For the third year in a row, we spent Christmas and New Year’s at the LBJ Ranch, finally returning to Washington on January 2, 1967. The previous year we had spent more time at the ranch in Texas than anywhere else, including the White House.
On January 27, there was a devastating tragedy at Cape Kennedy. During a test launch for an upcoming two-week space mission, a spontaneous fire engulfed the Apollo 1 module, killing the three astronauts aboard. The horrific deaths of Virgil “Gus” Grissom, Roger Chaffee, and Ed White—all national heroes—threw the nation into mourning. The funerals for the three men would take place four days later, with Vice President Humphrey and Mrs. Johnson attending White’s burial at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, while President Johnson would attend the two separate services for Grissom and Chaffee at Arlington National Cemetery.
I hadn’t been back to the cemetery in nearly three years—since the day I accompanied Mrs. Kennedy, John, and Caroline to pray at President Kennedy’s gravesite on what would have been his forty-seventh birthday—and now here I was accompanying President Johnson to two burials, with full military honors, on the same day. I knew in advance what the plans were, but I was unprepared for the emotional impact. Every sight and every sound brought back memories of the day we buried President Kennedy: the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves; the sharp cracks of the twenty-one-gun salute; the roaring flyover of jets in the missing man formation; the silence as the honor guard lifted the flag-draped casket from the caisson; and the soft sobs of the tearful widow as she was handed the carefully folded American flag before a mournful bugler ended the ceremony with taps. Clenching my jaw, I tried desperately to suppress the feelings that kept welling to the surface, but when President Johnson leaned over and shook the white-gloved hand of Chaffee’s eight-year-old daughter, and then the tiny five-year-old hand of his son, I had to turn away.
IN THE THREE years since President Kennedy had been laid to rest in Arlington Cemetery, his gravesite had drawn more than sixteen million visitors. Every weekday, three thousand people per hour would come to pay their respects, and on weekends that number doubled. In 1965 it was decided that a larger site should be built to accommodate the flow of people, and Mrs. Kennedy worked with an architect to design a suitable memorial. The original gravesite had remained open to the public during construction, and the new site was due to be completed in the summer of 1967. We had recently returned to Washington from a trip to the LBJ Ranch in early March of 1967 when I was informed that President Kennedy’s body was going to be moved from its original gravesite to the new location. Mrs. Kennedy would be coming from New York City for a private reburial ceremony, and she had invited President Johnson and Secretary McNamara to attend. All of this was to be carried out in the highest secrecy, and very few people were aware it was taking place.
Shortly after midnight on March 15, a small group of men set up floodlights around the gravesite, and with the use of a crane moved President Kennedy’s casket about ten yards downhill from its original location to its new resting place in the new stone and marble memorial. At the same time, the bodies of the two infant Kennedy children—Patrick Bouvier and their unnamed stillborn daughter, who had been brought from Massachusetts to be buried next to their father—were also moved to the new location.
At 6:50 a.m., we departed the White House with President Johnson in a strictly off-the-record movement and motored to Arlington National Cemetery. It had been raining throughout the night, and although it was now after dawn, there was no hint of sunlight. As we pulled up to the site, I saw Mrs. Kennedy huddled under an umbrella with her brother-in-law Bobby and his wife, Ethel. Teddy, Pat, Eunice, and Jean were there too, each with their spouses, as well as Secretary McNamara. As President Johnson walked toward them, I hung back, remaining on the fringes of the burial site so as not to be noticed. This was a time for family and invited guests, and I was neither.
Cardinal Cushing, who had conducted President Kennedy’s funeral Mass, had flown in from Boston to officiate, and a small Army band had been brought in, surely at Mrs. Kennedy’s request. A ceiling of dark clouds hung overhead as a steady rain poured from the heavens, enveloping all of us in sadness and grief that had yet to be eased by time. It was a simple twenty-minute ceremony, during which the band played just a few selections, including “Navy Hymn” and “The Boys of Wexford,” and the aging cardinal blessed the new grave.
“Be at peace, dear Jack,” he said with his lilting Irish accent, “with your tiny infants by your side, until we all meet again above this hill and beyond the stars. May the Good Lord grant you eternal rest and let perpetual light shine upon you and yours.”
As the somber ceremony concluded, Mrs. Kennedy leaned over to place a simple bouquet of lilies on the new grave, and as she stood up her head turned in my direction. Not wanting to feel like I was intruding, I looked down at the rain-soaked ground and turned away.
An hour later, I was on Air Force One with the president, headed for a long day of politicking in Tennessee. It wasn’t until we were airborne and it had been confirmed that Mrs. Kennedy was on her flight back to New York that the press was informed of what had occurred that morning at Arlington Cemetery.
IN 1963, PRESIDENT Kennedy had requested funds for a state-of-the-art, $188.5 million aircraft carrier, and after the assassination President Johnson decided the carrier would be named after our slain president. Three and a half years later, the carrier was completed, and it was time to christen it. On May 27, two days before what would have been John F. Kennedy’s fiftieth birthday, I flew with President Johnson to Newport News, Virginia, where the carrier was docked.
I accompanied President Johnson to a reception prior to the christening—Mrs. Kennedy was there with nine-year-old Caroline, six-year-old John, President Kennedy’s mother, Rose, Bobby, Teddy, their wives, Cardinal Cushing, many Navy admirals, and assorted distinguished guests—and I tried my best to stay out of the way. When it was time for the ceremony, everyone walked out to a special platform that had been built under the enormous bow of the great ship and sat in their designated seats. After President Johnson spoke about President Kennedy and the meaning of this great ship named in his honor, Mrs. Kennedy, Caroline, and John stepped up to the bow. Someone handed Caroline a bottle of champagne, and after two sirens sounded she struck the bow of the ship with the bottle. The bottle remained intact, so she swung it back and struck the bow again, this time with all her might. There was a loud crack as the bottle broke open, spraying champagne all over her. She smiled shyly as someone handed her a towel to wipe her face and her clothes, and her mother leaned in to congratulate her on a job well done.
IN JUNE 1967, war erupted in the Middle East between Israel and its Arab neighbors. What became known as the Six Day War not only resulted in the controversial expansion of Israel’s borders but also created sudden and immediate tension within the already fragile U.S.-Soviet relationship.
Soviet premier Aleksei Kosygin requested a special session of the United Nations General Assembly to demand Israel’s withdrawal from Arab territories, and announced he would travel to New York for the session. This created an opportunity for President Johnson to meet with Kosygin, and the president immediately suggested a meeting at the White House or at Camp David, where security would present no problem. Kosygin was agreeable to the meeting, but not wanting to be an official guest of the U.S. government, which would undermine his relations with the Arabs and North Vietnam’s Ho Chi Minh, he suggested they meet at the U.N., which was international territory. But a meeting in New York City created all kinds of security issues, not to mention that it would likely draw thousands of angry protestors on both sides. After going back and forth with various ideas, someone pulled out a map and a ruler, drew a line between Washington and New York City, and found that the midpoint was Glassboro, New Jersey, home of Glassboro State Teachers College.
On June 22, at 5:00 p.m., the two sides agreed to meet at Glassboro College the following day at eleven in the morning. An advance team was hurriedly called to action and departed Washington a few hours later, with less than fifteen hours to secure the location for this historic summit between the leaders of the world’s two superpowers.
The president had some specific requirements for the meeting place: there needed to be enough room to accommodate a meeting of several dozen representatives from both countries, but at the same time have several small, informal rooms where private meetings between President Johnson and Premier Kosygin could take place; he wanted carpeted floors wherever possible to eliminate noise from staffers walking around; and there needed to be a suitable place for a luncheon that included an elegant meal.
The lead advance man was Sherwin Markman, one of President Johnson’s assistants, and upon arriving at the college around midnight, he immediately met with the college president, Dr. Thomas Robinson, to determine the meeting location. After reviewing several of the college’s buildings, Markman determined that the most appropriate option was Robinson’s large Victorian home, called “Hollybush.” The residence had a large living room, a big kitchen with a formal dining room, and an office on the main floor that was ideal for private meetings. There were some changes that would need to be made to the house, however, in order to provide the security and comfort necessary for such a high-level meeting, and there was no time to waste. Dr. and Mrs. Robinson consented to their residence being used, but they had no comprehension of what was about to happen to their beloved hundred-year-old home.
In the wee hours of June 23, Secret Service agents and White House Communications Agency engineers streamed into the house with massive amounts of tools and equipment. The first problem was that the home had no air-conditioning. It was a muggy night, and the forecast called for a hot, humid day ahead. Unfortunately, the home’s antiquated wiring system couldn’t support even small window air-conditioning units, so the power company was called in to deliver and install a transformer, while electricians rewired the entire house. By morning, air-conditioning units had been installed in every room.
That was only the beginning. Much of the Robinsons’ furniture needed to be removed to make room for conference-style tables and chairs; heavy drapes were hung over the windows to ensure privacy; separate telephone lines were installed for the Soviet and American delegations, and the kitchen was completely ripped apart so that professional, heavy-duty appliances could be installed. Unbelievably, by the time we arrived with the president shortly before eleven o’clock, the old stone house had been transformed to fit all the necessary requirements for an international summit.
There was an army of press waiting outside, and when the Soviet entourage arrived, President Johnson and Premier Kosygin posed for photos before entering the house. The most pressing issues were, of course, the Middle East situation and the Vietnam conflict, but it just so happened that the day before, President Johnson had become a grandfather, with the birth of his daughter Luci’s son, Patrick Lyndon Nugent. President Johnson had yet to see the baby, but he and Kosygin found common ground in the fact that they both had grandchildren, and that they shared a responsibility to not only avoid nuclear disaster but to make the world a safer place for future generations.
When it was time for lunch, the two leaders walked into the floral-wallpapered dining room, and with the Russian interpreter between them, President Johnson asked Kosygin what he would like to drink.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Kosygin said.
President Johnson broke into a sly smile and retorted, “I’m having what you’re having . . . vodka.”
Kosygin had presented the president with a special bottle of vodka, so the bottle was opened, two glasses were poured, and, grinning at each other, the American president and the Soviet premier quickly downed the vodka shots, Russian-style.
By the time the meeting was wrapping up, both Johnson and Kosygin agreed that the discussions had been fruitful, and perhaps it would be beneficial to schedule another meeting before Kosygin returned to Moscow. President Johnson was scheduled for a Democratic fund-raiser in Los Angeles that evening and Kosygin had to return to New York, so they decided to return to Glassboro on Sunday, two days later, much to the surprise of the press, the Glassboro community, and most especially to Dr. and Mrs. Robinson.
Air Force One was standing by at Philadelphia International Airport, and at 5:45 p.m. we were wheels up, headed for Los Angeles. During the five-hour flight, I managed to grab a bite to eat and catch some sleep before changing into my tuxedo for the formal event. We landed at Los Angeles International Airport at around 7:45 p.m. local time, transferred to a helicopter, and flew to the Century Plaza Hotel in downtown L.A., where nearly a thousand guests had paid $1,000 per couple to attend the black-tie Democratic Party fund-raiser.
Meanwhile, outside the front entrance of the hotel, ten thousand anti–Vietnam War protestors were clashing with police. It was a damn mess, but fortunately the advance team arranged for us to bring President Johnson in through a rear basement door, and he got inside without being noticed. The event was set up in an enormous ballroom that had been transformed into a glittering nightclub with a large dance floor surrounded by dozens of tables, and somehow I had drawn the short straw and was designated to walk in with President Johnson as he was introduced to the star-studded Hollywood crowd. Standing outside the door, we heard the master of ceremonies, comedian Jack Benny, announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for our honored guest, President Lyndon Baines Johnson!”
The room erupted with applause as the orchestra played ruffles and flourishes and “Hail to the Chief,” and President Johnson strode into the room. A spotlight focused on him as he walked across the dance floor, and there I was, awkwardly walking a few steps behind, trying rather unsuccessfully to remain unobtrusive.
The night wore on as President Johnson mingled with the guests over dinner of beef filet. Wine and champagne flowed, and then, following dinner, there was entertainment by Fred Ames and Diana Ross and the Supremes.
The president was eager to meet his newborn grandson, so it was decided that we would fly directly from L.A. to Texas to visit Luci and the baby in the hospital in Austin before returning to Glassboro on Sunday. We departed L.A. just before midnight local time, and by the time we got to the LBJ Ranch, it was 4:30 a.m. Central Time—6:30 a.m. by our body clocks—and I realized we had been on the go for a full twenty-four hours. It was days like these that I was amazed by President Johnson’s stamina and his ability to transition so easily from high-level international talks at which the world’s fate hung in the balance to schmoozing and politicking with movie stars and entertainers, while still managing to make time to be with his family.
Of course LBJ also realized his daughter Luci had just given him a priceless photo opportunity, so the press was alerted, and a photo was circulated of President Johnson with his newborn grandson.
We returned to Glassboro on Sunday, where by now the tiny college town had become the focus of the world’s attention, with nearly a thousand reporters and photographers staked out around Hollybush. Johnson and Kosygin met for five more hours, and by the end of the meetings both men acknowledged that although they failed to resolve any major differences, the one thing they agreed was to avoid the risk of nuclear war so that their grandchildren might live in a world of peace.
Just as the conference was ending, someone on President Johnson’s staff learned that Premier Kosygin had scheduled a televised press conference at 8:00 p.m. at the United Nations. President Johnson had not planned to make any additional statements to the press, but in light of what Kosygin was doing, he decided that the American people should hear from their own president first. While we were en route back to Washington aboard Air Force One, arrangements were being made to have the TV networks set up at the White House. Normally we would land at Andrews Air Force Base and helicopter back to the White House, but it was already late, and pilot Colonel Jim Cross informed the president that the only way we could make it before eight o’clock was to land at National Airport in downtown Washington. The problem was that Federal Aviation Administration regulations prohibited such a large aircraft from landing there because the runway was considered too short.
President Johnson wouldn’t be deterred. He asked Colonel Cross if he could land safely on National’s runway, and Cross replied with great confidence that he could.
“Then do it,” the president ordered.
The control tower at National gave Cross clearance to land—only because he was piloting Air Force One. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one holding my breath as the plane slid to a stop—very close to the end of the runway—at 7:31 p.m.
The presidential helicopter was standing by; it took off four minutes later and landed on the South Grounds at 7:40, and the president appeared live on television at 7:43 p.m.—seventeen minutes before Kosygin.
ON DECEMBER 9, 1967, President and Mrs. Johnson’s older daughter, twenty-three-year-old Lynda, married Marine Corps Captain Charles S. Robb in the East Room of the White House. It was a beautiful ceremony amid the festive Christmas decorations, but there was also a bittersweet poignancy to the event, because it had been announced that Captain Robb would begin a tour of duty in Vietnam just a few months later. For President Johnson, having his son-in-law in the combat zone would make his efforts to find a peaceful ending to the conflict all the more urgent.
It was around this time that I was informed I was being promoted to Special Agent in Charge of President Johnson’s protective detail. After initially wanting me kicked off of his detail, it turned out President Johnson had come to the conclusion that I really was a professional, and he trusted me with his life. From this point on, I would be the last line of defense for the President of the United States.
Just a few weeks into my new assignment, I was faced with my first big challenge. On the morning of December 17, 1967, we received word that fifty-nine-year-old Prime Minister Harold Holt of Australia had gone missing while swimming in rough surf off the Australian coast. Despite an exhaustive search, no trace could be found of his body, but a helicopter crew sighted a huge shark in the area where he had been swimming. This was an enormous shock, and as soon as I heard, I was sure President Johnson would be going to Australia to attend any services held on behalf of the prime minister. I had witnessed the sincere friendship that had formed between the two leaders over the past couple of years, and I knew President Johnson would want to pay his respects to the Holt family and also to the people of Australia.
Any large gathering of world leaders is always an extremely difficult and tense situation for the Secret Service, but funerals are particularly challenging because of the short notice to prepare, and this one would test us like nothing else had before. It would end up being one of the most extraordinary, and arduous, trips of my career.
The first problem we encountered was that the premier presidential aircraft, USAF 26000, was undergoing a required biannual maintenance check and was unavailable for the trip. We would have to use the backup plane—USAF 86970—which didn’t have a bed for the president, and had a much lower fuel capacity, requiring us to make more frequent refueling stops. President Johnson was of course furious that 26000 couldn’t be ready in time, and in order to appease him, the maintenance team basically rebuilt the interior of the backup plane in forty-eight hours—including installing an extra-long bed—to make it amenable to the president for the long-haul flight.
We departed the White House at 11:47 on the morning of Tuesday, December 19, flew by helicopter to Andrews Air Force Base, and boarded the newly revamped plane, which became Air Force One as soon as President Johnson stepped aboard. The presidential aircraft crew was well accustomed to President Johnson’s habits by this time, and they had stocked the plane with the president’s favorite foods and drinks—plenty of Texas-style chili with saltine crackers, vanilla ice cream for dessert, and Fresca. LBJ loved his chili, and it was his favorite thing to have aboard Air Force One. To this day, I still enjoy a good bowl of chili, and it always reminds me of my days with LBJ.
Our first refueling stop was Travis Air Force Base, in California, and while we had not planned on deplaning, shortly before landing the president was informed that a group of wounded servicemen had been brought in that morning from Vietnam to the base hospital.
“Well, then, I’m going to go and see those boys,” he said.
Everyone at the hospital was taken by surprise when the President of the United States suddenly walked in. He took the time to speak with the wounded men—all of whom were so very young—and hand out gold pens with his signature on them.
“Now you write me and let me know how you get along,” he said as he thanked them for their service to our country. “You fellows have done a good job in Vietnam. I am proud of you.”
Six hours later, we landed at Hickam Air Force Base, in Hawaii, at 6:05 p.m. local time, in driving rain. The governor of Hawaii and several thousand people were waiting in the downpour to greet the president, so while the jet was being refueled we deplaned, and President Johnson made a few remarks under an umbrella. The press that was accompanying us on the press plane were unprepared for rain, and with just one umbrella among them, they got completely soaked while taking notes of President Johnson’s short eulogy for his friend Prime Minister Holt. The agents who rode on the press plane later informed me that everyone had stripped off their clothes and had them hung around the aircraft, hoping they’d dry out before we reached Australia.
There wasn’t much rest to be had on the next leg of the trip, as we encountered heavy turbulence for much of the flight to our next refueling stop. It was midnight local time when we reached Pago Pago, American Samoa, but despite the late hour a large crowd had gathered to see and pay their respects to President Johnson. It was a hot and humid night, and there were about a thousand people, most in native dress—the men bare-chested, holding torches high above their heads. The flames danced against the pitch-black night sky, creating a mesmerizing backdrop to the melodic sounds of a children’s choir singing the national anthem, and while it was a sight to behold, the muggy, tropical air was almost unbearable for those of us dressed in traditional business suits.
By the time we reboarded the air-conditioned cabin of Air Force One, everyone was dripping with perspiration, including President Johnson, who remarked that he just wasn’t meant for these tropical climates.
We took off from Pago Pago shortly before one o’clock in the morning and crossed the International Date Line, and when we landed at Fairbairn Air Force Base near Canberra, Australia, six and a half hours later, at 4:34 a.m. on December 21, we had been traveling for more than twenty-five hours.
We motorcaded directly to the Canberra Rex Hotel, and even though it was still before dawn, there was no time to rest. We had a full day ahead, and I barely had time to take a refreshing shower and shave before it was time to get back to work.
When a president attends a state funeral or memorial service, it’s an opportunity for him to meet and confer with other world leaders who are all there at the same time, and this was definitely going to be the case here in Australia. The memorial service was scheduled for the next day in Melbourne, but many heads of state were gathering in Canberra first, and it was a whirlwind of activity as Johnson had one meeting after another with representatives from Australia, New Zealand, South Korea, Thailand, Malaysia, Laos, Indonesia, Singapore, the Republic of China (Taiwan), the Philippines, and South Vietnam. There were press photographers and people coming and going—it was the usual madhouse situation. The one thing that was different was that President Johnson had been meeting privately with Colonel Jim Cross, his military aide and pilot, at various times during the day. Normally, they conferred by phone. I had the feeling something was up.
THE NEXT MORNING, Friday, December 22, everyone was up early to fly to Melbourne for the memorial services. President Johnson was clearly weary from the long journey, and the personal sense of loss he felt for his good friend Prime Minister Holt was written all over his face as he consoled Mrs. Holt and the rest of the family privately at Government House before the memorial service at St. Paul’s Cathedral.
As we escorted President Johnson to the second-row pew, I took note of the remarkable gathering of dignitaries and heads of state who had come to pay their respects, which included a poised young man who took the place of honor in the first pew, immediately in front of President Johnson—twenty-year-old Charles, Prince of Wales, the heir to the British throne.
At the conclusion of the services, we motorcaded straight to the airport and were airborne from Melbourne at 2:30 in the afternoon. The assumption of most people on board, as well as those on the press and backup planes, was that we were headed back to Washington, following the same route by which we had come. Only a handful of us knew that we were not going home just yet, but even those of us on the inside didn’t know exactly what President Johnson had up his sleeve.
When we left Washington, the Secret Service, WHCA, and other military units were aware that there was a distinct possibility this trip would be extended and might include a stop at the Vatican for a meeting with Pope Paul VI. We were not sure of our exact route, or where or when additional stops might be made—only that we would be back by Christmas.
Shortly before the funeral service, Rufus Youngblood had pulled me aside.
“Clint, Valenti just told me, and I confirmed with Colonel Cross, that the president has decided to go to Korat. When we take off from Melbourne, we’re heading west to Darwin to refuel. All details are top secret.”
“Korat? The air force base?” I asked.
The Royal Thai Air Force Base in Korat, Thailand, was the largest front-line facility of the U.S. Air Force for bombing missions into Vietnam.
“Yes,” Youngblood said. “Apparently the president wanted to go straight to Cam Ranh Bay, but that would mean we’d be landing in Vietnam at midnight. Obviously not a good idea.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“We’ll land at Korat at around ten o’clock tonight. From what I understand, the pilots of the other aircraft aren’t even being told where they’re going until they’re off the ground. We’ll overnight in Korat and fly to Cam Ranh Bay early tomorrow morning. The press are going to be mad as hell, but we’re going to prevent them from filing or making any phone calls until our next stop—wherever that is. I don’t think the president has even decided where the hell he’s going next.”
“Any confirmation on the Vatican?”
“No. As far as I know, any meeting with the pope is still unconfirmed too.”
I shook my head. “So we’ve got no advance teams? Nobody on the ground ahead of us?”
“That’s right,” Youngblood said. “Our security plan is the element of surprise.”
“It’s a goddamn nightmare, is what it is,” I said. “One leak and we’re all dead.”
We had recently learned that the Vietcong now possessed long-range weapons, and there were no bases in Vietnam that were invulnerable. If word got out that President Johnson was going to be in Cam Ranh Bay tomorrow, there was no question he’d be a target.
The only people President Johnson had taken into his confidence about his intentions were Jack Valenti and Colonel Jim Cross, and he had sworn them to secrecy. Valenti had strong Vatican contacts and was apparently trying to arrange a meeting with Pope Paul VI to enlist his help to secure peace in Vietnam, while Cross had assembled a mini air fleet that included several giant cargo planes carrying staff, telecommunications, helicopters, and cars. The pilots of all the aircraft, including the backup plane and the Pan Am press charter, were only given the flight details of where they were headed next well after takeoff. Meanwhile, those of us charged with protecting the president were also left to guess what his next moves might be.
It was a little after 10:00 p.m. when we landed at Korat. Using U.S. Air Force vehicles, we took the president to a trailer house that had quickly been arranged for his use. He was inside for just a few minutes before he came out and said he wanted to go to the mess hall where the pilots gathered. Some flights had just returned from a bombing mission over Vietnam, and he wanted to see and talk with the pilots.
By this point, word had spread around the base that President Johnson had dropped in for an unnannounced visit, but still, when he walked into the officers club, the men could hardly contain their surprise. The president made a few remarks and then spent about forty-five minutes with the pilots, asking pointed questions about the situation on the ground in Vietnam. It was almost as if he didn’t trust what his advisors had been telling him for the past four years, and this was his chance to get the straight story from the men on the front lines. Finally, at midnight, he decided it was time to get some rest, and we escorted him back to his trailer.
Meanwhile, a bed in an adjoining trailer had been made available for me, and I gladly took advantage while the midnight shift stood post. I stripped down to my shorts and slung the rest of my clothes across the end of the bed so they’d be easily accessible for whatever time we ended up departing. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out. This was the only time I would have the use of a bed on this trip, and at this point I had no idea what President Johnson had planned beyond Cam Ranh Bay—and truth be told, I don’t think even the president himself had figured it out just yet.
Five hours later, at 5:00 a.m., on Saturday, December 23, I was awakened by one of the midnight-shift agents.
“Clint, the president is up. Rostow and Bundy just went into his trailer.”
Walt Rostow, the national security advisor, and William Bundy, the Assistant Secretary of State for East Asian and Pacific Affairs; the president must have summoned them.
“Do you have any idea why?” I asked.
“He told them to get going and find a way to get him into Karachi without the press finding out prior to arrival.”
Karachi? “He’s going to see Ayub Khan,” I said as I jumped out of bed. “Goddamn it! I wish he’d realize we are on his side.”
If we were headed to Karachi after Vietnam, and then possibly to the Vatican, my guess was we would continue flying west, all the way around the world. Who else was he going to visit on the way back to Washington? Charles de Gaulle? Queen Elizabeth? Here I was, the Agent in Charge of protecting the President of the United States, headed into a combat zone, and I had no idea what the man was going to do next.
God help me.
I quickly ran a razor up and down my face before throwing on the clothes I’d worn the day before, and managed to be outside the president’s door when he emerged from his trailer, dressed in his tan gabardine ranch clothes.
The entire base—about two thousand servicemen—had gathered in a hangar where two jets were undergoing maintenance. The men were packed in there, standing room only, with dozens perched on horizontal beams and ladders dangling from the aircraft cockpits, and they all came to attention as President Johnson strode up to a podium on a stage that had been erected at one end. I followed and stood behind him as first he decorated a group of pilots with Silver Stars and the Distinguished Flying Cross, and then made a few remarks to the men about the importance of their service and the good job they were doing.
It was still dark when we took off from Korat at 5:53 a.m., escorted by two fighter jets, one on each wingtip. A team of agents on another aircraft had taken off a few minutes earlier, and would arrive mere minutes ahead of us to secure the landing zone.
IT WAS ABOUT 8:30 as we began our descent to Cam Ranh Bay, and looking out the window, if you didn’t know any better, you might think we were headed to a tropical island vacation spot. Beautiful white sand beaches wound like ribbons along a rugged coast dense with palm trees, sandwiched between the land and the brilliant turquoise waters of the China Sea sparkling in the morning sun. But then the giant U.S. military base came into view—a sprawling city of barracks and hangars, buzzing with military vehicles—and the pristine coastline turned into a string of piers crowded with supply ships and destroyers. One hundred ninety miles northeast of Saigon, Cam Ranh Bay was the largest base the United States had ever built from the ground up in any foreign country, its pair of two-mile-long runways the largest in the world.
We touched down gently, and as soon as Air Force One came to a stop a portable stairway was rushed to the door at the front of the plane. White House photographer Yoichi Okamoto was first out the door, racing down the steps to get in position to begin shooting. I stood immediately behind President Johnson, and as he descended I stayed inches behind him, quickly taking note of the situation on the ground and where our agents were positioned.
Waiting at the bottom of the ramp to greet the president were Nguyen Cao Ky, now South Vietnam’s vice president; U.S. ambassador Ellsworth Bunker; and General William Westmoreland, and as they all smiled and shook hands the advance agent pulled me aside.
“See that aircraft sitting at the end of the runway over there?” he said, pointing into the distance. “In the event of incoming missiles, you get yourself, the president, and Westmoreland on board. The pilot has instructions to take off immediately and get you the hell out of here. They’ve got their engines running, ready to go.”
I gave a slight nod in acknowledgment, my jaw clenching at the unfathomable but all too real possibility.
I moved out of the way just long enough for a few photographs to be snapped and then urged the president to get into the backseat of the Air Force sedan that was prepositioned nearby, while I took my place in the right front passenger seat.
After a brief meeting with the senior unit commanders, we took the president to a hospital, where he walked down the rows of identical beds filled with injured young men. General Westmoreland walked alongside him, telling stories of the bravery of the men as President Johnson pinned Purple Hearts onto the chests of their hospital pajamas, looked into their eyes, and told them how proud he and the rest of America were of the job they were doing to defeat the North Vietnamese.
We drove to another part of the base, where 2,500 servicemen were assembled along the runway and a makeshift stage had been erected. President Johnson and General Westmoreland led a group of dignitaries up to the stage as “Hail to the Chief” blared over the loudspeaker and 2,500 hands went to foreheads in a unanimous salute to their commander in chief. Standing next to General Westmoreland, President Johnson brought his hand to his heart as an honor guard presented the colors. The president was dressed in his khaki ranch clothes with a short-sleeved camp-style shirt—he’d removed the zippered jacked in the sweltering heat of the hospital and handed it to me to carry—and was hatless, so that when the hot tropical breeze kicked up, the long strands of hair lying across the top of his head blew straight up in a rather un-presidential look that many newspapers would run on their front pages the following day.
After a brief introduction, President Johnson and General Westmoreland stepped down from the stage and climbed into the back of an open-top Army jeep that was waiting nearby. Standing up out of where the roof would be, they each grabbed the roll bar, and just as the jeep started to pull away I stepped onto the rear platform directly behind them. In the event of incoming missiles . . .
It looked like a sea of camouflage-green helmets as we passed by in our one-vehicle parade, the president solemnly acknowledging the saluting men he referred to as “my boys” while I stared straight ahead, my ears on high alert for any sudden, unusual sound.
After reviewing the troops, President Johnson returned to the stage, holding his hand to his heart as the national anthems of both the United States and South Vietnam were played, and then proceeded to take the opportunity to present a number of medals and awards to enlisted men and officers. Finally, he approached the microphone to express his appreciation to everyone at Cam Ranh Bay.
“The enemy cannot win now in Vietnam,” he said with unabashed confidence. “I bring you the assurance of what you have fought to achieve.” The Communist enemy, he said, “can harass, he can terrorize, he can inflict casualties while taking far greater losses himself. But he cannot win. You—each of you—has seen to that.”
After wishing all the men a merry Christmas, the president whispered something to General Westmoreland. I had an uneasy feeling as the general stepped up to the microphone.
“The president would like you to approach the stage,” Westmoreland said.
Oh God.
“Men, fall out!”
They were hesitant at first, but then President Johnson threw his hands up in the air, beckoning them to come forward. He marched down the steps as the men ran toward him, clamoring for prime position to get a handshake from the President of the United States. I stayed as close as possible to him, constantly scanning the crowd of servicemen and the skies above as the president shook hand after hand.
“Where ya from, son?” he asked, over and over.
“Racine, Wisconsin!” “Mobile, Alabama, sir!” “Trenton, New Jersey!”
As they called out their beloved hometowns and states, a look of jubilance spread across their faces. You could just see the letters they’d be writing home that night, telling their loved ones how the President of the United States shook their hand and when he asked “Where ya from?” they’d been so proud to tell him. It broke my heart to see these young men, so far from their families, knowing I’d be back home by Christmas, while a good percentage of them would return mangled by war, or worse still, in a flag-draped casket.
Finally, after nearly two hours on the ground, we returned to Air Force One without incident. It was a relief to be airborne once again, but I knew still more challenges lay ahead. Up next, the unknown in Karachi.
AN AIR FORCE C-141 transport cargo plane carrying advance agents had taken off shortly before Air Force One and would arrive ahead of us to secure the airport. There wouldn’t be much time in between, and all I could do was trust that the agents could get everything in place before we touched down.
We landed in Karachi at two o’clock, and after confirming with the agents on the ground, I followed President Johnson out of the plane and into a nearby building at the airport where President Ayub Khan was waiting. They greeted each other with a warm hug and then sat talking like two old friends. I remained close, and at one point President Johnson summoned me, requesting some refreshments.
I contacted the Air Force stewards, who promptly brought a variety of beverages and snacks from Air Force One. The meeting lasted over an hour as the plane got refueled, and then we were airborne again, headed for Rome.
Top Secret messages had been flying back and forth between the White House Situation Room and embassies all over Europe, trying to arrange the logistics for President Johnson’s last-minute request for a meeting with Italy’s president, Giuseppe Saragat, and an audience with the pope. You don’t just pop in on the pope. But that’s exactly what President Johnson wanted to do.
Meanwhile, the dozens of members of the press traveling on the press plane were almost at their wits’ end. Word had gotten back to the president that they felt like they were being held captive. Like the rest of us, they hadn’t slept or showered, and they felt like they were prisoners on an aircraft with no idea where they were going or when they would return home. They weren’t buying the line that all the details were being ironed out as we went along, but that was God’s honest truth. The only person who really knew what was happening was the president himself, and he was keeping everything close to the vest. The president had no pity on the press pool.
“Here I am desperately seeking peace, and they’re bitching about their comfort,” he fumed.
There were security concerns about landing at Rome’s Fiumicino Airport due to a large, active anti-American community in the area that would love nothing better than to embarrass President Johnson, and while the smaller Ciampino Airport was less accessible and much easier to control, there we faced a lack of equipment and ground personnel, and a runway barely capable of handling Air Force One. Of the two options, Ciampino won.
The next problem was the transportation from the airport to visit President Saragat, who happened to be staying at one of his official residences, Castel Porziano, some fifteen miles outside central Rome. With more advance notice about the president’s plans than the rest of us, Colonel Jim Cross had had the foresight to have two Huey helicopters transported to Spain in an Air Force transport plane so they’d be nearby if the visit to the pope and Saragat became a reality. As soon as the visit was a go, the helicopters were sent to Rome, but once they arrived, they had to be reassembled. Because everything was so last-minute, the helicopters weren’t ready when we arrived at Ciampino at 8:30 in the evening local time.
The schedule was already tight—with just fifteen minutes allowed for the Saragat visit—and now, here we were on the ground with no way to get the president safely to the Italian president’s residence. The U.S. Navy had some helicopters in the area, but they were much smaller, older, and far less comfortable than the Hueys. We had no choice. We needed them to make the airlift from Ciampino. Space was extremely limited, so it was decided that Rufus Youngblood would go with President Johnson in my place. I watched as the old Navy helicopters slowly lifted off from Ciampino for Porziana. Radio communications were limited, and I waited and listened intently for word indicating a successful arrival. Finally, it came through. By this time, the Army unit reported they had their helicopters ready to go, so we sent them to Porziana and used them to take the president from there to the Vatican.
The landing at the Vatican was just as tense, however, because of the lack of space for such an operation, the fact that the pilots had never landed there before, and that it was to be done in secret, at night. In fact, it was the first time anyone had ever paid a visit to the pope via helicopter. It was a tribute to pilots Peter Rice and Bill Carlson’s expertise that everything went smoothly, and on schedule.
After spending almost two hours at the Vatican, the presidential party was back at Ciampino, and at 11:05 p.m. we were finally headed back to the United States, with just one stop left for refueling at Lajes Air Force Base in the Azores, Portugal.
President Johnson was in a great mood, feeling extremely pleased with the way the trip had turned out. He wandered through the plane talking about what he felt was a productive and worthwhile meeting with Pope Paul VI. Apparently there was a gift exchange during the meeting as well—the pope gave President Johnson a fifteenth-century painting, while the president’s offering was an eight-inch bronze bust of himself.
Everyone was relieved when President Johnson finally retired to his cabin, and all of us could try to get some sleep.
Meanwhile, Colonel Cross had contacted the commanding officer at Lajes and requested he keep the Base Post Exchange (PX) open so the personnel traveling on Air Force One could buy some Christmas gifts, since it was now Christmas Eve, and because of this whirlwind trip no one had had any time to shop. Unfortunately, the members of the press were taking a different route through Shannon, Ireland, so they would end up arriving home on Christmas Eve not only exhausted, irritated, and in desperate need of a shower but also empty-handed.
It was 1:35 in the morning local time when we landed, but the Air Force One passengers were ready to shop, and off they went to the PX. The president was still sound asleep in his cabin, so I told the other agents to go ahead and join everyone else while I remained with the aircraft.
I was standing at the foot of the ramp of Air Force One when all of a sudden President Johnson appeared in the doorway in his pajamas.
“Clint!” he called out. “Where the hell is everybody?”
“They’ve all gone to the PX to do some Christmas shopping while we refuel,” I explained. “It’s Christmas Eve, Mr. President.”
“Well, I need to do some shopping too,” he said. “Let’s go!”
He reached into the coat closet near the door and pulled out a trench coat, put it on over his pajamas, and trotted down the stairs. I grabbed an Air Force car and driver, and off to the base exchange we went.
As we walked through the store, the president greeted everyone with a big smile and a “Merry Christmas!” while peering into their shopping carts to inspect their purchases. He went straight for the baby department, picking out a few toys and clothes for his grandson, and then some bracelets and other items for Mrs. Johnson and his daughters. You’d think Santa Claus himself had just walked in from all the double takes we got. The press would have loved it and fought over the photos. For me, the image in my mind still makes me chuckle. Only Lyndon Johnson. And that’s how I happened to go shopping in the Azores in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve with the President of the United States in his pajamas.
AT 4:30 A.M. on December 24, 1967, we landed at Andrews Air Force Base. We had been gone for one hundred twelve hours and twenty minutes—over four and a half days; flown 28,210 miles; and spent nearly sixty hours of that time in the air. I flew back on Marine One with the president to the White House, and let me tell you, that was a wonderful sight to see. I was exhausted, enormously relieved to be delivering the president back home safely after such a chaotic and harried adventure, and eager to crawl into my own bed. But it was Christmas Eve, and the president wanted to go to Mass with his daughter Luci and her husband, Patrick. So I accompanied President Johnson to the seven o’clock Mass at St. Dominic’s Catholic Church in southwest Washington; we got back to the White House at 7:35, and then, finally, I was able to go home.
It was the first time in eight years that I’d been home for Christmas with my family. My son Chris was now eleven years old, and Corey was six, and as we opened presents on Christmas morning, I realized the last Christmas I’d been home was 1959, when Chris was just three years old and Corey born—and it was impossible for them to understand why all I wanted to do was sleep.
As 1967 came to an end, no one could have imagined what the next year would bring and how our country would be brought to its knees over and over again, and there I was, once again, smack-dab in the middle of some of our nation’s most traumatic moments.