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

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.