Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

26

Our Final Year

Clint Hill watches as Mrs. Kennedy visits her husband’s gravesite

The days following the funeral are somewhat of a blur. I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained. I had kept my emotions buried. I could not let Mrs. Kennedy, the other agents, or anyone else, for that matter, be aware of exactly how I felt. I had to be strong and hold up the tradition of the Service. Mrs. Kennedy had been traumatized and she was being so strong. I couldn’t break down. But the truth was, I was overcome with guilt, a feeling of failure, and a sense of responsibility for not being able to prevent the assassination.

There was no time to grieve, no counseling, no time off. Keeping busy was the only thing that was keeping me going. It was the best medicine I had.

Mrs. Kennedy was staying busy, too. She knew she had to move out of the White House—the Johnsons had told her to take her time, but she said she would leave after Thanksgiving, on December 6. There were so many decisions that had to be made, so much for her to think about. Even though she had the help of Mary Gallagher, and Provi, as well as her staff and the president’s staff, the final decisions were all hers to make. Where to live? What to do with the dogs, the horses? But first, she had to go see the president’s father in Hyannis Port.

On Thursday, November 28, Agent Bob Foster and I took Mrs. Kennedy, Caroline, and John to Arlington to visit the grave site. Mrs. Kennedy’s sister Lee, Provi, and Miss Shaw came along. To see the children at the grave of their father—hollow eyes, a three-year-old’s questions, no more rides on the helicopter. It was gut-wrenching. It was Thanksgiving Day.

Agents Landis, Meredith, and Wells had flown ahead to the Cape, and after our brief visit to Arlington, we boarded an Air Force aircraft at Andrews to Hyannis Port. It was an extremely emotional time. Mrs. Kennedy was so close to the ambassador and always before, her visits had been a shining light in his days. Now there was no light in anyone’s eyes. This was the third child Ambassador and Rose Kennedy had lost in violent death. Son Joe in World War II, daughter Kathleen, known as “Kick,” in an airplane crash, and now the president to an assassin’s bullet. What was there to be thankful for?

Paul and I and the children’s agents had assumed we would stay with Mrs. Kennedy and the children until she left the White House. After that, we didn’t know what was going to happen. None of us could bear the thought of leaving them.

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 1, we headed back to Washington. Earlier in November, my wife, Gwen, had found a new apartment in Alexandria—one with more space, for just a few dollars more a month. Unbeknownst to me, George Dalton and Jim Bartlett, two Navy men that handled the boats at Hyannis Port—Jim had been the one who had valiantly tried to teach me to water-ski—had shown up on the doorstep and helped Gwen move. I arrived home to the new apartment, piled high with boxes, and beyond grateful for the kindness of two friends.

The next morning, back at the White House, I received a call from Chief Jim Rowley.

“Clint,” Mr. Rowley said, “there is going to be a ceremony tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock in the fourth-floor conference room in the Treasury Building. You are going to receive the Treasury Department’s highest award for bravery. Secretary Douglas Dillon wants you there at ten-thirty. Your wife and children are invited to attend as well.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Mrs. Kennedy plans to be there,” Rowley added. “Congratulations, Clint.”

I didn’t know what to say. Why am I getting an award? I had heard that Rufus Youngblood, the agent who was with Lyndon Johnson in Dallas, was getting an award. He had jumped on top of the vice president and shielded him from the sniper. He was successful.

I don’t deserve an award. The president is dead.

I didn’t know what to say.

“Thank you,” I finally said.

I hung up the phone and told Paul what the chief had said. Paul congratulated me, but he knew how I felt.

I called home to tell Gwen.

“It looks like you are finally going to meet Mrs. Kennedy,” I said.

THE NEXT DAY, I arranged for Gwen to park on West Executive Avenue—the driveway of the White House. When she and the boys arrived, I walked out to meet them, and together we walked next door to the Treasury Building.

There was a small room next to the fourth-floor conference room. Paul Landis had brought Mrs. Kennedy, her sister, Lee, and the president’s sisters Jean Smith and Pat Lawford. I was surprised to see them there—the president’s sisters.

I introduced them to my family and Mrs. Kennedy said, “You have such fine-looking young sons, Mr. Hill.”

I looked into her eyes, still so filled with pain. Did mine look the same?

“Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy. They are good boys.”

At eleven o’clock, we went into the conference room for the ceremony. Some of the press were there. They snapped pictures and took notes as Treasury secretary Douglas Dillon made a speech and presented me with the award. I was embarrassed by all this undeserved and unwanted attention, but I accepted the award and thanked Secretary Dillon, as Mrs. Kennedy stood and watched.

My family went home, and I went back to my office, glad it was over.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 6, was moving-out day. Two good friends of President and Mrs. Kennedy, Mr. and Mrs. Averell Harriman, had graciously offered their home in Georgetown as a temporary residence to Mrs. Kennedy and the children. Everything had been packed and sorted, with most of the belongings being sent into storage until Mrs. Kennedy decided where she and the children would live on a permanent basis.

President Johnson had also decided to award the Medal of Freedom, posthumously, to John F. Kennedy, at a ceremony in the State Dining Room, on this day. As Attorney General Robert Kennedy accepted the award on behalf of his brother, Mrs. Kennedy watched, sitting in a small adjacent room, behind a folding screen, her presence unannounced until the ceremony was over.

Everything had been packed and loaded into trucks. Now it was time to say good-bye. Mrs. Kennedy said good-bye to Chief Usher J. B. West and the household staff—staff that had grown to love John and Caroline. It had been such a joy to have children in the White House. Throughout the entire house, from the upstairs maids to the stewards in the Navy Mess, tears were flowing.

A few days earlier, Secret Service Chief Jim Rowley had called me into his office.

“Clint,” he said, “President Johnson has requested the Secret Service provide protection for Mrs. Kennedy and the children for at least one more year. We have agreed to do so.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Rowley. I think it’s a good decision.”

“The president told Mrs. Kennedy, and said she could have any agents she wanted. Take her pick.”

I nodded. A lump filled my throat. I would do whatever Rowley requested—he was my boss. I would understand completely if she didn’t want me. Every time she sees me, it must bring back the horrible memories of that day, that dreadful day in Dallas. But I couldn’t imagine not being with her.

“Clint, Mrs. Kennedy didn’t hesitate. She wants Bob Foster, Lynn Meredith, and Tom Wells to stay with the children.”

I nodded. Held my breath.

“And for herself, she said there was no choice to be made at all. She wants Paul Landis and Clint Hill.”

Tears welled in my eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Rowley. Thank you.”

Clint Hill, Mrs. Kennedy, and Caroline arrive at Harriman residence, 12/6/63

So on December 6, as Mrs. Kennedy and the children moved out of the White House, so did I. I would no longer have my office in the Map Room. Jerry Behn said Paul and I could share a desk in his office temporarily, but we’d have to figure something else out. We were no longer on the White House Detail.

Mrs. Kennedy, Miss Shaw, Caroline, and John got into the limousine at the South Portico and we drove from the White House together for the last time. It was quiet. Nothing was said. There was just a heavy sadness inside all of us.

The Harriman house was at 3038 N Street Northwest—just three blocks down from the house where Mrs. Kennedy and I first met. As we drove through the narrow streets with the historic redbrick homes on each side, the memories came flooding back. Three years earlier, she was eight months’ pregnant, and I was so disappointed to have been given this assignment.

John was carrying an American flag as he jumped out of the car and went inside. A few neighbors and a handful of curious onlookers were standing nearby, watching us, but far fewer people than I had imagined would be gawking.

This looks pretty good. Maybe the people will leave her and the children alone, out of respect.

The Harrimans had left some of their household staff to assist Mrs. Kennedy, and that first night, it almost felt like they were staying in a hotel with personal servants there to help in every way.

The next weekend Mrs. Kennedy wanted to go to Atoka. “I guess we will have to drive,” she said. No longer did we have helicopters at our beck and call. She told me that from now on she was going to call the house at Atoka “Wexford,” after President Kennedy’s ancestral home in County Wexford, Ireland. It was nice to get back to the country again, to be around the horses she loved so. But still the smile did not return. The laughter was gone.

When we returned to the Harriman house in Georgetown, she informed me that she and the children would be spending Christmas and New Year’s in Palm Beach, staying at the C. Michael Paul residence again. We would leave the following Wednesday.

“I wanted to give you something, Mr. Hill,” she said as she handed me a typewritten letter. “I sent this letter to Secretary Dillon, and I thought you should know. I’d like you to pass it along to the other agents on our little detail, too. Go ahead, read it now.”

I began to read the letter—it was two-and-a-half pages long, single-spaced, so it took me a while.

Dear Douglas:

I would like to ask you one thing that was so close to Jack’s heart—he often spoke about it—

It is about our Secret Service detail—the children’s and mine. They are such exceptional men. He always said that, before he left office, he was going to see that the highest possible recommendation was left in each of their files—with the suggestion that each of them be really given a chance to advance, as they normally would, in the Secret Service.

She wrote that this in no way was speaking against the president’s detail—he was devoted to them all.

They were perfect and the President loved them.

But, my detail and the children’s were younger men. They all had children just the ages of Caroline and John . . .

You cannot imagine the difference they made in our lives. Before we came to the White House, the thing I dreaded most was the Secret Service. How wrong I was; it turned out that they were the ones who made it possible for us to have the happy close life that we did.

She wrote about how she had requested us to be firm with the children so they would not get spoiled, yet at the same time be unobtrusive so they weren’t viewed as special by their friends.

It seems to me now that the qualities they had to have to do this job so beautifully—so that I have two unspoiled children—and, so that I always felt free and unhindered myself, are really the most exceptional qualities . . . they needed tact, adaptability, kindness, toughness, quick wittedness, more than any other members of the Secret Service. And every one of them had it.

She wrote about how she and the president often discussed how sad it was that these “devoted and clever men” were taking John to the park and missing out on all the exciting work like state visits, and advance trips—the things that would help them advance their careers. They were afraid that because we had been so good with the children, that we would be forever “left in the backwater with no chance to advance” and that would be terribly unfair to men so devoted to their profession.

The point of the letter was to request that all the men on the First Lady and Children’s Detail be given special consideration to advance, at the end of this assignment, because Chief James Rowley “couldn’t find better men if he combed the earth.”

She listed the five men of whom she was speaking: Clinton Hill, Paul Landis, Lynn Meredith, Robert Foster, and Thomas Wells. Next to my name she wrote:

No need to tell you about him. He was a brilliant advance man before he was assigned to me. He was so much better than the rather dense USIA men the embassies sent when I went abroad, that I ended up by having him handle all press and official details . . . he could do everything.

I couldn’t help but smile at that part. Oh, Mrs. Kennedy . . .

She concluded the letter with an apology for going on so long and finally:

They served the President as well as any one in his government, by protecting his wife and children with such tact, devotion and unobtrusiveness that it made our White House years the happy ones they were.

Tears welled in my eyes. I looked at her, looked into her brown eyes, those beautiful eyes the color of espresso that melted powerful men and created envy in women the world over. There were no secrets from me in those eyes.

I put down the letter, and wrapped my arms around her and held her for a moment.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy, those are very kind words.”

We had been through so much together, Mrs. Kennedy and me. And now it was time to move to a new chapter in our lives. It wasn’t going to be easy, but we had to go on.

WE HAD MADE it through the first Thanksgiving, but Christmas in Palm Beach was exceptionally difficult. Ambassador Kennedy and much of the rest of the family were there, as well as Lee and Stash and their children, but there was no Honey Fitz to take out for a lunchtime cruise, no anticipation of high-level meetings, far fewer Secret Service agents around.

There were times when I wondered if I myself could go on. It was just so damn painful.

After the holidays, we returned to Washington. Mrs. Kennedy had bought a house across the street from the Harriman’s, at 3017 N Street—a large brick colonial that had lots of room and two beautiful magnolia trees out front. We moved in and at first, it seemed perfect. The private backyard was paved with a big tree in the center, and John would ride his little tricycle around and around. But almost immediately, the crowds started to come. People would stand on the sidewalk with cameras, trying to peer in the windows, and as soon as we walked out the front door, they’d snap photos, one right after the other. It really got bad when a tour company started bringing buses by the house. The buses would squeeze down the narrow street and stop, allowing the people to get out and take pictures. We tried to have the operation ceased, but the city allowed the buses to carry on.

Mrs. Kennedy and the children started spending more and more time away from Washington. They went skiing in Stowe, Vermont, she took a trip to Antigua, and a lot of trips to New York City, where we stayed at the Carlyle Hotel.

We were all trying to keep busy, planning the next trip, making arrangements. But everywhere we turned, there was something to remind us of what had happened. You couldn’t look at a newspaper, you couldn’t watch television. The Warren Commission was investigating the assassination, and both Paul and I were required to write sworn statements and memorandums about what had happened. I was called to testify, at length. We were forced to relive those six seconds in Dallas over and over and over.

But by far the most difficult thing to deal with was what was right there in front of us every day. Being with Mrs. Kennedy and John and Caroline, seeing their sadness, the hollowness in their eyes, and feeling that we were the cause of their anguish. When Mrs. Kennedy had asked me, What’s going to happen to you now, Mr. Hill? I had told her, I’ll be okay. But as the time went on, I wondered if any of us would ever be okay.

On June 12, 1964, Paul handed in his resignation. He had given himself six months to see if he would feel better. But nothing got better. It got worse and worse. It was just too damn painful.

I was disappointed that he was leaving, but I understood. I understood completely.

That summer, the summer of 1964, Mrs. Kennedy decided to move to New York City. There, among the crowds, she thought perhaps she and her children might be able to somehow blend in, and have some privacy. All she ever wanted was a little privacy.

I took her house hunting, and she finally settled on a large apartment across from Central Park at 1040 Fifth Avenue. It was close to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, just a few blocks from Stephen and Jean Kennedy Smith’s place, and within walking distance of the Carlyle Hotel. She knew the neighborhood well, and it was exactly what she wanted. While the apartment was being furnished and decorated, I lived at the Carlyle, in a small room on the same floor as Mrs. Kennedy’s suite, and stayed there for a few months after she moved in to the apartment.

Mrs. Kennedy had an office on Park Avenue, and Nancy Tuckerman had stayed on as her assistant. She was working on plans for the Kennedy Library, and continued to answer the thousands of letters that continued to pour in.

It was coming up on a year since the assassination, and both of us realized it was time to move on. On my last day in New York, she threw a surprise farewell party for me in her office. There weren’t many people there—just her small staff, and the other agents. They tried to make it upbeat and we shared memories of the fun times we had had together. Mrs. Kennedy brought out a large cardboard poster that they had all signed. The poster had a cutout picture of an anonymous Secret Service agent, complete with sunglasses. Above the agent, in big letters it said: MUDDY GAP WYOMING WELCOMES ITS NEWEST CITIZEN. Not knowing what my next assignment was, it was a joke insinuating I was being sent to some remote town out in the middle of nowhere. We all laughed—it was typical of Mrs. Kennedy’s humor.

Then she handed me a black three-ring binder filled with photos that chronicled our four years together. The title page said: THE TRAVELS OF CLINTON J. HILL.

Under each photo were typewritten captions like: GREECE: At first he stayed unobtrusively in the background (only recognized by his dark glasses). There were photos of me carrying her bags in various places and the caption read: ANY PLACE: Our able agents are always eager to serve. There was the photo in the rowboat near Paestum, Italy, in which I’m screaming at the top of my lungs and she was laughing like crazy: ITALY—Musical accompaniment to the pull of the oars. There were pictures from Ravello—the ones the press had taken of her in her bathing suit, and swimming, and one in which she’s on a sailboat giving me instructions. Morocco—a photo of us walking and laughing, on which she had handwritten: Mr. Hill—Are you happy in your work?—JBK.

It was priceless.

We had been through so much together, Mrs. Kennedy and me. More than anyone can imagine.

More than anyone can ever know.