Clint Hill - Mrs. Kennedy and Me - An Intimate Memoir

LOVE JACKIE

I could just picture President Kennedy getting this message. He would read it and by the end he’d be laughing hysterically. Leave it to Mrs. Kennedy to find a political reason to convince the president to intervene on behalf of her beloved horse. He would read the note again, shaking his head in comic disbelief, and then he would do exactly what she wanted. There was no doubt in my mind that Sardar would be grazing at Glen Ora within a week. Hell, the damn horse would probably be in Washington before I was.

THE NEXT MORNING, we were off to the legendary Khyber Pass. We traveled from Peshawar up to the pass with a motorcade convoy of about ten cars occupied by staff and press. Riding in one of the cars near the back was Mrs. Kennedy’s personal assistant, Provi Paredes. Poor Provi had a difficult time with heights, so when we began traveling up into the mountains on primitive roads with sheer thousand-foot drop-offs, she panicked. I was told later that she was screaming and carrying on so badly that the driver had no choice but to turn the car around and return her to Peshawar. She never saw the Khyber Pass.

Mrs. Kennedy, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoyed the thirty-four-mile thrill ride through the rugged mountains. Accompanied by the governor of West Pakistan and President Ayub Khan’s military aide, she was in a cheerful mood as we carefully navigated the hairpin turns. She thought it was a fantastic adventure.

We first arrived at the mud-walled Jamrud Fort, where bearded tribal leaders, wearing gun belts and daggers, greeted Mrs. Kennedy. Our two advance agents had worked out the details of our short visit with the Pakistan government representatives and the tribal leaders, and had agreements as to exactly what would happen. In honor of Mrs. Kennedy’s visit they had erected a large, multicolored tent at the point where the tribal territory began, and had a traditional welcoming ceremony in which they presented Mrs. Kennedy with some special gifts.

Agent Ron Pontius was one of the agents I had assigned to advance this portion of the trip. He was from the south side of Chicago, tough as nails, and I figured his previous experience was as good as any for dealing with these tribesmen. Just as the gift presentation was about to begin, Pontius pulled me aside.

“Clint,” he said. “We have a bit of a problem.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Well, they had told me they were going to present Mrs. Kennedy with some gifts. They’re going to give her an antique dagger in a decorative case . . . and a lamb. A baby lamb.”

“Oh crap. Not another damn animal to get back to the United States,” I said.

“Well, that’s what I thought. But I just found out that they’re going to present her with the lamb and then sacrifice it in front of her.”

“Oh, God. Kill the lamb in front of her? ”

“Yeah. That’s what they said. They consider it an honor.”

If that happened, I’d be on the next plane to Washington, following in Jeffries’s footsteps.

“Ron, listen. We absolutely cannot let that happen. You’ve got to tell them they can present the lamb to her, but they cannot kill the damn thing until after we leave. You guard that lamb with your life, and do not let her know what is going on.”

I stood close to Mrs. Kennedy as they presented the dagger and she accepted it graciously. What the hell do they think she is going to do with a dagger? I thought.

Then they brought out the lamb, all dressed in a colorful silk costume. She touched it on its nose and then thanked them for their thoughtfulness as the tribal chieftain led the animal away.

I hurried Mrs. Kennedy into our car, and as we started back onto the winding road to the Khyber Pass, I could hear the poor animal bleating as it was sacrificed in her honor.

As we progressed over the winding mountain roads, armed tribesmen and members of the Khyber Rifles, the Pakistan army’s paramilitary force responsible for securing the border, escorted us. It was a crystal clear day and you could see for hundreds of miles across the rugged terrain that formed the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan. Our convoy was being carefully watched throughout our journey to the Khyber Rifle outpost, and off in the distance, at various intervals, I could discern men with rifles standing guard as we passed the various checkpoints. The Pakistan government wanted to make sure that nothing would happen to mar the visit to the Khyber Pass.

We drove through the town of Torkham, to the border separating Pakistan and Afghanistan, to the Khyber Pass, where the Pakistan and Afghanistan military faced each other eyeball to eyeball. It was here that the Khyber Rifles maintained control. Looking out from this point at the Hindu Kush mountains, one can feel the presence of Genghis Khan and his horde of Mongol tribesmen as they rode through these mountains. The soldiers of Alexander the Great had passed this way, and based on the number of blue-eyed people we saw along the way, it was apparent they had left descendants behind.

Mrs. Kennedy was wearing the cap President Ayub Khan had given her, and I was sure it was the first time anyone had ever worn the cap with a tailored jacket, skirt, and pumps.

Mrs. Kennedy commented on what a beautiful sight the view was and we then went to Landi Kotal, the headquarters of the Khyber Rifles, to have lunch at the Khyber Rifles Mess. Ron Pontius and I exchanged glances when they brought out a big platter of roast lamb—thankfully not the same animal that had been presented as a gift a few miles back.

Our last night in Pakistan was spent back in Karachi and there was one last thing Mrs. Kennedy wanted to do. The year before, Vice President Lyndon Johnson had visited Pakistan and made a big deal out of meeting a camel cart driver named Bashir, whom he had stopped to shake hands with by the side of the road. In typical LBJ fashion, the vice president casually remarked, “Why don’t y’all come see me sometime?” Bashir accepted the invitation, and the friendship between the American vice president and the Pakistani camel cart driver turned into a media spectacle as Bashir toured the United States and became an overnight celebrity.

Mrs. Kennedy had brought a letter from Vice President Johnson and wanted to personally deliver it to Bashir. So it was arranged for Bashir to bring his family and his now famous camel to visit her at the president’s residence in Karachi, with the full ranks of press in attendance.

Of course the press wanted a photo of Mrs. Kennedy with Bashir and the camel. They were snapping away like mad when Mrs. Kennedy suddenly turned to Bashir and asked, “May we ride your camel, Bashir?”

Oh dear God. Riding the camel was not in the program. Mrs. Kennedy and Lee were both wearing knee-length sleeveless dresses with high heels—not exactly camel-riding attire—and I thought, that’s all we need is for you to fall off a camel with the press catching it all on film.

Bashir looked nervously at the president’s military aide for permission. Then the military aide turned to me. “What do you think? Is it okay, Mr. Hill?”

Mrs. Kennedy and Lee were laughing and having such a good time, I thought, what harm can it do?

“If Mrs. Kennedy wants to ride the camel, go ahead and let her ride the camel,” I said.

So Bashir got the camel to kneel, and while Lee required some assistance getting on the camel’s back sitting sidesaddle, Mrs. Kennedy turned her back to the camel, put her hands on the saddle, and effortlessly hoisted herself up. Sitting side by side, Lee and Mrs. Kennedy were just laughing and laughing. But this wasn’t enough for them. No, they wanted to ride the camel, not just sit on it.