed him indelibly etched into my mind.

  When I return to the seventeenth floor, some of the people who were so talkative earlier are now resting. Paul tells me the Irish Mafia has gone to Gawler’s Funeral Home to buy a new casket, since the one from Oneal’s was so beat-up when we tore off the handles—we can’t bury the President of the United States in a damaged casket. George Thomas, the president’s valet, is bringing several of the president’s suits from the White House so the people from Gawler’s can dress him.

  At 3:30 A.M. Kellerman calls and tells us to get everyone ready to leave: the autopsy has been completed, and the president’s body is now in the new casket.

  Agent Landis and I stand with Mrs. Kennedy as the elegant new mahogany casket bearing the thirty-fifth president, now covered with the United States flag, is placed in the ambulance, and once again Mrs. Kennedy and the president’s brother, Attorney General Robert Kennedy, get into the back with the casket. Kellerman sits in the right front seat and Bill Greer drives the president, one final time.

  Immediately behind the ambulance, I ride in the front passenger seat of the Chrysler Imperial limousine we have always used for Mrs. Kennedy. In the rear of the limousine are Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara; the president’s sister Jean Smith; the attorney general’s wife, Ethel Kennedy; and Mrs. Kennedy’s physician, Dr. John Walsh. Agent Landis rides in the car behind us with Dr. Burkley, Ken O’Donnell, Larry O’Brien, and Dave Powers.

  It is a small motorcade, with no fanfare.

  19

  * * *

  Return to the White House

  It is still dark outside when we arrive at the White House at 4:24 A.M. on November 23. A large gathering of somber-faced spectators is lined up outside the gates, bundled in winter coats and hats. And as we enter the Northwest Gate, I see a unit of U.S. Marines, in full military dress, waiting at attention. The young men begin to march solemnly at port arms ahead of the ambulance, their chins held high, their boots hitting the driveway in perfect unison, providing their fallen commander in chief with a dignified and honorable welcome home. It is not something I expected to see, and my chest heaves with a sudden surge of emotion as I blink back the tears.

  The procession stops at the North Portico entrance, and here a military honor guard is waiting to remove the flag-draped casket from the back of the ambulance. With tremendous dignity and strength, the staunch soldiers carry the casket in through the lobby and directly into the East Room as Mrs. Kennedy follows with the other members of the family behind her.

  The East Room—where Pablo Casals played for President and Mrs. Kennedy in a historic performance, and where so many other happy occasions took place—has been transformed. A black catafalque, a replica of the one used for assassinated president Abraham Lincoln in 1865, stands in the center of the room, surrounded by wooden kneeling pews; black fabric covers the gold drapes like mourning clothes; and overhead, the giant crystal-and-gold-leaf chandeliers are draped with black crepe.

  Mrs. Kennedy, surrounded by President Kennedy’s family, his closest friends, and his staff, watches soberly as the honor guard places the casket onto the catafalque. She hasn’t changed from her bloodstained pink suit—the same outfit she was wearing when I took her down to the breakfast in Fort Worth yesterday morning. It seems a lifetime ago.

  The honor guard is posted around the casket to keep vigil. President Kennedy’s body will remain here until tomorrow, when it will be transported to the U.S. Capitol, where it will lie in state for twenty-four hours. After praying with members of the family, Mrs. Kennedy finally decides to go upstairs to the living quarters to try to get some rest, for in a few hours she must do the unthinkable: at thirty-four years old, she is the widow of the youngest President of the United States ever elected, and she must plan the state funeral for her husband.

  I too am still in the same clothes I put on yesterday morning—minus my suit coat. It will be returned to me, days later, in a brown paper bag, and I will burn it along with the rest of my bloodstained garments. I am exhausted, my emotions shattered. I’ve been living on pure adrenaline. Before I go home, though, I go into my small office in the Map Room and scribble some notes about my recollections of the past twenty-four hours. As I sit at my desk, I recall the president walking out of the elevator the morning we left for Texas—was it just two days ago?—and telling me John will ride in the helicopter with us to Andrews. Thinking about John and Caroline, now without their father, is more than I can bear. Finally, at six o’clock in the morning, I lea
ve the White House and drive the seven miles to my home in Arlington.

  Two hours later, after a quick shave and shower and a light breakfast, I head back to the White House. It has begun to rain—a slow and steady drizzle from sorrowful gray clouds, as if the heavens are shedding tears of mourning, along with the rest of the world.

  Mrs. Kennedy has invited family members and close friends to attend a private Mass in the East Room at 10:00 A.M. The Kennedys are an extremely close family, and while they have lost their beloved Jack, they realize the world is mourning, too. This is the only time they will have together, out of the public eye, to pay their respects.

  It is heartbreaking to see John and Caroline with the casket containing their father. John is still so young—he will turn three years old on Monday—that it’s hard to tell how much he comprehends; but Caroline, who is nearly six and very astute, surely understands that her father is gone forever.

  After the Mass, Mrs. Kennedy asks that the children’s Secret Service agents take John and Caroline out, to keep them busy, so she can focus on the funeral arrangements. The three agents on the “Kiddie Detail” have become so attached to John and Caroline, as have Paul Landis and I, and for all of us, knowing these children will be growing up without their father is heartbreaking. The agents take the children on a long car ride, with a cousin, an aunt, and an uncle, ending up at their grandmother Auchincloss’s home in Georgetown for lunch. In the afternoon, they’ll go to Washington National Airport, where, from the VIP lounge, they can watch the airplanes taking off and landing.