The Day Kennedy Was Shot (48 page)

On the second floor at Parkland Hospital, Dr. Shaw was completing chest surgery on Governor John Connally. The patient responded well. He displayed good reserves. Shaw and his team were finishing the sutures and examining the drains when Dr. George T. Shires arrived. This man had been in Galveston when he heard the news and had managed to return to Dallas in incredibly fast time. Shires was professor of surgery at Parkland, and Chairman of the Department of Surgery at Southwestern Medical School.

He was senior to all the doctors present, but Shires did not impose this on them. He scrubbed and was gowned and, walking around the supine form of the Governor, he was given a whispered rundown of injuries and saw that the work remaining was the multiple fracture of the right wrist and the laceration of the left thigh. Without further conversation, Dr. Shires enlisted the assistance of Doctors McClelland, Baxter, and Patman, and they began the delicate job of putting a complex wrist back together.

On Oak Lawn, the ambulance of Vernon Oneal pulled into the back parking lot. He was irritated. The whole day had been frustrating. The phones inside jangled with calls from patients who, in the shadow of the catastrophic event, had heart attacks, fainting spells, and nausea. They wanted ambulances and they were wanted at once.

Oneal recalled that one ambulance, on an epileptic call, had been impounded at the emergency entrance to Parkland by the Secret Service. The ambulance and the personnel had nothing to do with the assassination but the men were forced to sit in the “bus” waiting for permission to leave. Then Oneal himself had responded to the crisis call for “the best casket you have,” and that had resolved itself into a series of arguments between Dallas and the federal government over an autopsy.

They were forced to run the casket out of crowded hospital corridors and the Secret Service driver had agreed to meet Oneal at the mortuary but instead had headed at top speed for Love Field. Vernon Oneal had been warned by government men and police to remain outside the fence. They were not interested in the fact that the ambulance belonged to him—the casket in which the President reposed was also his.

He had been required to wait until that airplane was reduced to a small speck in the sky. Then the cops said: “Now get your ambulance out of here.” Vernon Oneal was an old-fashioned man. He wondered whatever happened to the words, “Thank you.”

As he parked the white ambulance, a black car was edging up the ramp of a C-130 plane at the airport. This was the President's Lincoln. It had been a triumphal vehicle on many occasions, a death trap once. All day long and through most of the night, evidence in the crime would be moving from Dallas to Washington. The seven-passenger car was the biggest item, and the Secret Service detail was sorry that hospital orderlies had sponged it out.

The slide rules and cellophane disks made the computations. Colonel Swindal leaned back in his seat on the flight deck.
Air Force One
was ticking off 625 statute miles per hour. To maintain that speed, the throttle handles were being yanked backward a little every fifteen minutes. The ship was burning seven
tons of fuel per hour and, as the weight decreased, speed increased even though the throttle settings remained static. The plane was never permitted to go beyond .84 of the speed of sound.

The transponder was on permanently, so that the ground stations could track this aircraft easily. It showed up on radar screens as a larger, whiter blip, drifting like a slow rowboat across a large dark lake. Swindal yanked one earphone loose. Ahead and slightly to starboard an early moon was rising. Behind the thundering plane the sun had already changed from polished brass to dull bronze.

Estimated time of arrival at Andrews would be 2305 Zulu, or Greenwich, England, time. For two hours and fifteen minutes, the President had been snatched from earth. It was as though, subconsciously, those who realized that he must be given back to the earth permanently had taken him almost eight miles straight up to keep him, for an hour or two, from the destiny of all clay.

The air was smooth at this altitude. Now and then the flight deck shuddered, and the trim tab wheels spun forward and back like thinking things. Then the serenity of flight asserted itself again, and the subdued shriek became a hum, a one-note lullaby. There was time to think, time for coffee, time to listen to the latest information from the communications group sitting behind the flight deck.

Back in the ornate President's stateroom, activity was still the therapy of choice. The President refused to permit himself to sit and think. He had Liz Carpenter, Mrs. Johnson's secretary, working on a short statement to be read by Johnson after the body was removed from the plane. He had Valenti and Moyers as idea men. They sat near him, venturing thoughts that he should do this or not do that.

He was seldom more eloquent, or more helpless, than when he phoned Kennedy's mother. “I wish to God there was some
thing I could do,” he said. The tough fiber of the man softened. No words were adequate. And yet the impotence of the country was in the words. Rose Kennedy never lost her composure—had never lost it in the torrent of adversity which seemed, at times, to inundate the Kennedy family. She had her complete faith, her God, her Church. She thanked the President for his thoughtfulness in calling. She maintained her composure. Mrs. Johnson said: “Oh, Mrs. Kennedy, we must all realize how fortunate the country was to have your son as long as it did.”

The conversation continued for a while, the proper words and the correct responses. Rose Kennedy did not ask Mrs. Johnson to switch her to Jacqueline Kennedy, who was sitting fifty feet behind the Johnsons. Nor did Mrs. John F. Kennedy phone her mother-in-law.
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When the phone was put back on the cradle, the President asked for Mrs. John Connally at Parkland Hospital. When he learned that his political protégé was going to recover, the President's spirits seemed to lift. Nellie sounded bright and cheerful. She said that the Governor had sustained the surgery well and that he was having drains placed in his wrist.

Mr. Johnson noticed Charles Roberts of
Newsweek
and Merriman Smith of UPI writing the story of the plane trip on typewriters, one of which was borrowed. He stooped over both men and whispered that he wanted all of the Kennedy White House staff and all of the Kennedy Cabinet to remain on with the Johnson Administration. This, of course, was the first big pronouncement of the new administration. General Godfrey McHugh noticed the writers and reminded them that “throughout this trip I remained back there with the President.” Admiral Burkley, Kennedy's presidential physician, wanted them to note “that I was with him when he died.” In the gleaming, speeding
aluminum tube, each one knew that the only recorded history would be what Roberts and Smith wrote, and each had a specific reason for wanting to be a part of it.

Johnson sat with Kilduff and made memoranda on sheets of paper of personalities he should meet at once at Andrews, of others who should be called to his office this evening at the Executive Building office, of what time to have a critical Cabinet meeting in the morning. The more ground he covered, the more there was left to cover. It seemed that he was phoning McGeorge Bundy in the White House Situation Room every few minutes. Bundy was in the basement amidst all of the “instantaneous” sources of information from around the world. He was plotting the future. Upstairs, in the White House, Sargent Shriver was mapping the past.

Still busy, President Johnson saw O'Brien walking by, talking to a congressman. He called Kennedy's legislative assistant to his side. “Larry,” he said, looking up earnestly from the desk, “you have a blank check on handling this program. Go ahead just as you would have under President Kennedy.” The redhead nodded and walked on. This early he could see an obstacle ahead unseen by Johnson. Jack Kennedy did not live to see his legislative program for his country enacted into law; the Congress seemed to be disenchanted with the charmer. Now that Kennedy was dead, if Johnson implemented the Kennedy program into law, he would not be thanked by the Kennedy group. In fact, this big, industrious man who took charge of the nation so quickly and so firmly was going to meet rancor and contempt for his work.
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The communications crew at the forward end of
AF-1
could not handle the traffic. The outgoing calls were heavy enough,
but too many officials in Washington wanted to speak to Johnson or to Mrs. Kennedy. She wasn't accepting any incoming calls unless they were from her brother-in-law Robert. Other calls were referred to her secretary, Pamela Turnure, the dark, attractive girl who matched Mrs. Kennedy in beauty. Texas politicians were phoning the new President. General Clifton asked Andrews to have a forklift ready to carry the casket down the rear exit; the loose handle would be dangerous if the casket was to be carried. He also phoned the Army's Walter Reed Hospital and said that the autopsy would be performed there.

The President was conscious that Mrs. Kennedy might, at this time, have composed herself and want to express her wishes. He sent Malcolm Kilduff aft, but the lady had no wishes. This was done several times, but there was nothing she wanted from the President. Kilduff felt the stiff politeness of the Clan Kennedy and recognized his role as the emissary under flag of truce. It was said that the trip to Texas was to be Kilduff's final assignment as assistant press secretary. Whether it was President Kennedy who was displeased with his work, or the hatchetman, Kenny O'Donnell, Kilduff was on the scene when the new President had no press expert.

Dr. Burkley, standing alone, noticed that Mrs. Kennedy was alone. He approached and, rather than bend down to speak to her, dropped to his knees. It was a comical attitude for the dignified admiral. He was at eye level with her and he said: “It's going to be necessary to take the President to a hospital before he goes to the White House.” She was in a trance-like state, but the young lady came out of it quickly. “Why?” she said. The tone was sharp because she had had her fill of hospitals and their cast-iron rules.

Burkley looked like a supplicant at prayer. “The doctors must remove the bullet,” he said. “The authorities must know the type. It becomes evidence.” Mrs. Kennedy could understand the situation. The admiral did not use the word autopsy,
which entails evisceration and the removal of the brain and other organs. She asked where the bullet could be removed. Burkley said he had no preference although he had. He was a United States Navy admiral, and Kennedy had been a Navy lieutenant. “For security reasons it should be a military hospital,” he said.

Mrs. Kennedy was prompted to say the right word. “Bethesda,” she said. The admiral was satisfied. He got off his knees and went forward to the communications shack to alert the naval hospital. The knees became a trend. General McHugh dropped to his knees to ask Mrs. Kennedy to “freshen up” before the plane landed. “No,” she said adamantly. The words had become a set piece: “I want them to see what they've done.”

David Powers replaced the general. The area where Mrs. Kennedy sat began to resemble an open confessional. Each man found it easier to converse with her by dropping to two knees or one. Mr. O'Donnell occupied the only other seat in the back of the plane and no man was prepared to challenge the high priest.

In the forward compartment, Liz Carpenter worked on a short statement to be delivered by the President at Andrews Air Force Base. She was block-printing it. Mrs. Carpenter would like to have used a typewriter but she reminded herself that “they are their typewriters. Besides, they make noise.” She wished that the Kennedys would understand that the Johnsons had also lost a President. As she wrote, she remembered a ball in the East Room a month ago. Lyndon Johnson had danced with Mrs. Kennedy. He knew that the First Lady seldom accompanied her husband on trips. The Vice-President had put on his best smile, “Why not come to Texas with the President?” he had said. She wrinkled her nose. “You have never seen a real ranch,” he said. She began to brighten. “A real Texas ranch. We're going to bring in some good Tennessee walking horses and have a ranch barbecue . . .” “I think I'll go,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “It could be fun.” Liz Carpenter, a woman thinking like a
woman, wondered if Mrs. Kennedy felt any gratitude to Johnson for persuading her to go.

The deputy sheriffs arrived in Irving at 3:30
P.M.,
and they could see the Dallas group waiting at the corner. The newcomers wanted to know the story and Detective Guy Rose of Captain Fritz's staff said that Oswald lived in the middle of the block, the house at 2515. Rose was the senior in the group; Richard Stovall and Adamcik were present to assist him. The county men were invited because the Dallas detectives were outside their city line.

The men discussed the best way of finding evidence in the house and wanted to know what they might be looking for. The case was new and Detective Rose didn't have much information; headquarters said that Lee Harvey Oswald was probably a communist. He had spent years in Russia; he came back with a Russian wife. The thing was mixed up, confusing, but Oswald had a room on North Beckley, and his wife lived here with a family named Paine.

The neighborhood knew that something was amiss within a few minutes. The street was suburban, with cars parked between sidewalk and garage; bicycles and roller skates rested on lawns. Children home from school shouted to each other and saw the strange men and lapsed into silence. Mothers, spending 75 percent of their time with wash and vacuum cleaners and gas ranges, spent the other 25 percent glancing between curtains to see that the children had not wandered off. They, too, saw the newcomers, standing in a group and whispering. After that, no woman left her window.

Rose waved the men to follow him. The house at 2515 was ranch style, a young home which looked old. The gray paint was flat. The roof shingles were something between beet red and pink. A car stood in the short driveway before a closed overhang door. The hedges were of varying heights, depending upon
the nourishment each found. The one strong healthy attribute was a sturdy oak which stood in the center of the front lawn, its gnarled limbs extending over the street and back across the edge of the one-story roof.