Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

8

Fall 1961

Family photo at Hammersmith Farm

During the summer of 1961, from the time we first went to Hyannis Port at the end of June, Mrs. Kennedy spent the better part of four months away from the White House. She did return on a few occasions to participate in official functions such as the Mount Vernon dinner in July, and another state dinner on September 19 for President Don Manuel Prado of Peru, but those were the only times during the summer that I was able to go home.

After a brief stay in Washington for the state dinner for President Prado, we were off to New York City on September 24, so Mrs. Kennedy could attend the president’s speech to the United Nations the next day. Of course we stayed at the Carlyle—the president and Mrs. Kennedy in their luxurious apartment—with all the agents spread around the building, some of them three or four to a room due to lack of availability, and to cut down on expenses.

The day after the president’s speech, we flew to Newport, Rhode Island, and on to Hammersmith Farm, the home of Mrs. Kennedy’s mother and stepfather, Hugh Auchincloss. The children, John and Caroline, had been driven there earlier by their Secret Service detail.

I had been to Newport with President Eisenhower, so I was familiar with the area. Having been to Ambassador Kennedy’s stately homes in both Palm Beach and Hyannis Port, I expected that the Auchincloss estate would be on par with those residences. But as we drove up the long curving driveway to Hammersmith Farm for the first time, I was honestly taken aback by the grandeur of the home in which Mrs. Kennedy had spent many of her childhood years.

Hammersmith Farm, Newport, Rhode Island

The home was a Victorian-style mansion that looked like something straight out of the English countryside. Weathered shingles gave it a cottage-like feel, but you could hardly call this a cottage. Twenty-eight rooms were spread out among three levels; countless brick chimneys stuck out of the roof; and there was even a turret. The mansion was set on a rise in the middle of forty-eight acres—about eight times the size of the entire Kennedy compound in Hyannis Port—that overlooked Narragansett Bay. Most of the acreage was lawn, and I figured it had to take a whole staff of gardeners just to keep that grass mowed. Off to one edge of the property was a beautiful stable—plusher and much larger than the two-bedroom house in which I’d grown up in Washburn—with multiple stalls for the family’s horses.

In between the stables and the main house was the tennis court. Gravel paths dissected the lawn, meandering around the property, leading from the house to the tennis court to the stables, and down to the dock, where there was a small, rocky beach. I could just imagine how it must have looked on September 12, 1953, when twelve hundred people attended the wedding reception for Jack Kennedy and Jacqueline Bouvier. It must have been spectacular.

One of the presidential yachts, the Honey Fitz, had been sailed to Newport prior to the president’s arrival. It was berthed at the Newport Naval Station and brought to the dock at Hammersmith Farm every morning for the president’s use. This ninety-two-foot Navy yacht had been commissioned for use by the sitting president. During the Eisenhower administration, it was named the Barbara Anne, after one of the Eisenhower granddaughters. President Kennedy had it renamed the Honey Fitz after his maternal grandfather, John Frances “Honey Fitz” Fitzgerald. Taking the Honey Fitz out for a lunchtime cruise became a daily activity, and just like in Hyannis Port, I would always be out on one of the jetboats, securing the area around the yacht.

It was September, and the weather had turned from summer to fall, so that a light jacket or sweater was required when you were out on the water. One morning, as we were getting the boats ready to go out, Mrs. Kennedy called to the Secret Service Command Post.

“Mr. Hill, I was hoping to go out water-skiing this afternoon. Will you please make sure you have my skis on the jetboat?”

“Water-skiing? Are you sure? Do you realize how cold the water is, Mrs. Kennedy?”

“Oh, yes, that doesn’t bother me,” she answered. “I’ve got a skin-diving suit. I’ll be fine.”

I laughed and said, “Mrs. Kennedy, I hope you realize that the press will be dying to get a picture of you in that wet suit. You are the first wife of a president to go water-skiing. I can tell you Mamie Eisenhower and Bess Truman never went water-skiing, with or without a wet suit.”

She laughed. “Well, now you know I have to go, Mr. Hill.”

Sure enough she put on a black neoprene wet suit, and we pulled her around with the jetboat. The calmest waters were in Potter Cove or near Bailey’s Beach, a private beach club, and you could practically see the word getting passed around as the people on the beach stood up and stared. Some members of the press had rented boats, and while we did our best to keep them away, there was not much we could do as long as they remained outside the security perimeter we would establish. Mrs. Kennedy didn’t like the attention, and neither did I. I kept thinking about how cold that damn water would be if I had to jump in after her. I didn’t have a skin-diving suit. Fortunately, she didn’t require my assistance, and I didn’t see any pictures in the newspaper the next morning.

Around this time Mrs. Kennedy also decided to take up golf. I accompanied her to the Newport Country Club, where she took some golf lessons and practiced with her longtime friend Bill Walton. As with almost any sport she tried, Mrs. Kennedy was a natural. She hit the ball long and straight, and her form was so good she reminded me of some of the female pro golfers I had observed. She was determined to do well, and you could see it in her attitude that she really wanted to improve and was going to work hard to do so.

The weather in Newport had been very pleasant with crisp temperatures, and a mixture of sun and clouds. But as is typical along the New England coast, the weather can change rapidly, and in the early evening hours of Friday, September 29, a cold, dense fog settled in, and decided to stay.

We had just returned to Hammersmith Farm from an outing when I got a call that my wife had gone into labor and had been taken to Alexandria Hospital in Alexandria, Virginia. I was taken by surprise because the baby wasn’t due for at least another two weeks.

I immediately informed Mrs. Kennedy.

“Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, “I just got word that my wife has gone into labor, so I’m going to need to get back to Washington as soon as possible.”

“Oh, Mr. Hill,” she said with a look of sincere concern, “yes, absolutely. You must get there right away. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Unfortunately, getting back to Washington on this particular night was going to be next to impossible. The closest commercial airport was in Warwick, but the fog was so dense that flights were grounded. The next option was the Naval Air Station at Quonset Point, which handled a variety of aircraft. They weren’t flying, either. We contacted the U.S. Coast Guard and they said they could see what they could do, but they got back to me with the same report: nothing was coming in or going out. There was nothing anybody could do. I was stuck in Newport.

The next day, the weather cleared, and I was finally able to get a flight out. An agent from the White House Detail met me and we raced to the hospital, where I got to see and hold my son, Corey Jonathan, for the first time. He was a bit premature, but healthy, and I was thrilled to now be the father of two sons.

The Kennedys’ hectic schedule was difficult for all the agents and their families. President Kennedy traveled far more than Eisenhower had, so the agents on his detail were often gone, too. The difference was that Mrs. Kennedy was rarely in Washington, which made my absences lengthier and more frequent. Fortunately the Secret Service wives had a good support network, and I was thankful for that. Many of us lived in the same area and had children around the same ages, so when the guys were traveling, the women stuck together.

When we returned to the White House on October 27, I presumed our time in Newport and on the Cape was pretty much finished for the year. Only Thanksgiving left. I was really looking forward to sleeping in my own bed each night for a month, and spending some time with my family. But, that wasn’t to be. It was back to Hyannis Port the next weekend, and then back to Newport, before returning to Washington for a few days to entertain the visiting prime minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, and his daughter, Indira Gandhi. I was realizing that Mrs. Kennedy made every effort to be away from the White House as much as possible. It turned out that she no more wanted to attend ladies’ luncheons and tea parties than I did. She really abhorred being in the spotlight, and having to make small talk. She would pick and choose which events were important to her, yet there were plenty of times she committed and then changed her mind. It was frustrating to Tish Baldridge, who would have to find replacement hostesses when Mrs. Kennedy told her she felt ill or had changed her plans—only to learn that we had gone off to Middleburg.

When it came to visiting heads of state, however, Mrs. Kennedy would throw herself into the planning of an event. I think the success of the dinner at Mount Vernon really boosted her confidence, and also showed her that she could think big when it came to entertaining on behalf of the White House. One of the most important and memorable events was the night Pablo Casals came to play.

“Mr. Hill, do you enjoy music?” Mrs. Kennedy asked me one day when we were up in Newport.

“I love music, Mrs. Kennedy,” I replied. “In fact, one thing you probably don’t know about me is that I used to sing in a quartet in college.”

“Really?”

She looked like she was about to burst into laughter, as if the idea of me, the tough Secret Service agent, singing in a quartet was beyond her comprehen-sion.

“Yes, really,” I said, with a smile. “And I also played the trumpet. I wasn’t bad, if I do say so myself.”

She laughed and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Hill. I don’t mean to laugh, but you are always so serious—I never thought of you as being someone who would sing and play an instrument.”

“I am serious about my job, Mrs. Kennedy, that’s for sure. But I can have fun every now and then, too, you know.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate that you don’t have fun, Mr. Hill,” she said, laughing. “But now that I know you appreciate music, you’ll have to make sure you’re on duty for the state dinner for the governor of Puerto Rico.”

I was aware that Governor Luis Muñoz Marin and his wife were being honored at a state dinner, but I couldn’t figure out what this had to do with whether I enjoyed music.

“And why is that, Mrs. Kennedy?”

“We’re going to have a very special after-dinner concert. Pablo Casals, who is perhaps the world’s greatest cellist, has agreed to play for us. He hasn’t played in the United States in thirty-three years. Isn’t that exciting?”

Her subtle enthusiasm was contagious. “I’m sure it will be fantastic,” I said. “I guess I better take my tuxedo to be dry-cleaned.”

On November 13, 1961, I did wear my tuxedo, and while I wasn’t an invited guest, I did stand at the back of the East Room when eighty-four-year-old Pablo Casals played the cello, accompanied by pianist Mieczyslaw Horszowski and violinist Alexander Schneider, in what was the most moving concert I had ever heard.

Being able to showcase the very best talent in the world to emphasize the importance of the arts was one of Mrs. Kennedy’s favorite things to do, and she was very successful at getting the most sought-after performers to come to the White House. For this spectacular evening, she and the president had invited people who truly appreciated this once-in-a-lifetime chance to hear Casals perform in the United States. The guest list included composers Leonard Bernstein; Aaron Copland; Eugene Ormandy; and Leopold Stokowski; as well as Henry Ford II; Thomas J. Watson, the founder of IBM; oil tycoon Edwin Pauley; and Alice Roosevelt Longworth, the daughter of President Theodore Roosevelt, who had been in attendance the last time Casals played at the White House in 1904. Thus it was not just Casals himself, but also the collection of guests that made the night so memorable. I was privileged to have been one of them.

Mrs. Kennedy was in her glory and as usual, she looked ravishing. It was a white-tie event and everyone in the room was dressed in their most formal attire, but Mrs. Kennedy stood out among everyone with the way she carried herself, and the smile that lit up her face the entire evening.

There had been a lot of publicity surrounding Casals’s performance at the White House, and while Mrs. Kennedy thoroughly enjoyed the event, when it was over she was eager to get out of Washington. So the next day we headed to Middleburg, for a few days at Glen Ora.

Still beaming from the success of the Casals performance, Mrs. Kennedy had a stack of newspapers she brought with her. As I drove, she sat in the front passenger seat and read some excerpts of the rave reviews to me.

“It really was a marvelous evening, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “You should be very proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hill,” she said with a smile. “I’m so glad that you were able to enjoy the evening. I know it wasn’t the same as if you had been a guest, because you were working, but I wouldn’t have wanted you to miss such a special experience.”

“I do appreciate that, Mrs. Kennedy. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“I hope you know that I appreciate everything you do for me, Mr. Hill. You’ve certainly changed my view of the Secret Service.”

ON FRIDAY MORNING, November 17, I drove Mrs. Kennedy from Glen Ora to ride with the Piedmont Hunt, while her horse Bit of Irish was transported by trailer.

It had been a long time since she’d ridden and she was excited to be back in the Virginia hunt country. Dressed in jodhpurs, a blazer, and boots, with not a stitch of makeup on, she looked even more beautiful than she had in her fancy gown at the Casals concert. This was the Mrs. Kennedy I had come to know—at ease and comfortable in her own skin, away from the public eye.

“We might have quite a long ride today,” she said. “I’ll be joining everyone for the hunt breakfast when we are through so I may be longer than usual.”

“That’s fine, Mrs. Kennedy. Just enjoy yourself and I’ll catch up with you when you’re ready to leave.”

Behind her, the riders were assembling, as the hounds scattered around barking. I noticed the handler seemed to be having a bit of difficulty with her horse.

“Bit of Irish looks anxious to go,” I added. “Be careful out there.”

She glanced at the horse and said, “Oh, he can be a handful, but I’ll be in control. Don’t worry, Mr. Hill.” Then she broke into a grin and said, “You be careful driving over all that rough terrain trying to keep up with me!”

I laughed and watched as she walked toward the rest of the riders who had gathered in the meadow.

“Good morning, Jackie!” they called. “So great to see you!”

“Good morning!” she replied. She was so relaxed in this environment. Here she was just another rider in the Hunt Club. They didn’t treat her any differently than anyone else, and that is what she loved. Here she could shed the first-lady moniker and just be Jackie.

I watched as she put her foot into the stirrup and mounted the horse. Then I drove the station wagon to place myself in a position where I could observe the group as they started on their ride across the rolling hills of the Mellon property. The whips were cracking, the hounds were yelping, and I wondered how the hell they thought they could sneak up on a fox with all that racket.

The riders set out along the course for the day and one by one they would jump over the rail fences and hedges at various points. Mrs. Kennedy loved to jump, and she was very good at it. I drove slowly along the country roads trying to keep the group in sight, but it wasn’t always easy.

Things were going along well on this particular morning, when I noticed a man crouched down in the field, just ahead of the riders.

Oh crap. As I got a bit closer, I recognized the man as Marshall Hawkins, a local photographer noted for his pictures of horses and the various hunt clubs in the area. He had positioned himself near a fence the group was about to jump. The hounds were running silently, and the only sound you could hear was that of the horses’ hooves hitting the ground as they galloped closer and closer. I was on the road, a good hundred yards from the fence, too far away to do anything other than yell. Yelling, though, I figured, could potentially make matters worse. I didn’t think Mrs. Kennedy was in any danger, but I knew she would be furious if Hawkins managed to get a photograph of her.

I got as close as I could and stopped the car, just as the group began jumping the rail fence, one by one. Hawkins was still crouched in the grass, not making a sound. Then, just as Mrs. Kennedy approached the fence, he suddenly stood up and started snapping away.

The sudden movement and sound of the camera caught Bit of Irish by surprise, and the horse reacted by digging in his front feet in an abrupt stop.

I watched in horror as Mrs. Kennedy went flying off, over the head of her horse, and over the rail fence, headfirst.

I jumped out of the car, and was about to leap over the property fence that bordered the road when Mrs. Kennedy got up, remounted, and rode away with the rest of the group without saying a word. She had put her arms out in front of herself to break her fall, and thank God she appeared to be all right. Now my fear for her safety turned to fury at the photographer.

I ran across the meadow, adrenaline coursing through my body.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed.

He hadn’t realized I was watching and seemed startled to see me coming toward him in a rage.

Seconds later I was standing eye to eye with him.

“What the hell are you doing?” I repeated.

“What I always do,” he answered caustically. “Taking photos of the hunts in the field.”

“Damn it! You could have got Mrs. Kennedy seriously injured.”

I reached for his camera and said, “Give me that goddamn film, Marshall.”

“Oh no,” he said as he clutched the camera to his chest. “This is mine and I’m keeping it.”

Unfortunately, this was a personal issue, not a matter of national security, and I was pretty sure he knew that. I would have to bluff him into giving me the film.

“You don’t want to embarrass Mrs. Kennedy, do you?” I asked. “If you use that photo of her falling, she will be humiliated. Is that what you’re after?”

“I’m not giving you this film, Clint.”

I tried to convince him but realized it was futile. He knew he had a valuable shot, and he wasn’t falling for my efforts to get the film. I had to get back to the car and catch up with the hunt, so I just shook my head in disgust and walked away.

“Tell Mrs. Kennedy I’m sorry if I caused her to fall,” he called after me. “I’ll print a copy for her, if she likes.”

I felt like turning around and punching him in the face, but I knew that wasn’t going to solve any issues, so I broke into a jog and made my way back to the station wagon.

I drove down the road that surrounded the Mellon property and saw the hunt just as they were dismounting. Everybody was gathered around Mrs. Kennedy.

Oh God, I hope she’s not hurt. I couldn’t see her facial expression, but she was at least standing.

I jogged up to her just as she was taking off her helmet. With her helmet in one hand, she used the other hand to run her fingers through her hair.

“Mrs. Kennedy, are you all right?”

She turned toward me, and smiled.

“Yes, Mr. Hill, I’m fine,” she said softly.

Then, concerned, she asked, “Did you talk to the photographer? Did you get the film?”

“I’m afraid he won’t give it up. I’m going to see what I can do about it after I get you back to Glen Ora. I’m just glad to hear you’re not hurt. That was quite a fall.”

She laughed and said, “Oh it wasn’t the first time I’ve fallen off a horse, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

Her friends laughed and somebody said, “Who wants breakfast?”

“Enjoy your breakfast, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “I’ll be standing by.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hill,” she said as I started to walk away. “I really am all right. But I sure would like to get that film.”

Yeah, me too. I was so relieved she wasn’t hurt, but I knew that I would be typing up a lengthy report on the details of what happened, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

I contacted Marshall Hawkins several more times, but his position remained the same. The last time we spoke he said, “I’ll print a copy for you, too, Clint.”

I knew he would be attempting to sell that photo to the highest bidder, and that is exactly what he did. Mrs. Kennedy was embarrassed when it came out in Life magazine, and I felt terrible that the incident had happened on my watch and I wasn’t able to confiscate the film.

A few weeks later a poster-sized framed photo of Mrs. Kennedy falling off the horse arrived at the White House to my attention. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I took it home and stuck it in a closet.

THE PRESS, AND probably many Americans, seemed to think that President Kennedy was on a permanent vacation when he was in Hyannis Port or Newport, when in reality the responsibility of the job never leaves the occupant of the office of president. The international situation had deteriorated as the Soviets, together with the East Germans, had begun to tie a noose around West Berlin, tightening the borders and building a wall which caused great concern throughout the Western world. The United States promptly called up some 150,000 reservists to active duty. Then 40,000 regular Army troops were sent to Europe, increasing U.S. strength on the continent to 290,000. Cuba remained a major concern after the Bay of Pigs disaster earlier in the year, while the situation in Southeast Asia including Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam was heating up and required concentrated attention. Domestically, attempted hijacking of commercial airliners necessitated the placing of armed federal personnel on board some flights as air marshals. And racial segregation had become an issue that could no longer be ignored.

Mrs. Kennedy was well aware of the tremendous responsibility and the constant and continued attention the job required. She tried very hard to make the time the president spent with family and friends as comfortable and relaxing as possible. She might invite Paul “Red” Fay and his wife, Anita, for a weekend at Middleburg or an intimate dinner at the White House. Red and JFK had been friends since the president’s Navy days and they shared a similar sense of humor, along with a love of sailing. Chuck Spalding and his wife, Betty, were frequent guests. Chuck had been an usher at the Kennedys’ wedding and had worked on the president’s campaign.

And then there was Lem. Lemoyne “Lem” Billings and Jack Kennedy had known each other since their prep school days at Choate, and they were almost like brothers. Lem seemed to be a permanent fixture at the White House, and would often be with the president when he arrived by helicopter to Middleburg, Hyannis Port, or Palm Beach. He was a tall, lanky guy, rather effeminate, and he just always seemed to be around. Mrs. Kennedy tolerated him, much like a somewhat annoying sibling, but Lem’s antics and quick wit made the president laugh, and that was worth a lot.

On November 22, 1961, it was back to Hyannis Port for Thanksgiving with the president’s parents, Rose and Ambassador Kennedy, along with as many members of the extended family as could possibly make the annual event. I wondered what the family would do in the cooler weather since so many of the summer activities revolved around the water. They were such an active, competitive family. I soon found out that Thanksgiving on the Cape meant touch football games and ice-skating at the Kennedy Memorial Skating Rink in Hyannis.

The Lieutenant Joseph Patrick Kennedy Jr. Memorial Skating Rink was built in honor of Ambassador and Rose Kennedy’s oldest son, who had been killed in World War II. Most of the family would go on daily outings to the rink, skating and laughing, just enjoying being together. It was such a wonderful sight to observe, and I so wished I could join them.

Growing up in the frozen plains of North Dakota, ice-skating had been one of my favorite after-school activities. There was a vacant dirt lot in Washburn, about half a block in length, that was flooded at the first freeze in the fall and stayed frozen until Easter, and that was our skating rink. When I wanted to be alone I would head to Painted Woods Creek, and skate for miles and miles in peaceful solitude. My mother worried about me when I’d go to the creek, though, because you had to watch out for air pockets, where the ice was thin. There had been a few kids who had drowned. I never worried about my own safety, but if I was with my sister or some friends, I wanted to be the one in the front of the pack, looking out for the soft spots ahead.

It didn’t matter the outdoor temperature—20 degrees below zero was commonplace for me—skating gave me energy and brought a smile to my face. I saw that same enjoyment on the faces of Mrs. Kennedy, the president, Caroline, and the rest of their family as they glided across the frozen surface with sheer delight.

Weather permitting, it was touch football time. Somebody—usually it was Bobby who instigated a game—would start rounding up players and picking teams. Quite often they were short a player, and Bobby or younger brother Teddy would call me at the command post.

“Clint, come on down here. We need another guy for our team.”

I had played football in high school and college and I loved it. They didn’t have to ask me twice.

The president rarely played, because of his back problems, but Bobby and Teddy would be out there, along with their wives, Ethel and Joanie; sisters Eunice and Jean, and their husbands Sarge Shriver and Steve Smith; and any guests who might be there and willing to participate. It was great fun, and quite competitive. Ethel especially hated to lose, and boy was she tough. God, Ethel—the thought of her out there playing still makes me chuckle. She was a ball of energy.

The rough-and-tumble nature of the Kennedy football games wasn’t Mrs. Kennedy’s style, so she would usually be sitting on the porch with the ambassador, watching with amusement, as we huddled and scrambled out there on the lawn. They treated me just like one of them—almost like part of the family. I thoroughly enjoyed it—not just for the sport, but also because it gave me the opportunity to occasionally throw a good hard block across certain family members. Payback time for things they had done causing me extra concern and work. Like using one of the Secret Service cars on the spur of the moment without asking permission or advising any of the agents what they were going to do. We learned never to leave keys in any of the cars even within the secured area, because if we did, you could count on Eunice or Sarge Shriver or Teddy taking off with the vehicle. It always seemed to happen just before Mrs. Kennedy or the president was about to go somewhere. They were always trying to pull pranks. Believe me, it wasn’t funny at the time.

At this point, I had been on the First Lady’s Detail for just over a year, and it had been nothing like I’d first envisioned. What had started out as uncertainty for both Mrs. Kennedy and me, had turned into a comfortable and enjoyable working relationship based on mutual trust and respect.

It was nearly Christmastime, and once again, we were headed to Palm Beach for the holidays.