Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir by Clint Hil (love letters to the dead TXT) 📗

Caroline, who was now five years old, had a riding lesson scheduled that morning, and Mrs. Kennedy decided to go along and watch, as she often did. So Paul Landis drove Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline to the stables, while Agent Lynn Meredith from the Kiddie Detail followed in a separate car.

Shortly after they arrived at the farm, Mrs. Kennedy was standing by the fence outside the riding ring. Suddenly, she turned to Paul.

“Mr. Landis, I don’t feel well. I think you better take me back to the house.”

“Of course, Mrs. Kennedy,” Paul said.

Agent Meredith was standing nearby, but before Paul could tell him what was going on, Mrs. Kennedy said, “Right now, Mr. Landis.”

There was no doubting her sense of urgency so Paul got Meredith’s attention and said, “I’m taking Mrs. Kennedy back to Squaw Island. You stay here and take care of Caroline.”

As Paul helped Mrs. Kennedy into the backseat of the car, she got a worried look on her face, and repeated, “We better hurry, Mr. Landis.”

As soon as they pulled away, Paul radioed the command center.

George Dalton, an assistant to the president’s naval aide, who worked closely with us at Hyannis Port, was on duty in the Secret Service trailer.

“George,” Paul said. “I’m bringing Mrs. Kennedy back to the house. Get Dr. Walsh to come immediately, and put a helicopter on standby.” He looked over at Mrs. Kennedy and added, “And call Clint. Tell him we’ve got an emergency.”

The two-lane country road back to Hyannis Port was filled with dips and bumps, and Paul was driving as fast as he felt he could without causing Mrs. Kennedy any discomfort, but she kept urging him to go faster.

“Mr. Landis, please go a little faster. Please go faster!”

As Paul sped up to eighty miles per hour on the windy, bumpy road, he thought, Please God, don’t let her have this baby in the car. Please let me get to the house in time.

Fortunately, as Paul pulled into the driveway at Brambletyde, Dr. Walsh was just arriving. They helped Mrs. Kennedy inside and after a brief examination, Dr. Walsh said, “We need to get her to the hospital right away.”

I HAD RENTED a tiny cottage on the other side of Hyannis Port for the summer and was sound asleep when the phone rang. It was George Dalton.

“Clint,” George said, “Mrs. Kennedy is going into labor. You better get over here.”

Oh God. The baby isn’t due for another five weeks. She can’t have the baby now, it’s too early.

I got dressed as fast as I could, grabbed my commission book and my revolver, and just as I was walking out the door, the phone rang again.

“Clint, they’re taking the helicopter to Otis.”

Oh God.

“Okay. I’ll meet them there.”

As I raced to Otis, I radioed the Secret Service Command Center and told them to contact SAIC Behn’s office at the White House. The president needed to know his wife was about to have the baby.

It was about a ten-minute flight to Otis Air Force Base, and normally a twenty-five-minute drive. I arrived just as the helicopter was landing.

As soon as I saw Mrs. Kennedy, I could tell she was deeply worried.

“It’s going to be okay, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, as we rushed her into the special wing that had been prepared just for such an emergency. I placed my hand on her arm and tried to reassure her with my eyes, but we both knew what the other was thinking.

Please God, I prayed, please let the baby be all right.

As Mrs. Kennedy went into emergency surgery, Agent Landis immediately took control of the security around the hospital wing, while I waited outside the operating room.

I tried to keep my mind occupied by thinking about everything that needed to be arranged in the aftermath of the delivery: Who needs to be contacted? What will she need and want from the house? How do we keep the damn press away?

I found myself pacing back and forth, as if I were the expectant father, just as I had done when John was born two and a half years earlier.

So much had changed in those two and a half years. At that time, I had just met her a few weeks earlier. Now we were so close, and had spent so much time together, we could practically read each other’s minds. I knew how much this baby meant to her, and I couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to her, or to the child.

At some point, Paul Landis told me that President Kennedy was airborne from Andrews Air Force Base.

“But he’s not on Air Force One,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Apparently none of the planes were available. He and some staff and the agents are coming in on two JetStars.”

The Air Force had a group of four-engine jet aircraft in its VIP fleet that could be used as Air Force One. A JetStar, which only holds about six or eight passengers, and couldn’t travel at nearly the same rate of speed, would only have been used as a last resort. As it turned out, because the president didn’t have any travel plans on his schedule that day, one of the Air Force planes was in the air on a check flight, and the others were having routine maintenance done. It was bad luck, and damn bad timing. Once again the president was going to miss the birth of his child.

Shortly before one o’clock in the afternoon, while the president was still airborne, Dr. Walsh came out of the surgery room.

“Clint, you can breathe easy. Mrs. Kennedy has delivered a baby boy, and she is doing fine.”

“How is the baby?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “he’s small. He weighs just four pounds, ten and a half ounces.” With a worried look in his eyes, he added, “We have some concern about his breathing.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve put him in the incubator and we’ll know more in a little while.”

“Okay, thank you, Dr. Walsh. I’ll make