As we rolled into the summer of 1968, racial tensions simmered just below the boiling point, American casualties in Vietnam mounted, antiwar demonstrations multiplied, and, with the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy still raw wounds, Americans were desperate for hope.
President Johnson had become a virtual prisoner in the White House, and one of the few things that gave him joy was his grandson, “Lyn”—Luci and Patrick Nugent’s son. The president delighted in bringing the infant into the Oval Office and onto Air Force One, and when he was with his little namesake, it was as if all the burdens of the office evaporated.
Meanwhile, Lynda’s husband, Marine Captain Chuck Robb, had begun his tour of duty in Vietnam at the end of March, and shortly thereafter the White House announced that Lynda was pregnant. Having a son-in-law in Vietnam—with another grandchild on the way—seemed to make President Johnson even more determined to find a peaceful solution to the war that was ripping the nation apart. Captain Robb provided the president with firsthand details of what it was like for the soldiers on the ground, giving him information that sometimes differed from what his military advisors were telling him.
Even though President Johnson had publicly declared that he would not run for another term, there were signs that perhaps he was indeed still thinking about it—especially now that Robert Kennedy was no longer a factor. I was definitely keeping my ears open for anything that might indicate he was changing his mind.
One day in early July, we were at the LBJ Ranch when something unusual happened. The president’s tailor, Irving Frank, had come to the ranch to deliver some clothes he had made for the president. He’d been a guest for lunch, and then had the president try on the clothes to make sure they fit. I was in the Secret Service office when I got word that the president wanted to see me out by the pool.
As I rounded the corner of the house, I saw the president standing in the doorway that led from his bedroom to the pool area, while Mr. Frank was just outside, his tape measure slung around his neck.
As I approached, President Johnson turned to Mr. Frank, pointed at me, and said, “Measure him.”
Without hesitation, Mr. Frank began measuring my shoulders, chest, sleeve length, waist, and inseam, scribbling down the numbers on a pocket notepad. The president was watching intently with a mischievous grin on his face, and when the tailor was finished, Johnson looked at me and said, “You can go now, Clint.”
There was no explanation, and I had no idea what this was all about. There was no more mention of it for the rest of the day, and that evening we departed the ranch and headed back to Washington.
ONE OF THE results of Robert Kennedy’s death was that the Secret Service was now protecting major presidential candidates, and in order to meet the added responsibilities, the White House Detail—of which I was the SAIC—had been cannibalized. Because of the stamina required on the campaign trail, we had moved many of the experienced, younger agents to the candidates’ details, and replaced the President’s Detail with older agents who had plenty of experience but weren’t necessarily as fit or agile. The theory was that the new protective details would be much more active because they were constantly on the go, while the president, presumably, wouldn’t be traveling so much. This was true, but it concerned me—especially as we headed into the Republican and Democratic conventions with a severe shortage of manpower.
The Secret Service was protecting four Republican candidates when the Republican convention opened on August 5 in Miami Beach, Florida. At the same time, Democratic candidates Hubert Humphrey and Eugene McCarthy were being protected, as well as George Wallace, the American Independent Party candidate. Meanwhile, the replacement agents I had with President Johnson were agents who had worked on the White House Detail with Presidents Roosevelt and Truman, and alongside me with Eisenhower, and were now back doing a job meant to be done by much younger men. They were hanging in there, but the long hours and extended periods of travel—not to mention Johnson’s unpredictability—were taking their toll.
President Johnson remained at the LBJ Ranch during the Republican National Convention, and other than a couple of trips to San Antonio for his annual physical examination and tests, there was only the usual ranch activity with guests flying in and out and tours of the ranches and the birthplace. On August 8, the Republicans named their ticket for the upcoming presidential election: Richard Nixon for president and the governor of Maryland, Spiro Agnew, as his vice presidential running mate. Shortly after the official announcement, President Johnson invited Nixon and Agnew to the ranch for a briefing on foreign relations.
Johnson was still working tirelessly for a peace agreement with North Vietnam—it was his greatest hope that he could bring a successful conclusion to the conflict before he left office—and plans were under way for peace talks in Paris. There had been speculation that Nixon would try to undercut the negotiations as a campaign tactic, but in his acceptance speech at the convention, he promised not to say anything during the campaign that might destroy a chance for peace.
On August 10, when I arrived at the Secret Service security office, I was handed a package that had been delivered, addressed to me. Inside were a pair of tan gabardine pants and a Western style shirt, identical to the ones President Johnson wore around the ranch. The mystery of the tailor measuring me by the pool was now solved.
After an early morning swim, the president came out of the house with Tom Johnson and secretary Marie Fehmer, headed for his white convertible, and said, “Goin’ for a drive.”
I didn’t mention the clothes I’d received, but at some point during the drive, President Johnson said, “Clint, did you get that package I sent you?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” I said with a smile. “I received it this morning. Thank you very much.”
“Well, sometime this afternoon I want to see you in those clothes and make sure they fit. I’ll make a Texan out of you yet.”
This was the day that Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew were coming, as well as all of the president’s top advisors. I did not think it was a good day for the president and me to be dressed in matching outfits.
We got back to the main house just in time to greet Secretary of State Dean Rusk, Director of the CIA Richard Helms, and Cyrus Vance—one of the negotiators at the Vietnam peace conference in Paris—as they landed on the runway in a JetStar. About an hour and a half later, a helicopter carrying Richard Nixon and his party arrived at the landing strip. Accompanying Nixon were Governor Spiro Agnew, a couple of Agnew’s aides, and three of Nixon’s aides: Dwight Chapin, H. R. “Bob” Haldeman, and Ron Ziegler.
It was a hot August day, and President Johnson—dressed in his casual ranch clothes—was very much at ease on his home turf as he welcomed the Republican entourage, all of whom were wearing traditional business suits with starched shirts and ties. As LBJ escorted the group from the landing strip toward the main house, he pulled Nixon aside and said, “While they get settled, let’s you and me go on a little drive. I’ll show you around the place.”
I motioned to one of the other agents to get into the follow-up car, and I jumped in the right front seat just in time to tail behind as President Johnson sped off in the convertible with Richard Nixon. Of course we had no idea what his intentions were—how far he’d be going or for how long—but on this occasion he just made a quick twenty-minute tour around the ranch, showing Nixon his birthplace and then looping back to the house.
The others had already gathered in the living room, and as soon as the president and Mr. Nixon arrived, the serious briefing began. The mood lightened during lunch, which was served in the family dining room as President Johnson held court, telling humorous stories and sharing memories of his long political career. If you didn’t know any better, you might have thought these were a bunch of lifelong friends at an annual reunion rather than political rivals.
The visit lasted only about two hours, but before the guests departed, President Johnson once again pulled Nixon aside and walked him to the porch outside his office for one last private chat.
I stood nearby as President Johnson escorted the Nixon entourage back to the runway, memorizing faces and mannerisms and taking mental note of who was who and the apparent pecking order as they boarded the helicopter; for although the election was still three months away and anything could happen, there was a good chance that Richard M. Nixon would be the next President of the United States of America—and in all likelihood, I would be in charge of his protection. I knew very little about Nixon, other than what I had observed when he was vice president under President Eisenhower, and since then he had brought in many new staff members. On that August day in 1968, I could not have imagined what lay ahead, and the turmoil these men would eventually bring upon themselves, the nation, and, yes, even me.
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, after all the guests had left, I received a message in the command post.
“Clint, the president is requesting you put on your new ranch clothes. He’s in the pool, and he wants to see how they look on you.”
Oh jeez. I had hoped that the visit with Mr. Nixon might have made him forget about the gift he’d given me. No such luck. I had no choice but to put on the outfit.
I put on the shirt and pants in the security room while my fellow agents were laughing and making smart remarks about me becoming a permanent resident of the Texas Hill Country.
“It’s meant to be, Clint!” they said, laughing, “Fits you like a glove.”
It was true, the tailor had done a fine job, and I had to admit the clothes were pretty comfortable. But still, it was damn embarrassing.
I walked out to the pool area, where the president and his secretary Marie Fehmer were in the pool cooling off from the intense heat of the late afternoon sun, and modeled the uniform.
“Look at that!” President Johnson exclaimed. “Doesn’t he look fine, Marie?”
“Oh yes,” Marie said with a grin. “You look mighty fine, Mr. Hill.”
Ken Gaddis, one of the presidential stewards, happened to be nearby, and he made some smart remark about how the president’s tailor must be a miracle worker if he could make a Secret Service agent look like a rancher.
After everybody had a good laugh at my expense, I said, “Okay. The fashion show’s over. Time to get back to work.”
As soon as I got back to the security room, I changed into my regular clothing and folded the ranch clothes neatly back in the box. I couldn’t imagine myself wearing them—and being Johnson’s twin—but I realized the gift was his way of saying I had finally been accepted, that despite his initial doubts about my loyalty, I had proven to be worthy of his trust and confidence.
A short while later the president went driving around touring the ranches—I am not kidding; this was a daily, often twice daily activity—and at one point as I got out to open one of the gates, he said, “Clint, where are the ranch clothes?”
Think fast, Clint.
“I didn’t want to get them dirty on the first day, Mr. President,” I responded. He could see right through me, but he grinned and said, “Good idea. Take good care of them and they’ll last a long time.”
Later that evening, former presidential assistant Marvin Watson and his wife arrived by plane. Although Watson had accepted a new job as postmaster general, it appeared to me that he was still the president’s man in the political arena, and I couldn’t help but wonder if something was brewing.
We stayed at the ranch for nine more days, and on August 19, with little notice, the president informed me he was flying to Detroit to speak at the National VFW convention. A few days earlier, he had pulled a similar stunt, informing us at the last minute of a quick in-and-out trip to Houston. With many of the field offices drained of personnel to cover the presidential candidates, this no-notice-surprise-visit philosophy was getting riskier all the time. Fortunately, both the Houston and Detroit field offices stepped up to the challenge, but it was not without a great deal of anxiety for the Secret Service.
The day after we returned to Washington, President Johnson got a hand-delivered note from the Soviet ambassador with a message from Premier Kosygin that the Soviet Union was invading Czechoslovakia. The president held meetings well into the early morning hours and released a taped statement urging the Soviet Union to withdraw its troops. It seemed like every time he turned around, another crisis dropped into his lap. With all of this going on, I was surprised when President Johnson suddenly decided to go back to the LBJ Ranch on Friday, August 23, three days before the start of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago.
Something is going on.
I was aware that Marvin Watson and some of Johnson’s other political advance men had been sent to Chicago, while at the same time President Johnson was taking two speechwriters with him to Texas. Additionally, the president’s birthday was coming up on August 27, in the middle of the convention, and while I was sure there would be a tribute to Johnson at some point, knowing him as I did, I thought the possibility of his flying to Chicago and appearing at the convention was a real one. He had been keeping his speaking appearances very close to the vest, not letting anyone know exactly what his intentions were, and on top of all this I had never dismissed the notion that LBJ might actually reconsider running again.
I decided to fly to Chicago to snoop around, putting my Assistant SAIC, John Paul Jones, in charge of Johnson’s security at the ranch, and telling him to keep his eyes and ears open on that end.
Agent Dave Grant—one of the agents on the White House Detail—was originally from Chicago and knew Mayor Richard Daley and his special events director, Jack Riley, so I had him accompany me to make sure we had all the information we needed and could make our own plans in the event President Johnson decided to make a surprise visit to the convention. Deputy Director Rufus Youngblood and Assistant Director Lem Johns were already in Chicago dealing with candidate protection, and while they had informed us of some intelligence reports that caused grave concern, when I arrived and saw what was actually happening I knew we were in for some serious trouble.
Chicago’s black gangs were reportedly stockpiling weapons in apartments near the International Amphitheatre—the convention site—with the intention of stirring up violence in the streets, and an informant had tipped off police that one of the gangs was planning on gunning down Vice President Hubert Humphrey and Senator Eugene McCarthy. Meanwhile, anti–Vietnam War groups had promised to bring in 150,000 protestors and agitators, and they were already arriving by the busload as part of a coordinated effort to disrupt the convention, assembling in Lincoln and Grant Parks. Equally disturbing were rumors that a pro-Nixon group, partially funded by Richard Nixon’s close friend Bebe Rebozo, was headed to Chicago to incite disorder.
To combat the expected demonstrations, Mayor Daley had orchestrated unprecedented security arrangements: 12,000 Chicago police officers were on twelve-hour shifts; 7,500 U.S. Army soldiers were posted at strategic points in and around the city; 5,600 National Guardsmen were on standby; and 1,000 federal agents would be guarding hotels and mingling with the crowds. The Secret Service’s Chicago Field Office was already spread thin, and while the local agents would automatically assist us if President Johnson made a last-minute drop-in visit, we simply didn’t have the bodies to adequately protect the President of the United States in such a contentious atmosphere.
The International Amphitheatre was located in the Chicago Union Stockyard area on Chicago’s South Side, while the majority of delegates were staying in downtown hotels. We had rooms in the Conrad Hilton on Michigan Avenue, directly across from Grant Park, which just so happened to be one of the main gathering places for the demonstrators. On Monday night, the first night of the convention, police clashed with a large group of protestors right in front of our hotel. I could hardly believe my eyes when I looked down at the street below and saw police officers swinging their billy clubs at protestors who refused to leave the premises. In the next instant, there was a series of loud pops, and then plumes of tear gas filled the air, sending people running and screaming in a panicked herd. The windows were closed, but the gas was so strong it seeped into the hotel.
Meanwhile, I was keeping in touch with the agents at the ranch on an hourly basis to make sure I was aware of what the president was doing at every moment. I knew we would have only about three hours of flight time—ranch to Austin to Chicago—to get things in place, and the more notice I had, the better. We had selected an aircraft arrival point, planned a motorcade route, and identified a concealed entry point to the convention location. It wasn’t going to be easy, and there were plenty of things that could go wrong, but at least I felt comfortable knowing we had a plan.
On Tuesday, August 27, the president spent the morning of his birthday in his bedroom at the ranch making phone calls, and then went out to the pool, where he swam and had lunch with Mrs. Johnson, Luci, and his grandson, Lyn. Around three o’clock in the afternoon, Agent Jones called me.
“Clint, he’s been on the phone with Marvin Watson in Chicago and George Christian for the last half hour. I don’t know what’s being discussed, but I’ll keep you posted.”
An hour later, Jones reported, “He’s called Watson again, and he just got off a conference call with Mayor Daley. But so far, no movement from the house.”
At about 4:45, Jones checked in again. “He just got off the phone with Humphrey and advised us to get the helicopter ready. He says he’s going to Luci’s residence.”
Yeah, right.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m not going to jump to any conclusions just yet, but the minute he veers off that plan, you let me know.”
As it turned out, the president did actually go to his daughter Luci’s house in Austin, with the press in attendance, and then returned to the ranch to welcome Lynda and some other guests who were arriving by plane. The president spent the rest of the evening with his guests in the living room, watching the convention on television. There were still two days left in the convention, though, so we weren’t out of the woods just yet.
The turbulence within the city continued to escalate to the point that the streets of Chicago looked like a battlefield with armored vehicles, troops armed with assault rifles, and tear gas fired when the crowds couldn’t be controlled. Inside the convention hall, tempers flared as the splintered Democratic Party struggled to nominate their candidate, delegates complained about overzealous security, and speakers railed against Mayor Daley and the “Gestapo tactics” going on outside. Members of the news media were caught in melees both inside and outside, and as the horrifying images splashed across America’s television screens, protestors chanted, “The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!”
It was a goddamn mess.
Despite what seemed at one point to be insurmountable differences within the party, Vice President Hubert Humphrey won the nomination and selected Senator Ed Muskie of Maine as his running mate. In the end, President Johnson did not show up at the convention, and when it concluded, I took a flight to Austin and drove out to the ranch. I never told President Johnson I had been at the convention standing by in case he decided to attend, but just as I was monitoring his every move, his people were reporting back to him, and I am sure he knew.
WE RETURNED TO Washington in early September, and as the presidential campaign of 1968 got into full swing, President Johnson continued to be mired in the problems that had plagued him all year. Despite the impressive amount of legislation he had passed during his administration, it appeared that his legacy was going to be his failure to negotiate a resolution in Vietnam. Still, he worked tirelessly, and while many presidents would be winding down at the end of their administration, he continued at the same frenzied pace.
On several occasions, I arrived at the White House in the morning to find out that the president had requested the agents on the midnight shift take him to St. Dominic’s Catholic Church in southwest Washington in the middle of the night. He would sit and talk with one of the priests or friars for fifteen minutes or up to an hour, and then return to the White House in deep reflection. No one but the Secret Service knew about these midnight visits. It was clear President Johnson was searching for guidance, and these secretive visits exemplified the tremendous burden he bore on his shoulders alone.
By this point, having been around President Johnson for nearly four years, I had come to realize that although he was a challenging boss—in so many different ways—he valued those who were loyal to him, and he tried to show his gratitude in his own way.
September 30 was a typical day at the White House, with back-to-back meetings, a quick trip to the Sheraton Park Hotel for a speech, a bill signing for a project on the Colorado River, and the usual multitude of phone calls and briefings, but on this day the president made time to attend two events to express his personal appreciation and affection. Early that afternoon, he attended the Arlington Cemetery funeral for a twenty-three-year-old Navy lieutenant who had been a groomsman at Luci’s wedding and had been killed in a training accident in Arizona, and the family was deeply touched by his attendance. This day also happened to be White House staffer Tom Johnson’s twenty-seventh birthday.
Now, Tom Johnson, originally from Macon, Georgia, had come to the White House three years earlier in 1965 as the first White House Fellow, and had proven his loyalty to the president by working long days in the press office—often sixteen-, eighteen-, or twenty-hour days—without complaint, and with tremendous attention to detail. Because of the hours, and the fact that he and his young wife, Edwina, had relocated to Washington for the job, he had few, if any, friends outside White House circles. Like those of us on the White House Detail, the demands of his job precluded having a social life.
Edwina wanted to have a dinner party in their small apartment to surprise Tom on his birthday, and being somewhat naive, she invited President and Mrs. Johnson—and to her amazement, they accepted. So Edwina called her mother for an appropriate recipe, and spent the exorbitant sum of $25—equivalent to a month’s worth of groceries out of Tom’s entry-level government salary—on a decorative white serving dish with a swirled gold rose on top for the shrimp and rice casserole she planned to prepare. On the evening of September 30, everything was perfect; the casserole was in the oven, and at the appointed time of 7:30, two of the invited couples arrived. The only people missing were President and Mrs. Johnson.
Seven-thirty came and went. Eight o’clock. Nine o’clock. Finally, Edwina came to the conclusion that the president was not going to show up, and she had better serve dinner to her other guests.
Now at the time, I had no idea that President Johnson had accepted this birthday invitation. I was at the White House, and at 10:10 that evening, I got a call that the president was going out to dinner and to get the car ready. So we took the president and Mrs. Johnson, along with George Christian, and drove to Tom and Edwina’s one-bedroom apartment in Alexandria.
As I waited outside the door, I heard laughter, the clanking of wineglasses, and a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and it sounded like everyone was having a marvelous time. The Johnsons stayed until 11:45, and then we drove them back to the White House, after which I went home for the night.
I didn’t learn Edwina’s side of this story until 2014—forty-eight years later—but she remembered the details like it was yesterday: how LBJ showed up three hours late, unapologetically, and expected dinner, and all she had to serve at that point was a room-temperature overdone casserole, but you know what? He kept his word. And even though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, it was important to him to attend the birthday celebration of a loyal friend. That was typical of Lyndon B. Johnson.
SOMETIME IN MID-OCTOBER I got a telephone call from Jack Walsh, the head of the Kennedy Protective Detail.
“Clint,” he said. “It’s Jack.”
“Well, hello, John Francis Michael Walsh,” I said as a smile spread across my face. Jack was a good Catholic from South Boston, with a great sense of humor, and I had specifically chosen him to be with John and Caroline when I was still with Mrs. Kennedy in 1964. He was great with the kids, and now he was in charge of the small detail of agents that protected Mrs. Kennedy and the children.
“How are things in New York City?”
“Well, Clint, that’s why I’m calling. There are going to be some big changes, and although the announcement isn’t going to be made until the last possible minute, I thought you should know.”
Before he could get the words out, I knew what he was going to say. I’d been hearing rumors, but I honestly couldn’t believe she would do it.
“Mrs. Kennedy is going to marry Onassis,” Jack said. He paused, waiting for my response.
I took a deep breath. “When?”
“The twentieth of October. In Greece—on his island. We’re flying with the kids a few days before. Making all the arrangements now. Her mother will make the announcement after we’re airborne.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Jack. I really appreciate it.”
I never discussed this with Mrs. Kennedy, so I don’t know whether she truly loved Aristotle Onassis. It wasn’t any of my business. I do know that he offered her something that few men in the world could provide her—security, both personally and financially—and in the aftermath of the assassination of her brother-in-law, I’m sure she was terrified that she or her children might be targets. Onassis had his own island, his own airline, and homes and apartments all over the world, and I’d seen the power he had to get what he wanted.
All I wanted for Mrs. Kennedy was for her to be happy.
THERE HADN’T BEEN much to be happy about thus far in 1968, but shortly after midnight on October 25, President and Mrs. Johnson’s daughter Lynda Bird Robb gave birth to a healthy baby girl named Lucinda Desha Robb. News was immediately dispatched to Lynda’s husband, Chuck, at his post in Vietnam, and later that morning, President Johnson handed out cigars to the press people who had convened at Bethesda Naval Hospital.
On the last few days of October, there had been a lot of unusual activity at the White House, and while I didn’t know exactly what was going on, I knew something was up. When I arrived at the White House on the morning of October 29, the on-duty agent said, “Mr. Hill, something happened overnight that I think you should know about.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Well, shortly after two o’clock in the morning, we got a lot of high-level visitors.”
At two o’clock in the morning? This was very unusual. “Who?”
“Secretary of Defense Clifford, General Wheeler, General Taylor, General Abrams, Director Helms . . .”
“The National Security Council? At two in the morning?”
“Yes, and the president joined them in the Cabinet Room at two-thirty.”
Something on the international front was definitely going on, and, clearly, the president and his top advisors were keeping it close to the vest. Over the next two days, the members of the National Security Council were constantly coming and going, and all through the West Wing you could hear the sound of typewriters.
On October 31, I finally found out what was happening, several hours before the rest of the world would learn the same news. I was in the Secret Service office when I heard three buzzes, indicating the president was moving from the West Wing. I went up the stairway to the Oval Office level and learned that the president was going to the theater with several of his top aides to view a portion of a speech he had taped late the evening before, and to add an additional portion that had been rewritten today.
I accompanied the group along the colonnade past the swimming pool and the flower shop, through the mansion, and to the theater. Each of them found a seat, while I stood inside the doorway. The lights dimmed and the film rolled. On-screen, President Johnson was seated, looking directly into the camera.
“Good evening, my fellow Americans. I speak to you this evening about very important developments in our search for peace in Vietnam.
“We have been engaged in discussions with the North Vietnamese in Paris since last May. The discussions began after I announced on the evening of March 31st in a television speech to the nation that the United States—in an effort to get talks started on a settlement of the Vietnam War—had stopped the bombing of North Vietnam in the area where ninety percent of the people live.”
He explained that the talks had been deadlocked for many weeks.
“Last Sunday evening and throughout Monday,” he continued, “we began to get confirmation of the essential understanding that we had been seeking with the North Vietnamese on the critical issues between us for some time.” His tone was somber, his voice hoarse from a nagging sore throat and chronic lack of sleep.
“Now, as a result of all these developments I have now ordered that all air, naval, and artillery bombardment of North Vietnam cease as of eight a.m. Washington time Friday morning. I have reached this decision on the basis of the developments of the Paris talks, and I have reached it in the belief that this action can lead to progress toward a peaceful settlement of the Vietnamese War.”
The president noted he was making this decision with the concurrence of his top military and diplomatic advisors, but he cautioned that “arrangements of this kind are never foolproof” and that the new phase of negotiations did not mean a stable peace had yet come to Southeast Asia.
The men in the room agreed that the speech was good, and watched as President Johnson taped one last segment. He appealed to the presidential candidates to support their government and our men in Vietnam with a united voice in this critical hour, adding that although he did not know who would be inaugurated as the thirty-seventh President of the United States, he would continue to do all he could in his last few months to move toward peace.
An hour before the speech was to be aired, several press photographers were allowed to snap some photos of the president and his top advisors in the Cabinet Room where this decision had been made. As they were leaving, Walt Rostow, the national security advisor, commented, “This is the most sustained day-and-night effort I’ve had since the Cuban Missile Crisis.”
The speech aired at eight o’clock that evening—broadcast simultaneously on all three networks—and almost immediately there were accusations that the move was purely a political ploy to improve Vice President Humphrey’s chances at election. There was no doubt in my mind that that was not the case. President Johnson knew Vietnam had become his war—his Cuban Missile Crisis—and he wasn’t going to leave office without giving it his all to find a resolution. I had witnessed the toll it had taken on him over the past four years. I had seen the deep pain in his eyes as he shook the hands of the young men he was sending into battle, and I knew he hadn’t slept more than four hours a night for the past year—with a call to the Situation Room the last thing he did each night, and the first thing each morning. No one wanted an end to Vietnam more than Lyndon Johnson, and Lyndon Johnson wanted to be the man to end it.
It would not happen that way.
On November 5, 1968, Richard M. Nixon was elected as the next President of the United States. During the next few weeks, President Johnson and his staff met with President-elect Nixon, Vice President–elect Agnew, and their staffs, preparing them for the transition in January, while Rufus Youngblood and his deputies had the challenge of reassigning agents.
It would be my third presidential transition, and as the SAIC of presidential protection, I had every reason to believe my job would remain the same.