IT WASN’T LONG before the press started questioning Mrs. Kennedy’s frequent absences from the White House, and specifically her use of government helicopters to fly back and forth between the White House and Middleburg when the president wasn’t with her. To avoid the controversy, it soon became our routine to drive Mrs. Kennedy in the Chrysler limousine that had previously been used by Mrs. Eisenhower. Two Army sergeants assigned to the White House garage had been selected to drive under the supervision of the Secret Service, and they rotated the position of Mrs. Kennedy’s driver. I would sit in the front passenger seat so that I had a good view of our surroundings, yet close enough to shield Mrs. Kennedy in case of emergency.
One weekend we were headed out to Middleburg and I was sitting in the front passenger seat, with Mrs. Kennedy in back, as usual. In those days, I was rarely without a cigarette in my hand, and on those drives, I typically smoked on the way, with the window cracked just enough to let the smoke out of the car, but not enough to allow the wind to rush back on Mrs. Kennedy. We were about halfway to Middleburg, far enough outside of Washington that there were hardly any other cars on the road, when Mrs. Kennedy suddenly leaned forward and said softly, “Mr. Hill, would you please ask the driver to pull over?”
I turned around to look at her and saw that she had a sly smile on her face. I had no idea what she wanted, but I asked Irv Watkins, who happened to be driving at the time, to please pull over as soon as there was a safe place to do so.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Kennedy?” I asked as I put out my cigarette in the car’s ashtray. I suddenly realized that perhaps she didn’t like me smoking in the car, although she had never said anything before.
“Yes, everything’s fine,” she answered.
Watkins found a spot where there was a clear area on the side of the two-lane road and carefully brought the car to a stop. I turned around to see what she intended to do, and she leaned forward again and whispered, “Mr. Hill, will you please come in the backseat with me?”
I presumed she wanted to tell me something in confidence and didn’t want the driver to overhear. So I got out, opened the back door, and slid in to the backseat next to her.
As soon as I was situated, Mrs. Kennedy said to the driver, “Okay, carry on,” and we proceeded on our way.
“What is it, Mrs. Kennedy?”
She had a look on her face like an impish child.
“Could I have one of your cigarettes, Mr. Hill?”
That’s what this was about? I hadn’t ever seen her smoke before, so I was somewhat surprised by her request.
I laughed and said, “Certainly.”
I reached for the pack of L&M’s in my jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. I offered it to her, but instead of taking it from my hand, she said, “Will you please light it for me?”
I put the cigarette in my mouth and pulled the lighter out of my pants pocket. I flicked the lighter and as the flame touched the end of the cigarette, I sucked in, and then handed the lit cigarette to Mrs. Kennedy.
She held the cigarette between her index and third finger, put the cigarette to her lips, and took a long inhale. I realized she was no stranger to smoking.
“Thank you, Mr. Hill,” she said coyly.
The driver continued on the road to Middleburg, and Mrs. Kennedy and I sat in the backseat and talked about everything from how the children, Caroline and John, were doing, to how the Secret Service agents were getting along with members of the staff, as we enjoyed our cigarettes. She was like a giddy teenager who was getting away with something, and I was her cohort in crime. This soon became our regular routine whenever we were in the car together.
It was the first of many such secrets we would keep with each other.
5
Traveling with Mrs. Kennedy
Paris
Mrs. Kennedy and Mrs. DeGaulle in Paris, with Clint Hill in background
Beginning in February 1961, Mrs. Kennedy’s weekends to Glen Ora became an almost weekly occurrence, with the president coming by helicopter on Saturdays and leaving Sunday afternoon. The fields were too wet and soft to permit cross-country riding and fox hunts, so I would take Mrs. Kennedy to the Fouts’ farm, where she could ride on a limited basis. Other than a trip to Palm Beach in early March 1961, this was our routine. It was Middleburg, Middleburg, and more Middleburg. She obviously loved it. Even though I wasn’t riding, my butt seemed to become sore from all the time Mrs. Kennedy spent in the saddle.
She absolutely adored horses, and during this time, Bit of Irish was her favorite. She would walk up to the horse, which had already been groomed and saddled, raise her hands up behind its ears, and look straight into its eyes while gently caressing the animal’s long neck. She would speak to him in her soft, soothing voice and suddenly the horse would respond with a nod of his head or a nuzzle into her neck with his wet nose. She’d laugh—oh what an infectious laugh she had—and as I watched from a distance, I could see the sheer joy the animal gave her. At times it appeared as if she and her large, maned friend were having an actual conversation. She was perfectly at ease around horses, and just being in their presence gave her great pleasure.
On
