Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

5

Traveling with Mrs. Kennedy

Paris

Mrs. Kennedy and Mrs. DeGaulle in Paris, with Clint Hill in background

Beginning in February 1961, Mrs. Kennedy’s weekends to Glen Ora became an almost weekly occurrence, with the president coming by helicopter on Saturdays and leaving Sunday afternoon. The fields were too wet and soft to permit cross-country riding and fox hunts, so I would take Mrs. Kennedy to the Fouts’ farm, where she could ride on a limited basis. Other than a trip to Palm Beach in early March 1961, this was our routine. It was Middleburg, Middleburg, and more Middleburg. She obviously loved it. Even though I wasn’t riding, my butt seemed to become sore from all the time Mrs. Kennedy spent in the saddle.

She absolutely adored horses, and during this time, Bit of Irish was her favorite. She would walk up to the horse, which had already been groomed and saddled, raise her hands up behind its ears, and look straight into its eyes while gently caressing the animal’s long neck. She would speak to him in her soft, soothing voice and suddenly the horse would respond with a nod of his head or a nuzzle into her neck with his wet nose. She’d laugh—oh what an infectious laugh she had—and as I watched from a distance, I could see the sheer joy the animal gave her. At times it appeared as if she and her large, maned friend were having an actual conversation. She was perfectly at ease around horses, and just being in their presence gave her great pleasure.

On one of our many trips to the Fout residence—it was just the two of us driving along one of the hilly Middleburg two-lane roads—Mrs. Kennedy turned to me and asked, “Mr. Hill, have you traveled much?”

“Well, when I was assigned to President Eisenhower, I had the opportunity to travel a great deal.”

“Where did you go?”

“Oh, we went throughout Europe, Asia, the South Pacific, South America . . .” I looked over to see her reaction. I thought she might be impressed, but there was no sign that she was.

“Have you been to Paris?” she asked.

“Twice,” I replied.

She raised her eyebrows and asked, “Parlez-vous français, Monsieur Hill?”

I wasn’t exactly sure what she said, but it was clearly French, so I took a guess and responded with my version of a French accent.

“No, Madame Kennedy, I do not speak French. But I do know where to find the best French onion soup you have ever had in your entire life.”

She laughed and said, “The president is going on some foreign trips, and I’m planning to go with him on some of them. Paris and Vienna will be among the first.” I hadn’t heard about this yet, so I was glad to receive the information.

“I presume,” she continued, “that if I go with the president, the Secret Service would send someone on my behalf, right?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s right. Either Agent Jeffries or I would go along with one of the president’s agents on the advance, to set up the trip.”

“What do you do on an advance? I mean are there certain things I won’t be allowed to do?” This was typical of Mrs. Kennedy’s curiosity. She wanted to know what kinds of things would be arranged for her, so she could know what to expect.

“You can pretty much do whatever you want to do, and it’s our job to make sure you can do that safely,” I said. “Of course it’s much more difficult when we travel internationally because we have to work with the foreign police organizations and security forces. Everything will be planned out to the minute so that hopefully there aren’t any surprises along the way. Everywhere you go it will be determined who is joining you, where you sit, what you eat, how you get from one place to another. We want you to be able to enjoy the trip, and feel safe everywhere you go.”

As I was talking, her face took on a rather pained expression.

“Oh, it sounds so clinical,” she said with dismay. “When I was in Paris in college, I was carefree. I could stay out until three in the morning and sleep till noon; I could sit at a café along the Rive Gauche without worrying about a gaggle of photographers sneaking up to snap a photo. I suppose those days are long gone.”

The wistfulness in her voice made me realize how difficult the constant attention was for Mrs. Kennedy, and I could understand completely. I saw the throngs of people that gathered around gawking and snapping photos. It was constant. I made a resolve that I would do everything I could to help her be as carefree as possible, to live as “normal” a life as she could. The best way to do this would be to keep our comings and goings as secret as possible. It wouldn’t be easy, but if I could wipe that sad look off her face, it would be worth it.

By this time we had arrived at the Fout residence. I had no way of knowing whether or not I’d be assigned to the foreign trips Mrs. Kennedy had discussed, but the mere mention of Paris brought back wonderful memories, and I sure hoped I would get to go.

THE FIRST WEEKEND of April 1961 was Easter, and it was back to Palm Beach. When we returned to Washington, it seemed that spring was finally arriving after what had been one of the snowiest winters in the capital’s history.

One morning, I was in the Secret Service office when Mrs. Kennedy called on the telephone from upstairs.

“This is Clint,” I said as I picked up the phone.

“Mr. Hill?” she asked. “Do you play tennis?”

“No, Mrs. Kennedy,” I replied, “I must say I have never played tennis.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then she said, “It’s such a beautiful day. I was hoping to go out on the tennis court and hit some balls.”

“Well, if you have an extra racket I’d be happy to give it a try,” I answered.

I have to admit I considered tennis to be a very easy sport from a competitive point of view. I always thought it was a game for “sissies”—not very manly. Having played varsity baseball in college with an excellent batting average, I was confident I could hold my own on a tennis court with Mrs. Kennedy. It was indeed a beautiful day outside, and it sounded like fun.

“Oh that would be great, Mr. Hill,” she said enthusiastically. “Please meet me at the South Portico.”

A few minutes later, Mrs. Kennedy came striding out of the door to the South Portico with a big smile on her face, holding two rackets in one hand and a can of tennis balls in the other. She was dressed in a pair of lightweight slacks, a short-sleeved top, and white tennis shoes.

When she saw me, she laughed. “Oh, Mr. Hill! You can’t play tennis in your suit!”

I had no way of knowing tennis would be on the agenda when I dressed for work in the morning, so I was wearing my usual Washington uniform of a dark suit, white shirt, tie, and Florsheim shoes.

“It’s no problem, Mrs. Kennedy. I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” she said as she handed me a racket. Grinning, she added, “Let’s hope there aren’t any photographers around.”

We walked to the tennis court and I watched as she walked to the back line of one side. I removed my suit coat and gun and placed them on the side of the court. I had no idea what all the lines meant on the court, so I just walked to the other side and stood in the middle of the white line at the back.

“Ready?” she called out.

“Ready!” I answered.

I grabbed the racket in both hands like a baseball bat and held it up as if I were awaiting a pitch. She seemed to be suppressing a smile as she served up the ball and hit it across the net.

I watched, and eager to make a good impression, as the ball came toward me I swung the racket back and whacked it with all my might.

The ball went flying over Mrs. Kennedy’s head, over the fence, and into the trees behind the court.

Mrs. Kennedy watched the ball throughout its flight, saw it hit the ground, and turned back toward me. She didn’t say a word. Holding the racket in one hand, she just pulled out another ball and tried again. This time, I didn’t wind up nearly as much and hit the ball as if I were aiming for second base instead of trying to hit a home run.

The same thing happened. The ball went flying over the fence.

“Mr. Hill,” she called from the other side of the net. “The object is to hit the ball to me so I can return it.”

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said as I wiped my brow. There was very little breeze and I was already starting to sweat in my wool suit.

I got a bit better and managed to hit a few balls over the net to her, but it certainly wasn’t the game that she had anticipated. I ended up spending most of the time retrieving the balls I’d hit over the fence so we could continue.

We tried a few more times that spring, with similar results. Agent Jeffries, an excellent tennis player, was really her opposition of choice on the tennis courts, because he would volley—I learned the hard way what that word meant—and give Mrs. Kennedy an excellent workout. Unfortunately, he was not always available. Most staff members she tried were not much better than I, so when she couldn’t find anyone else to hit balls with it was finally decided that the best option would be to bring in a pro from a local tennis club to play with her. I certainly gained a lot more respect for the game of tennis and the skill it requires, and was thankful there was no photographic evidence of my short stint as Mrs. Kennedy’s tennis partner.

THE WEEKEND OF April 15 and 16 seemed like any other, with Mrs. Kennedy going to Middleburg on Friday, and the president arriving Saturday afternoon. The public was unaware that the president was dealing with his first major crisis—a failed attempt to invade Cuba by some fourteen hundred American-trained Cuban exiles, that would forever be known as “the Bay of Pigs.”

On Monday, April 17, President and Mrs. Kennedy hosted a state luncheon at the White House for the prime minister of Greece, Konstantinos Karamanlis, and his wife, Amalia, as the Bay of Pigs crisis was unfolding. Mrs. Karamanlis was thirty-two years old—more than twenty years younger than her husband—and she and Mrs. Kennedy hit it off immediately.

After the departure of the Greek couple, Mrs. Kennedy asked me, “Mr. Hill, have you ever been to Greece?”

“Yes, I was in Athens with President Eisenhower.”

“Oh, really?” she answered, wide-eyed. “The prime minister and Mrs. Karamanlis invited the president and me to visit them in Athens. The president can’t make it, but he suggested I go anyway. I’ve always dreamed of visiting the Acropolis and the Parthenon.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “I’m sure you’d love Greece. You should definitely take advantage of the opportunity.”

Shortly thereafter, SAIC Jerry Behn called me into his office in the East Wing of the White House and informed me that I would be doing the advance for Mrs. Kennedy in Paris and Greece.

“Tish Baldridge will be the senior staff advance person, so you’ll be working directly with her,” Behn said. “She used to work in Paris—knows everybody and all the locations—and she speaks fluent French.”

Tish Baldridge was extremely organized and paid close attention to detail. She was exactly the kind of person I liked to have with me on an advance because I didn’t have to worry about things falling through the cracks. She would handle everything with regards to Mrs. Kennedy’s agenda, gifts, seating arrangements, and menus, so that I could focus on logistics and security. This was a huge relief because I had seen how involved visits to foreign governments could become. Protocol always played a big part in these visits and the further I could stay away from those issues, the better. The last thing I needed was to become involved in a squabble over someone’s hurt feelings because they weren’t seated at the table with the president and first lady.

I had been in Paris twice with President Eisenhower—the first time in December 1959, and again during his failed summit meeting with Khrushchev in May 1960—and I was excited for the opportunity to return. Paris had enchanted me like no other city I had visited. There was something about the way its architectural and cultural history had been preserved and maintained that really appealed to me. From the grandeur of the Champs-Élysées to the meandering side streets lined with sidewalk cafés that were filled with couples lingering over a glass of Bordeaux at lunchtime, Paris had matchless charm.

In 1959, I had flown directly from Athens to Paris, a few days ahead of President Eisenhower, along with a few other Secret Service agents and some of the president’s staff. We weren’t there on advance, but had been sent ahead due to space limitations as the president traveled from Athens to Tunis to Toulon, and finally by train to Paris. Thus we had some rare free time. A member of the French police took us under his wing and gave us the “locals” tour of the city. He took us down to Les Halles—which was an open-air farmers’ market where all the farmers came into the city at three o’clock in the morning to set up and sell their produce. There was one vendor who sold homemade onion soup that was piping hot, layered with thick slices of baguette, and mounds of Gruyère cheese that crusted over the top. We would go down to Les Halles around 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning, and have the soup for breakfast. The mere thought of it made my mouth water with anticipation.

“Sounds great,” I replied to SAIC Behn. “When do we leave?”

“The trip is scheduled for the end of May, so you and Tish will go the week before. The president and Mrs. Kennedy will spend three days in Paris, followed by a trip to Vienna, where he’s going to meet with Premier Khrushchev. After that, they’re going to London for a few days. The president will return to Washington, but Mrs. Kennedy is going to Athens with her sister, Lee, and Lee’s husband, Prince Radziwill.”

Mrs. Kennedy’s younger sister Lee had married Stanislaus “Stash” Radziwill, who was a Polish prince. I had never met him before. It sounded like an ambitious trip, to say the least.

Behn continued, “I’m going to need you to go directly from Paris to Athens to do the advance for Mrs. Kennedy.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. I remained cool on the outside, but inside I was already getting excited about the trip. Going to Europe as an agent on the First Lady’s Detail wasn’t something I had anticipated—especially just a few months into a new administration.

“I’m going to have Ken Giannoules do the advance with you.”

Giannoules was a Special Agent on President Kennedy’s detail. I had worked with him a few times when the president was in Middleburg, and we got along.

“He’ll be in Paris with the president,” Behn said, “so the two of you can fly directly to Athens from there. He’s fluent in Greek and apparently has relatives still living in Athens, so he should be a big help.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “We’ll take care of it.”

“Okay. Thanks, Clint. Stay loose.”

Stay loose. That was one of Jerry Behn’s favorite expressions and it sure was descriptive of the attitude you had to have as a Secret Service agent. Don’t be too rigid. Expect the unexpected and be ready to adjust to the situation. You never know what’s around the corner.

JUST A FEW weeks later, I was headed to Paris with Tish Baldridge and a couple of agents from the President’s Detail to conduct the complex advance for President Kennedy’s first trip to Europe since taking office. There were a million details to work out, and we had just one week to have all the logistics solidified before President and Mrs. Kennedy arrived.

Ever since this trip to Paris and Vienna had been announced, anybody that had ever been associated with the White House was vying for a place on Air Force One or the press plane. It was not just President and Mrs. Kennedy’s arrangements that needed to be worked out, but hotel and transportation for the dozens of accompanying staff that included Provi, National Security Advisor McGeorge Bundy, and everybody in between. I worked with Tish and conferred with members of the U.S. Embassy, but mostly dealt with government officials, especially the Sureté Nationale—France’s national police force.

The biggest problem I had was that I could not speak the language. When Tish and I were in meetings together, she would carry on in fluent French while I sat there and tried to pick up the gist of what was being said from hand gestures and various common words. In most cases, I wouldn’t find out until after the meeting was over what had actually been agreed upon. Fortunately, when I dealt with the law enforcement officials, the U.S. Embassy provided an interpreter. There were times when I felt at an extreme disadvantage, but I had no choice other than to rely on the people who could translate for me.

The Sureté Nationale was extremely competent, but they were very set in their ways. The French slang for their own presidential bodyguards was “gorillas” and I was fearful that their intense and smothering approach to personal protection would completely overwhelm Mrs. Kennedy. Over the previous six months, with all the time we had spent together, I had learned that the best way to deal with Mrs. Kennedy was to give her as much space as possible, so that she almost forgot you were there. Sometimes Agent Jeffries would hover a bit too close, and it had become evident to me that she wasn’t nearly as comfortable with his style as she was with mine. The last thing I wanted was for something to happen on this trip that would hinder the trust she had in me. I explained to them her shy nature and desire for as much freedom as possible. They seemed to understand and I could only trust that the interpreter was being accurate when he translated, “Yes, Mr. Hill, we will do as you suggest.” They could just as easily have been saying, “Hell no, you can shove it up your ass” and I wouldn’t have known the difference.

The details and logistics were endless, so there was little time for anything other than work. I never did get a chance to get back to Les Halles for that French onion soup, but finally, with all the minor details worked out, and everyone satisfied with the plan that had been laid out, we were ready for President and Mrs. Kennedy’s arrival on May 31, 1961. The biggest concern was on the diplomatic side. President de Gaulle had a reputation of being distant and arrogant with foreign leaders, and it was feared that he would be tough on President Kennedy, largely because the new American president was so much younger, and had limited political experience. I was glad I didn’t have to worry about that—I just had to make sure nothing happened to Mrs. Kennedy.

THERE WAS A chill to the air, but the sun was shining when President and Mrs. Kennedy arrived at Orly Airport promptly at 10:30 A.M. Thousands of enthusiastic spectators stood behind the fence line waving American flags as President and Mrs. Kennedy descended the stairs of Air Force One to full military honors. A police motorcycle escort that numbered at least one hundred strong led the motorcade through the streets of Paris. Waiting at the Place des Pyramides were a hundred Republican Horse Guards in full regalia to replace the motorcycles and lead the procession the rest of the way to the Quai D’Orsay, where President and Mrs. Kennedy would be staying in the royal suite. It was a sight to behold. The French put on an incredible spectacle that rivaled any state visit I had seen. But nobody loved it more than Mrs. Kennedy.

More than two hundred thousand Parisians lined the streets, most of them waving little American flags. There were people hanging out of windows and packed on balconies, eager to catch a glimpse and snap a photo of the handsome American president and his glamorous wife. All along the route people held up welcoming signs and cheered, “Vive le président Kennedy!” But more frequently you would hear the voices in the crowd yelling, “Vive Jac-qui! Vive Jac-qui!” She waved graciously, smiling the entire way, and the French fell madly in love with her.

After a formal luncheon and a visit to a child care center, Mrs. Kennedy returned to the Quai d’Orsay so that she could have a rest and prepare for the state dinner at the Élysée Palace a few hours later. She was tired, but elated.

“Oh, Mr. Hill, wasn’t it magnificent? All the horses and the pageantry! Can you believe they have done this just for us?”

Mrs. Kennedy wasn’t someone who sought the limelight, but the fact that the French had welcomed her with such enthusiasm clearly meant a lot to her.

Meanwhile, President Kennedy and President de Gaulle rode down the Champs-Élysées in another grand motorcade, to the Arc de Triomphe. The blue skies that had greeted the Kennedys in the morning, suddenly turned gray and in the pouring rain, President Kennedy laid a large wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, in front of the eternal flame.

THIS TRIP TO France was like a homecoming for Mrs. Kennedy. She had studied in Grenoble and at the Sorbonne in Paris, and had lived with a French family, which enabled her to immerse herself not only in the language but the culture as well. I watched in awe as she spoke comfortably in French to President and Madame de Gaulle, as well as everyone else with whom she came in contact. I had known, of course, that she spoke fluent French, but to watch her in action only increased the respect and admiration I had begun to have for her.

In the past, first ladies were seen, but seldom if ever heard. With the exception of Eleanor Roosevelt, most had not contributed a great deal except for their visual appearance at the necessary functions. Mrs. Kennedy seemed to realize on this trip to Paris that perhaps her growing celebrity status could be used for a great deal of good.

She went to an école de puériculture, a child care and training center, visiting the children and raising awareness about problems associated with the health and well-being of children throughout the world. She accompanied the president to the Hôtel de Ville—Paris’s City Hall—and helped translate as her husband met with French officials. She met with female members of the press corps. Agent Jeffries accompanied Mrs. Kennedy to all of these events, while it was my job, as the advance man, to be at every venue ahead of time, making sure everything was secure and ready for her arrival. Everything went like clockwork, and it was satisfying for me to see how much Mrs. Kennedy was enjoying the trip.

She would see me standing in a doorway as she entered and even if she were in deep conversation with whomever she happened to be walking with, she would make eye contact with me. I had gotten to the point where I could read her mood by her eyes, and she was clearly having a wonderful time.

The event that captured her most was the spectacular white-tie dinner at Versailles. As is customary for Europeans, the evening event didn’t begin until 8:00 P.M. I was waiting at Versailles—about a thirty minute drive outside of Paris—to be there when the President and Mrs. Kennedy arrived. As she stepped out of the limousine, I thought she looked like a queen. She had on an ivory silk overcoat that she removed as soon as she entered the palace, revealing an exquisite sleeveless floor-length dress that had been hand embroidered with pastel flowers on the bodice. She had arranged for a Parisian hairdresser to style her hair in a bouffant piled on top of her head, accented by a diamond hair clip. President de Gaulle couldn’t take his eyes off of her, and I daresay neither could any of the other guests—men or women. My job was not to watch her, but to watch what was going on around her.

A long rectangular dining table had been set up in the Hall of Mirrors, set with beautiful flower arrangements and huge candelabras that provided a magical ambience as the flickering flames of the candles were multiplied by the mirrors on either side of the room. President de Gaulle sat between President Kennedy and Mrs. Kennedy, but spent the majority of the evening conversing with Mrs. Kennedy. Even from a distance I could see that he was captivated by her. Not only was she fluent in the language, but she was also well educated in French art and history. There was no doubt that Mrs. Kennedy’s intelligence and charm, combined with her ability to converse in French throughout the previous two days, often acting as translator for her husband and the French president, made the notoriously difficult de Gaulle much more receptive to President Kennedy’s ideas. The evening concluded with a ballet performance in the Louis XV Theater, a perfect ending to a night that encapsulated so much of what Mrs. Kennedy loved—history, the arts, intelligent and witty conversation—in an exquisite environment. At the time, I don’t think Mrs. Kennedy realized the tremendous influence she had, but for those of us around her, it was impossible not to recognize. Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy had become a star.

Mrs. Kennedy and Charles DeGaulle at Versailles

President Kennedy certainly noticed. At a luncheon in which he spoke to four hundred journalists, President Kennedy began his short speech with: “I do not think it altogether inappropriate to introduce myself. I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris. And I have enjoyed it.” The crowd roared with laughter. It was typical of JFK—to point out the obvious, and find the humor in it. He would use that line again, two and a half years later, when Mrs. Kennedy accompanied him to Texas.

ON JUNE 2, as President and Mrs. Kennedy were saying their good-byes at Orly Airport, preparing to board Air Force One for the flight from Paris to Vienna, Mrs. Kennedy reached out her hands to me and said, “Oh, Mr. Hill, it was all just magical. I couldn’t have imagined anything better. Thank you so much for making everything go so smoothly.”

“You’re very welcome, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“I guess I’ll see you in Athens, then?” she asked.

“I’m on my way this afternoon,” I replied. “I’ll see you there in a few days.”

What Mrs. Kennedy didn’t know was that the president had made an unusual request of me regarding her trip to Greece.

Shortly before I left for Paris, I got word that President Kennedy wanted to see me in the Oval Office. I couldn’t imagine what this was about. I had never been summoned to the Oval Office before.

When I walked in, President Kennedy was standing there, with his brother Bobby, the attorney general.

“Clint,” the president said, “I understand you will be doing the advance for Mrs. Kennedy in Greece.”

“Yes, Mr. President, that’s what I have been advised.”

The president glanced at the attorney general and looked back at me.

“The attorney general and I want to make one thing clear . . . and that is, whatever you do in Greece, do not let Mrs. Kennedy cross paths with Aristotle Onassis.”

I had heard the name Onassis before, but I honestly didn’t understand the significance, or why the president would be telling me this.

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” I answered.

“Okay then,” he said. “Have a great trip.” And with that, I walked out of the Oval Office.

The Paris trip really had gone off marvelously, but as I watched the presidential plane take off for Vienna, all I could think about was what President Kennedy had said to me in the Oval Office.

Whatever you do, do not let Mrs. Kennedy cross paths with Aristotle Onassis.