Remembering the Assassination of Our President
Following are selected excerpts from FIVE DAYS IN NOVEMBER By Clint Hill and Lisa McCubbin(Gallery Books, 2013).
On November 22, 1963 when shots were fired during the motorcade in Dallas, there was a Secret Service agent who jumped on the back of the car, attempting to protect President and Mrs. Kennedy. That was me. I was thrust onto the pages of history and have spent the majority of my life keeping silent about what I witnessed.
November 21, 1963
Thursday morning, the president gives his son one last hug… he turns and looks at Agent Foster…and says something I will never forget.
“Take care of John for me, won’t you, Mr. Foster?”
As with every trip the President of the United States takes, the schedule is planned to the minute. As the Special Agent in Charge of Mrs. Kennedy’s Secret Service Detail, it is my job to make sure nothing happens to her.
The three-hour-and-twenty-five minute flight to San Antonio is relaxing and pleasant. I have never lost sight of the rare privilege it is to travel aboard the presidential aircraft. We land at 1:30 P.M. Central Standard Time.
We exit the airport and head down Broadway, the main thoroughfare through San Antonio.
Sunglasses hide our eyes as we scan the crowd, looking at hands and eyes. Amid the adulation, we are searching for the glimmer of a gun, or the lone person who is not reacting like the others, but instead has a crazed look in his eyes as his hand reaches into his pocket. This is as tense as it gets.
At 4:00 p.m. we are wheels up, headed for Houston.
Cameras flash. Women shriek. As the president and Mrs. Kennedy walk along the edge of the screaming mass, smiling, touching as many hands as possible, we, the agents, stick as close as possible, trying not to interfere but wishing to God they’d finish this up and get into the cars. It’s the kind of situation that, in a split second, can so easily get out of control.
Our final stop of the day is Fort Worth.
There is a misty drizzle as Air Force One touches down at precisely 11:05 P.M. at Carswell Air Force Base. Fifteen minutes later we arrive at the Hotel Texas.
Four thousand drenched people are pressed together. . . we push through the mass of humanity and get the Kennedys safely into the elevator and up to their room. Since leaving the White House at 10:50 A.M., we have traveled on one helicopter flight, three airline flights, driven in six motorcades, stopped at three speech sites, and encountered hundreds of thousands of people, if not a million, along the way. It has been a very long day.
November 22, 1963
According to her handwritten notes on the schedule, Mrs. Kennedy isn’t intending on going to the Chamber of Commerce breakfast, but I get an urgent message that the president wants me to bring her down there immediately.
She seems a bit surprised. “Okay, I just need to put on my hat.”
As Mrs. Kennedy walks into the room, all 2500 people jump to their feet, applauding and cheering.
The flight from Fort Worth to Dallas takes just fifteen minutes. In truth, it would have been a lot quicker to drive from the Hotel Texas to our destination in Dallas, the Trade Mart. . . but the political advisors want photos of President and Mrs. Kennedy coming down the steps of Air Force One as they arrive in the Big “D” for use in the upcoming presidential campaign. It seems like a waste of time and money to me, but then, in politics, image trumps efficiency.
Suddenly President Kennedy turns and strides directly toward the crowd. Mrs. Kennedy follows, her face plastered with a smile. She usually avoids these types of situations, so her continuing willingness to campaign like this really surprises me.
Finally, the motorcade gets underway, and we head into downtown Dallas. There are people hanging out open windows, on balconies, and on rooftops. Now the people are ten deep, fifteen deep, twenty deep, pouring into the street on both sides so that there is barely enough room for the cars to pass. People screaming, delirious with excitement, trying to break past the police to get to the president.
As we get close to the end of Main Street, and begin turning right onto Houston Street, the crowds really drop off. As Bill Greer — the driver of the presidential limousine — makes the left turn onto Elm Street, he slows way down. . .it’s a sharp turn and Greer is cognizant of the president’s chronic back pain… turning too quickly on a sharp turn like this is something he always tries to avoid.
With my hand loosely on the handhold [of the Secret Service follow-up car] I scan the grassy area on the left side of Elm Street.
Suddenly, I hear an explosive noise over my right shoulder, from the rear. Instinctively, I turn toward the noise, and my eyes cross the back of the presidential vehicle. I see President Kennedy throw his hands up to his throat and move violently to his left.
Oh God. Someone is shooting at the president.
I jump from the follow-up car and run toward the presidential car. My actions are automatic, reactive. The only thought going through my head is that I must get on the back of the president’s car and form a protective shield behind President and Mrs. Kennedy. Nothing else matters.
The motorcycle engines are loud in my ears, and the car continues to move forward, away from me. I’m running as fast as I can, my eyes focused on the two people in the backseat of the car. I’m gaining ground, almost there, my arms reaching for the handhold, when another shot rings out.
The bullet hits its mark, piercing the back of President Kennedy’s head, just above and behind his right ear. In the same instant, a vile eruption of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments spews out, showering over Mrs. Kennedy, across the turn, and onto me.
I grab the handhold, get my right foot on the step, and suddenly the car lurches forward as Bill Greer steps on the gas. Gripping with all my might as the rapidly accelerating car pulls me, my legs keep moving. Somehow — I honestly — don’t know how — I lunge forward, my foot finds the step, and I pull my body onto the car.
In the same moment, Mrs. Kennedy, covered with her husband’s blood, her eyes filled with terror, is crawling out of her seat and onto the trunk. The car is really beginning to speed up now, and if I don’t get to her, she’s going to be thrown off the car. I thrust myself onto the trunk, grab her arm, and push her back into the seat. When I do this, the president’s body falls to the left, with his head in her lap.
“Get us to a hospital!” I scream at the driver. “Get us to a hospital!”
On November 22, 1963, three shots were fired in Dallas, and the world stopped for four days. For an entire generation, it was the end of the age of innocence.
For more about Clint Hill visit: www.ClintHillSecretService.com.
