Five Days in November

by Clint Hill

  After the children leave, Mrs. Kennedy calls for me. “Mr. Hill, I want to go to the president’s office. Will you please get Mr. West?”

  She wants to make note of the president’s personal things so that she can take them with her. President Johnson has indicated that she can take her time moving out of the White House, but she knows he and his staff will be taking over the West Wing almost immediately.

  I contact J. B. West, the chief usher of the White House, and ask him to meet us in the Oval Office.

  The president and Mrs. Kennedy had decided to make a few changes to the décor of the Oval Office, and a new crimson oval carpet was installed while we were in Texas. Mrs. Kennedy wants to see it; the president never will. As we enter the office, on the main floor of the West Wing, yes, the carpet is in place, and it is beautiful. But much to our dismay, we are stunned to find that President Kennedy’s things are already being packed and removed from the office.

  As Mrs. Kennedy walks around the room, Mr. West takes notes of the things she points out. There is the glass-encased coconut shell from the president’s PT-109 rescue, a collection of scrimshaw, and family photos.

  “Remember when we found that desk, Mr. Hill? The president so loved that desk.”

  Shortly after President Kennedy’s inauguration, Mrs. Kennedy made the restoration of the White House a priority. We spent countless hours searching through warehouses of furniture that had previously been used in the White House, and she found treasures in the most unlikely places. This desk, the HMS Resolute desk, which had been presented by Queen Victoria to President Rutherford B. Hayes in 1878, was being used in the White House broadcast room until she had it brought up to the Oval Office. President Kennedy did indeed love the desk. It has a unique trapdoor in the front, and he delighted in allowing Caroline and John to play hide-and-seek with it. Like the rest of the historical furniture in the White House, however, the desk will remain.

  Tearfully, she walks over to the president’s rocking chair and caresses it. This, of course, will go with her.

  We don’t stay long, and after one last look around, Mrs. Kennedy walks across the hall to the Cabinet Room and talks briefly with Mr. West about her plans for the funeral. From there, we walk along the colonnade, past the Rose Garden, the swimming pool, and the flower shop, in silence. We are both so very sad. No words are necessary.

  Finally, she returns to the private quarters, and I go back to my office.

  There is a pall over the White House as the staff and the Secret Service try to wrap our arms around this unforeseen tragedy. There are so many questions about the future, but for now, the priority is preparing for the state funeral.

  20

  * * *

  Choosing a Burial Site

  A couple of hours later, Mrs. Kennedy calls to tell me she needs to go to Arlington National Cemetery to pick out a burial site for the president. The president’s family wants him buried in the family plot near Boston, but she understands his importance to history and that, as president, he represented all the people. She is determined, and taking charge.

  It is around two o’clock in the afternoon when we arrive at Arlington—twenty-four hours since the president was pronounced dead. It’s still raining lightly as Mrs. Kennedy walks around a portion of the cemetery, surrounded by the tombs of our nation’s fallen heroes. Three of the president’s siblings are with her—Attorney General Robert Kennedy, Pat Kennedy Lawford, and Jean Kennedy Smith—as well as Defense Secretary McNamara. It’s not long before they find a large open area on a gentle slope that overlooks the Potomac River, the Memorial Bridge, the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and the U.S. Capitol. It seems fitting, and finally the president’s siblings agree that this is where President John Fitzgerald Kennedy should be laid to rest.

  For the rest of the day, Mrs. Kennedy stays in the private quarters upstairs, planning what will be the largest state funeral in our nation’s history.

  Since returning to the White House at eight o’clock this morning, my entire focus has been on Mrs. Kennedy and her needs. There’s been no time to think about anything else. When I go back to my office with Paul Landis, we learn that Lee Harvey Oswald has been charged with the assassination of President Kennedy and is being interrogated. On the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository, where Oswald worked, detectives found a sniper’s nest near the window; three spent cartridges on the floor below the window; and a gun believed to be the murder weapon—a 6.5mm rifle stashed in a corner near the freight elevator, also on the sixth floor. Oswald apparently fled the Texas School Book Depository immediately after the assassination, killed a police officer named J. D. Tippit, and was found hiding in a movie theater. The Dallas detectives are confident they’ve got the right man.

  We sure hope the interrogators are getting some answers. What was his motive? If he wanted to turn the world upside down, he has succeeded.

  President Kennedy inspired people to believe in hope and peace, to reach for the moon. During his short tenure, his message resonated around the globe, and now the world is in mourning. People by the thousands are flocking to American embassies to sign condolence books in London, Rome, Berlin, Paris, Warsaw, Moscow, Manila, and Tokyo. Stores have closed, sporting events are canceled, and all across America people are glued to their television sets, united in grief.

  Finally, at midnight, once Mrs. Kennedy is secure and asleep upstairs, Paul Landis and I agree we should both go to our respective homes. Neither of us has slept in forty-two hours, and while we know sleep will not come easily, we need to at least try to get some rest.

  Tomorrow will be another long day.

  The White House is quiet and, as we walk through the halls toward the North Portico, we pass the East Room, where the honor guard stands at attention around the casket, as they will all night long, guarding the body of President Kennedy with dignity and pride.

  DAY FOUR

  NOVEMBER 24, 1963

  21

  * * *

  Final Private Moments

  Last night I was so desperately tired, and while my body craved sleep, my mind refused to allow it. I may have dozed on and off, but the events of the past two days kept replaying like a slow-motion horror movie in my head. My wife and sons were asleep when I arrived home—it was well after midnight—and this morning, as I forced down a quick breakfast, the conversation was sparse. They can’t imagine what I experienced, and I can’t bear to talk about it. I was eager to return to the White House, where I knew there would be an endless list of arrangements to make, and plenty of activity. Activity is the only thing that’s going to keep me sane. Without it, there’s only time to think.

  Yesterday’s rain has stopped, which is a blessing, for today is the day the president’s body will be transported to the U.S. Capitol to lie in state.

  It’s eight o’clock when I arrive at the White House. My first call is to Provi, Mrs. Kennedy’s personal assistant, to see how Mrs. Kennedy is doing.

  Choking back tears, Provi tells me Mrs. Kennedy slept some, but it was a rough night. Fortunately, some members of the president’s family stayed, and Mrs. Kennedy’s sister, Lee Radziwill, arrived from Europe.

  “That’s good news,” I say. Mrs. Kennedy and Lee have a very close relationship. Hopefully having her sister here will provide some comfort.

  When Mrs. Kennedy emerges from the elevator, she is dressed in a black suit, with a knee-length skirt. Her eyes, which were so full of sparkle and light when we left the White House three days ago, are empty, lifeless. Her face is gaunt, and she looks so fragile, yet she still manages to say, “Good morning, Mr. Hill.”

  There is one last private Mass for the family in the East Room, after which she and the other family members return to the living quarters for a short period of privacy before they must face the public.

  In the meantime, Jerry Behn, the Special Agent in Charge of the White House Detail, sends word that he wants to see me in his office, in the East Wing. President Kennedy
appointed Behn to be head of the White House security detail shortly after the inauguration, and the two of them worked extremely well together. In the past three years, there was rarely a time that Behn didn’t travel with President Kennedy. He was with him for weekends to Hyannis Port, Palm Beach, and Camp David, as well as every foreign trip. Behn takes his job so seriously that he has seldom taken a day off, and it was precisely because he knew he’d be gone from home much of next year with the campaign that he decided to skip the trip to Texas.

  I haven’t looked in a mirror, but the way Mr. Behn is looking at me, I can tell my emotions must not be very well hidden. I am a wreck, and he knows it. While he commends my actions in the midst of the gunfire, he can relate to the guilt I feel:

  Nothing can change the fact that we, the Secret Service, failed to protect our president.

  I’ve only been in his office a few minutes when a call comes in for me from General Godfrey McHugh.

  “Clint, I’m in the mansion and we have a problem,” McHugh says. There is no mistaking the urgency in his voice. “You better get over here to the East Room fast. Mrs. Kennedy wants to view the president.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  When I arrive at the East Room, Mrs. Kennedy and the attorney general are standing in the doorway, peering into the somber room. She has some envelopes in one hand and a large scrimshawed whale’s tooth in the other. I recognize the scrimshaw as the one she gave to the president last Christmas. I helped her track down the artist, who was well-known for carving the presidential seal, and she told me how much the president loved it.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Kennedy?”

  “Bobby and I want to see the president.”

  “All right, Mrs. Kennedy. Let me make sure everything is okay.”

  General McHugh and I walk in and the general quietly requests the officer in charge of the honor guard to have his men leave the room.

  “No,” Mrs. Kennedy interjects. “Just have the men turn around; they may stay where they are. Just have them move a little.”

  The men of the honor guard solemnly, and in formation, turn an about face and take a few steps away from the casket. General McHugh folds the flag down, touching it with reverence, and together we raise the lid of the casket.

  When I see President Kennedy lying there, so peaceful, it’s all I can do to keep my emotions in check. Clenching my jaw, I swallow hard.

  The general and I step back as Mrs. Kennedy and Bobby walk up to the open casket. Weeping with anguish, they stand looking at the man they loved so very much. Mrs. Kennedy turns to me and says, “Mr. Hill, will you get me a scissor?”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  The usher’s office is just across the hall, and I find a pair of scissors in the desk drawer. I have a feeling I know what she’s going to do. I hand her the scissors, unable to look into her eyes, and take a few steps back from the casket to give her some privacy.

  The scissors go clip, clip, and I assume she is cutting locks of her husband’s hair—a part of him to keep with her. I turn and see the president’s brother lower the lid of the casket, and then he and Mrs. Kennedy, both crying inconsolably, their faces tormented with agony, walk hand in hand out of the East Room.

  As soon as they are gone, General McHugh and I check the casket to make sure it is securely closed. Out of habit, I look at my watch and take note of the time: 12:46 P.M. The casket will never be opened again.

  As I solemnly walk past the Red, Green, and Blue Rooms back to my office, two staff members are talking in the corridor.

  “That bastard deserves to die.”

  What?! After the emotional scene I’ve just witnessed, I’m about ready to throw a punch. How can anyone say such a thing, especially here, in the White House?

  I wheel around, enraged. “What the hell did you say?!”

  “Lee Harvey Oswald,” the man says. “He’s just been shot. The bastard who killed President Kennedy has just been shot and they think he’s dead.”

  I’m relieved that my assumption was incorrect, that it wasn’t President Kennedy about whom they were referring, but the news that his assassin is now dead is another crushing blow. Now we’ll never know the answers. We’ll never know why he did it. The mass pandemonium in the basement of the Dallas police station is being shown on live television, seen by the millions of Americans who have been glued to the nonstop television news coverage since yesterday. I haven’t seen any television news reports, and there is no time for me to dwell on this now. The procession to the U.S. Capitol is about to begin.

  President and Mrs. Johnson have arrived at the White House, surrounded by the agents on the 8:00 A.M.–4:00 P.M. shift—including some of the same agents who were in the motorcade with Paul Landis and me, two days ago, in Dallas. They are as shattered as we are, haven’t had any time off, and are now responsible for guarding the new president.

  A short while later, two buzzes indicates Mrs. Kennedy is moving, and momentarily, she comes out of the elevator with Bobby, Caroline, and John. As I escort them to the Blue Room, where President and Mrs. Johnson are waiting to greet them, I try desperately to avoid eye contact with the children—who are dressed in matching powder-blue coats, white bobby socks, and red shoes—for I know that if I look into their eyes, my emotions will get the best of me.

  President and Mrs. Johnson greet Mrs. Kennedy and the children, and then together they walk to the East Room, where Kennedy family members and close friends have gathered.

  There is a painful silence as the military body bearers remove the heavy casket from the catafalque and carry the slain president through the columned lobby toward the North Portico. It is a private scene, the last private moments they will have before facing the public and press outside.

  Meanwhile, Americans across the country can hardly believe their eyes, as the live television news coverage switches back and forth between the simultaneous events of the ongoing chaos and confusion in Dallas and the grave scene outside the White House, as Mrs. Kennedy is about to appear in public for the first time since returning to Andrews Air Force Base the evening of the assassination.

  Soldiers from each branch of the military slowly and deliberately carry the casket out the North Portico door of the White House as Mrs. Kennedy walks behind with Caroline clutching her left hand and John hanging on to her right. The three of them stand there on the steps of the White House watching military men move with precision, straightening out the American flag that covers the casket. They are at the forefront of those about to join the cortege. Standing at the bottom of the steps, off to the side with Jerry Behn, I feel absolutely helpless as they watch their husband and father being placed on a gun carriage. Caroline looks up at her mother for an explanation, while young John, who still does not fully understand what is happening, is much more infatuated with the men dressed in their colorful uniforms, lined up on the steps, than with the flag-draped coffin.

  Meanwhile, at almost the exact same time, the news anchors on television report that the charged assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, is being wheeled into Parkland Hospital on a gurney, and is placed in the trauma room at Parkland Hospital, just ten feet from where President Kennedy died two days ago.

  Seven matching gray horses will lead the procession—three teams of two pulling the artillery caisson, with the commanding officer riding the lead horse positioned to the left of the front team. All six horses pulling the caisson are saddled, but only the three on the left carry riders, in the traditional military funeral procedure.

  Behind the caisson is high-strung “Black Jack,” a sixteen-year-old Morgan quarter horse mix that seems agitated and unable to stand still as the casket is strapped onto the caisson. This riderless horse, with boots reversed in the stirrups and a sword hanging from the rear of the saddle, will follow the presidential flag bearer just behind the gun carriage.

  Mrs. Kennedy, Bobby, and the children will ride in what is now being used as the presidential limousine—a Cadillac—alon
g with President Lyndon Johnson and the first lady, “Lady Bird” Johnson.

  It is an awkward ride, for while President Johnson is the ranking leader in this procession, all eyes are on Mrs. Kennedy. It is the beginning of what will be a tear-jerking, two-day farewell to President John F. Kennedy.

  22

  * * *

  President Kennedy Lies in State

  The cortege gets under way, proceeding out the Northeast Gate of the White House. As we turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue toward the U.S. Capitol, people line the wide street, ten and fifteen deep on both sides, visibly showing their grief. The procession moves along slowly, deliberately, at the pace of the marching horses, and from my position in the front passenger seat of the Chrysler limousine I have a clear view of the tears flowing from anguished faces.

  I have never been in a motorcade like this before. There are no cheers or shrieks, no political signs or waving banners. The only sound you can hear is the steady cadence of the muffled drums and the clip-clop, clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. The nation has stopped to pay homage to its fallen leader, and around the world other nations are doing the same. There is a universal feeling of deep, profound loss.

  When we reach the Capitol, the passengers in the presidential limousine get out of the car at the foot of the steps at the east entrance. Paul Landis and I stay close to Mrs. Kennedy while Bobby remains steadfastly by her side—he is her rock, and she his—and Caroline and John hold tight to their mother’s hands. The children, innocent-faced in their blue coats, stand out like two small angels against the sea of mourning grown-ups, all dressed in black.