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

Everyone knew it was the right thing to do. The agents in the follow-up car had seen the impact.

Agent Lawson had run into the emergency room to get help and gurneys because no one was outside to assist us. He came out with two gurneys and an orderly. The first thing we had to do was remove Governor Connally from the car. We couldn’t move the president until the jump seat was folded up.

We got the governor on a gurney and he was taken inside. Mrs. Connally had remained amazingly composed, and went inside the hospital with her husband.

Mrs. Kennedy had not moved. She was holding on to the president, his head still in her lap.

“Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “Please let us help the president.”

She would not let go.

“Please Mrs. Kennedy,” I pleaded. “Please let us get him into the hospital.”

She looked up at me. She was in shock. Her eyes were looking, but not seeing. And then I understood: She doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. Nobody should see the president like this. I understand, Mrs. Kennedy. You’re right. Nobody should see the president like this.

I took off my suit coat and placed it over his head and upper torso.

Now no one will see him, Mrs. Kennedy. It’s okay now.

She still hadn’t said a word, but as soon as my coat was covering the president, she released her grip.

Together, Agents Win Lawson, Roy Kellerman, Dave Powers, and I lifted the president’s lifeless body onto the gurney.

Three shots had been fired in Dealey Plaza. And the world stopped for four days.

24

Parkland Hospital

Doctors and nurses were everywhere—it was a blur of white coats—as we passed Trauma Room No. 2, where Governor Connally had been taken, and wheeled the president into Trauma Room No. 1. Mrs. Kennedy was holding on to the gurney, staring at her husband’s body, my coat still over his head and torso.

As someone reached to pull my coat off, I grabbed her firmly by the arm and said, “Mrs. Kennedy, let’s go wait outside.”

“No,” she said. “I’m staying in here with him.”

“Clint,” Roy Kellerman interrupted, “contact the White House. And keep the line open.”

I looked at Mrs. Kennedy, not wanting to leave her, but Kellerman was right. We had to let the White House know what had happened.

Paul Landis stood outside the door of the trauma room, while I found a telephone and dialed the number for the special switchboard in Dallas that would get me straight to the White House.

“This is Clint Hill. Give me Jerry Behn’s office in Washington and keep this line open.”

Just as Jerry Behn, the Special Agent in Charge of the White House Detail, answered, Roy Kellerman came out of the trauma room and grabbed the phone.

As Kellerman began to explain the horror of what had happened less than ten minutes before, a medic rushed out of the trauma room.

“Does anybody know the president’s blood type?”

“O. R-H positive,” Kellerman blurted out.

Just then, Mrs. Kennedy came out of the trauma room. Her face, still spattered with blood, was expressionless.

I strode over to her, afraid she might faint.

Landis called out, “Somebody get a chair for Mrs. Kennedy.”

There were agents and medical staff and policemen all over the place. People running around back and forth, in and out of the two trauma rooms. Somebody brought a chair and I said, “Mrs. Kennedy, sit down.”

She sat down and looked at me. Our eyes met, and it nearly broke me. The light was gone, and all that was left in those beautiful brown eyes was pain. Sheer, unbearable pain.

A medic rushed out of the room and called out, “He’s still breathing!”

Mrs. Kennedy stood up and asked, “Do you mean he may live?”

Oh God , I thought. Please, nobody answer her. I saw what happened.

Nobody answered, but as soon as Kellerman heard that the president was still breathing, he looked at me and said, “Clint, take the phone.”

I left Mrs. Kennedy with Paul and took the handset from Kellerman.

“Clint, what happened?” Jerry Behn asked.

“Shots fired during the motorcade. It all happened so fast,” I said. I tried to remain as composed as possible, as I kept my eyes on Mrs. Kennedy. “The situation is critical, Jerry. Prepare for the worst.”

Before Jerry could answer, the operator cut into the line. “The attorney general wants to talk to Agent Hill.”

The attorney general. Robert Kennedy. The president’s brother.

“Clint, what’s going on down there?!”

Staring at Mrs. Kennedy, I repeated, “Shots fired during the motorcade. The president is very seriously injured. They’re working on him now. Governor Connally was hit, too.”

“What do you mean seriously injured? How bad is it?”

I swallowed hard, as the image of the president’s head exploding replayed in my mind. The image of his lifeless body lying across Mrs. Kennedy’s lap. His eyes fixed. His blood and brains all over her, all over me.

How do I tell him his brother is dead?

Looking away from Mrs. Kennedy, I closed my eyes, squeezed the phone hard, and said, “It’s as bad as it can get.”

THE SECRET SERVICE agents from the President’s Detail who had been stationed at the Trade Mart had raced to Parkland Hospital as soon as they heard the president had been hit. With them was Admiral George Burkley, the president’s physician. Dr. Burkley had been in the VIP bus at the back of the motorcade. He had no idea how bad the situation was until he got into Trauma Room No. 1.

I knew the doctors at Parkland Hospital, along with Dr. Burkley, were doing everything they could to save the president, but I knew there was no hope.

Dr. Burkley walked out of the trauma room, his face contorted with pain.

Mrs. Kennedy stood up as soon as she saw him and said, “I’m going in there.”

A nurse tried to stop her, but Dr. Burkley intervened and led Mrs. Kennedy back into the trauma room, so she could be with her husband when he took his last breath.

I was still on the line with Jerry Behn, when two priests arrived.

“Two priests just walked into the trauma room,” I said.

Perhaps they will be of some comfort to Mrs. Kennedy , I thought. At least they’ll know the right things to say.

A few moments later, Agent Roy Kellerman walked out of the room and came toward me. In a low voice, he said, “The priest has just administered Last Rites. This is not for release, and is not official, but the president is dead.”

I had known it, of course. There was no way he could have survived. But still, to hear it said out loud. I could hardly breathe.

“What is it, Clint?” Jerry Behn asked on the other end of the phone. “What did Kellerman say?”

My chest tightened as I took a deep breath.

“The president is dead, Jerry. Roy said it’s not to be released, but the president is dead.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Jerry Behn had been the Special Agent in Charge since President Kennedy’s Inauguration. He was with the president all the time, just like I was with Mrs. Kennedy. They had a great relationship. The president loved him, trusted him. With the campaign getting ready to get started, Jerry had decided to take a week off, to get some things done around the house. We all understood how that went. His first annual leave in three years. And now, the president was dead.

The world had stopped, but I had to keep going. Bobby’s words echoed in my mind.