“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, what can I do for you?”
“I may want to go back to Arlington later,” she whispered. “I’ll call and let you know.”
I was exhausted, and she hadn’t slept any more than I had. How she could keep this up I didn’t know. I notified Paul that we needed to make arrangements with the superintendent’s office at Arlington. This was to be completely private, and kept absolutely confidential.
When Mrs. Kennedy finally went to the second floor, I went to the Map Room and more or less collapsed in my chair. Shortly before midnight, she called.
“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy,” I answered.
“Mr. Hill, Bobby and I want to go to Arlington now. We want to see the flame.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Kennedy. I’ll get the car.”
I called Sergeant Watkins and he brought the car around. We took Mrs. Kennedy and Bobby to the cemetery as Paul followed in another car. As we drove across Memorial Bridge, there straight ahead of us flickering on the hillside was the Eternal Flame. It was a moving, very emotional sight.
We drove up to the site and walked to the grave. Mrs. Kennedy had brought a small bouquet of flowers, and she placed them on the fresh earth. Mrs. Kennedy and Bobby knelt and prayed, then stood and looked back across the Potomac at the lights of the memorials. We all got back in the car, and returned to the White House.
No press, no public, complete privacy. Just the way Mrs. Kennedy wanted it.
PART FIVE
After the White House
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
