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Here’s how Merriman Smith reported JFK death
Editor’s Note: When Presi
dent John F. Kennedy was shot
to death on a visit to Dallas on
Nov. 22,1963, UPI White House
correspondent Merriman Smith,
who died in 1970, was in the
presidential motorcade. The
following day, back in Washing
ton with the new President,
Lyndon B. Johnson, Smith
wrote the following account of
the tragic event. His story,
which was awarded the 1964
Pulitzer Prize for national
reporting, is reprinted here
with.
By MERRIMAN SMITH
UPI White House Reporter
WASHINGTON, Nov. 23
(UPI) — It was a balmy, sunny
noon as we motored through
downtown Dallas behind Presi
dent Kennedy. The procession
cleared the center of the
business district and turned
into a handsome highway that
wound through what appeared
to be a park.
I was riding in the so-called
White House press “pool” car,
a telephone company vehicle
equipped with a mobile radio
telephone. I was in the front
seat between a driver from the
telephone company and Mal
colm Kilduff, acting White
House press secretary for the
President’s Texas tour. Three
other pool reporters were
wedged in the back seat.
Suddenly we heard three
loud, almost painfully loud
cracks. The first sounded as if
it might have been a large
firecracker. But the second and
third blasts were unmistakable.
Gunfire.
The President’s car, possibly
as much as 150 or 200 yards
ahead, seemed to falter briefly.
We saw a flurry of activity in
the Secret Service follow-up car
behind the chief executive’s
bubble-top limousine.
Next in line was the car
bearing Vice President Lyndon
B. Johnson. Behind that,
another follow-up car bearing
agents assigned to the vice
president’s protection. We were
behind that car.
Our car stood still for
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probably only a few seconds,
but it seemed like a lifetime.
One sees history explode before
one’s eyes and for even the
most trained observer, there is
a limit to what one can
comprehend.
I looked ahead at the
President’s car but could not
see him or his companion, Gov.
John B. Connally of Texas.
Both men had been riding on
the right side of the bubble-top
limousine from Washington. I
thought I saw a flash of pink
which would have been Mrs.
Jacqueline Kennedy.
Everybody in our car began
shouting at the driver to pull up
closer to the President’s car.
But at this moment, we saw the
big bubble-top and a motorcy
cle escort roar away at high
speed.
We screamed at our driver,
“Get going, get going.” We
careened around the Johnson
car and its escort and set out
down the highway, barely able
to keep in sight of the
President’s car and the accom
panying Secret Service follow
up car.
They vanished around a
curve. When we cleared the
same curve we could see where
we were heading—Parkland
Hospital, a large brick struc
ture to the left of the arterial
highway. We skidded around a
sharp left turn and spilled out
of the pool car as it entered the
hospital driveway.
I ran to the side of the
bubble-top.
The President was face down
on the back seat. Mrs. Kennedy
made a cradle of her arms
around the President’s head
and bent over him as if she
were whispering to him.
Gov. Connally was on his
back on the floor of the car, his
head and shoulders resting in
the arms of his wife, Nellie,
who kept shaking her head and
shaking with dry sobs. Blood
oozed from the front of the
governor’s suit. I could not see
the President’s wound. But I
could see blood spattered
around the interior of the rear
seat and a dark stain spreading
down the right side of the
President’s dark gray suit.
From the telephone car, I
had radioed the Dallas bureau
of UPI that three shots had
been fired at the Kennedy
motorcade. Seeing the bloody
scene in the rear of the car at
the hospital entrance, I knew I
had to get to a telephone
immediately.
Clint Hill, the Secret Service
agent in charge M os the detail
assigned to Mrs. Kennedy, was
leaning over into the rear of the
car.
“How badly was he hit,
Clint?” I asked.
“He’s dead,” Hill replied
curtly.
I have no further clear
memory of the scene in the
driveway. I recall a babble of
anxious voices, tense voices—
’’Where in hell are the
stretchers ... Get a doctor out
here ... He’s on the way ...
Come on, easy there.” And
from somewhere, nervous sob
bing.
I raced down a short stretch
of sidewalk into a hospital
corridor. The first thing I
spotted was a small clerical
office, more of a booth than an
office. Inside, a bespectacled
man stood shuffling what
appeared to be hospital forms.
At a wicket much like a bank
teller’s cage, I spotted a
telephone on the shelf.
“How do you get outside?” I
gasped. “The President has
been hurt and this is an
emergency call.”
“Dial nine,” he said, shoving
the phone toward me.
It took two tries before I
successfully dialed the Dallas
UPI number. Quickly I dictated
a bulletin saying the President
had been seriously, perhaps
fatally, injured by an assassin’s
bullets while driving through
the streets of Dallas.
Litters bearing the President
and the governor rolled by me
as I dictated, but my back was
to the hallway and I didn’t see
them until they were at the
entrance of the emergency
room, about 75 or 100 feet
away.
I knew they had passed,
however, from the horrified
expression that suddenly spread
over the face of the man behind
the wicket.
As I stood in the drab buff
hallway leading into the emer
gency ward, trying to recon
struct the shooting for the UPI
man on the other end of the
telephone and still keep track
of what was happening outside
the door of the emergency
room, I watched a swift and
confused panorama sweep
before me.
Kilduff of the White House
press staff raced up and down
the hall. Police captains barked
at each other, “Clear this
area.” Two priests hurried in
behind a Secret Service agent,
their narrow purple stoles
rolled up tightly in their hands.
A police lieutenant ran down
the hall with a large carton of
blood for transfusions. A doctor
came in and said he was
responding to a call for “all
neurosurgeons.”
The priests came out and
said the President had received
the last sacrament of the
Roman Catholic Church. They
said he was still alive, but not
conscious. Members of the
Kennedy staff began arriving.
They had been behind us in the
motorcade, but hopelessly
bogged for a time in confused
traffic.
Telephones were at a premi
um in the hospital and I clung
to mine for dear life. I was
afraid to stray from the wicket
lest I lose contact with the
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outside world.
My decision was made for
me, however, when Kilduff and
Wayne Hawks of the White
House staff ran by me, shouting
that Kilduff would make a
statement shortly in the so
called nurses’ room a floor
above and at the end of the
hospital.
I threw down the phone and
sped after them. We reached
the door of the conference room
and there were loud cries of
“Quiet!” Fighting to keep his
emotions under control, Kilduff
said, “President John Fitz
gerald Kennedy died at approx
imately one o’clock.”
I raced into a nearby office.
The telephone switchboard at
the hospital was hopelessly
jammed.
Frustrated by the inability to
get through the hospital switch
board, I appealed to a nurse.
She led me through a maze of
corridors and back stairways to
another floor and a lone pay
booth. I got the Dallas office.
(Afterward) I ran back
through the hospital to the
conference room. There Jiggs
Fauver of the White House
transportation staff grabbed me
and said Kilduff wanted a pool
of three men immediately to fly
back to Washington on Air
Force One, the presidential
aircraft.
“He wants you downstairs,
and he wants you right now,”
Fauver said.
Down the stairs I ran and
into the driveway only to
discover Kilduff had just pulled
out in our telephone car.
Charles Roberts of Newsweek
magazine, Sid Davis of West
inghouse Broadcasting and I
implored a police officer to
take us to the airport in his
squad car.
As we piled out of the car on
the edge of the runway about
200 yards from the presidential
aircraft, Kilduff spotted us and
motioned for us to hurry. We
trotted to him and he said the
plane could take two pool men
to Washington; that Johnson
was soon to take the oath of
office aboard the plane and
would take off immediately
thereafter.
I saw a bank of telephone
booths beside the runway and
asked if I had time to advise
my news service. He said, “But
for God’s sake, hurry.”
Thai began another telephone
nightmare. The Dallas office
rang busy. I tried calling
Washington. All circuits were
busy. Then I called the New
York Bureau of UPI and told
them about the impending
installation of a new president
aboard the airplaine.
Kilduff came out of the plane
and motioned wildly toward my
booth. I slammed down the
phone and jogged across the
runway. A detective stopped
me and said, “You dropped
your pocket comb.”
Aboard Air Force One, on
which I had made so many
trips as a press association
reporter covering President
Kennedy, all of the shades of
the larger main cabin were
drawn and the interior was hot
and dimly lighted.
Kilduff propelled us to the
President’s suite two-thirds of
the way back in the plane. The
room is used normally as a
combination conference and
sitting roan and could accom
modate eight to 10 people
seated.
I wedged inside the door and
began counting. There were 27
people in • this compartment.
Johnson stood in the center
with his wife, Lady Bird. U.S.
District Judge Sarah T. Hugh
es, 67, a kindly faced woman,
stood with a small black Bible
in her hands, waiting to give
the oath.
The compartment became
hotter and hotter. Johnson was
worried that some of the
Kennedy staff might not be
able to get inside. He urged
people to press forward, but a
Signal Corps photographer,
Capt. Cecil Stoughton, standing
in the comer on a chair, said if
Johnsoi moved any closer, it
would be virtually impossible to
make a truly historic photo
graph.
It developed that Johnson
was waiting for Mrs. Kennedy,
who was composing herself in a
small bedroom in the rear of
the plane. She appeared alone,
dressed in the same pink wool
suit she had worn in the
morning when she appeared so
happy shaking hands with
airport crowds at the side of
her husband.
She was white-faced but dry
eyed. Friendly hands stretched
toward her as she stumbled
slightly. Johnson took both of
her hands in his and motioned
her to his left side. Lady Bird
stood on his right, a fixed half
smile showing the tension.
Johnson nodded to Judge
Hughes, an old friend of his
family and a Kennedy appoin
tee.
“Hold up your right hand and
repeat after me,” the woman
jurist said to Johnson.
Outside a jet could be heard
droning into a landing.
Judge Hughes held out the
Bible and Johnson covered it
with his large left hand. His
right arm went slowly into the
air and the jurist began to
intone the constitutional oath,
“I solemnly swear I will
faithfully execute the office of
President of the United Sta
tes...”
The brief ceremony ended
when Johnson, in a deep, firm
voice, repeated after the judge,
"... So help me God.”
Johnson turned first to his
wife, hugged her about the
shoulders and kissed her on the
cheek. Then he turned to
Kennedy’s widow, put his left
arm around her and kissed her
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Page 13
— Griffin Daily News Wednesday, November 21, 1973
cheek.
As others in the group—some
Texas Democratic House mem
bers, members of the Johnson
and Kennedy staffs—moved
toward the new President, he
seemed to back away from any
expression of felicitation.
The two-minute ceremony
concluded at 3:38 p.m. EST and
seconds later, the President
said firmly, “Now, let’s get
airborne.”
Col. James Swindal, pilot of
the plane, a big gleaming silver
and blue fan-jet, cut on the
starboard engines immediately.
Several persons, including Sid
Davis of Westinghouse, left the
plane at that time. The White
House had room for only two
pool reporters on the return
flight and these posts were
filled by Roberts and me,
although at the moment we
could find no empty seats.
At 3:47 p.m. EST, the wheels
of Air Force One cleared the
runway. Swindal roared the big
ship up to an unusually high
cruising altitude of 41,000 feet,
where at 625 miles an hour,
ground speed, the jet hurtled
toward Andrews Air Force
Base.
When the President’s plane
reached operating altitude,
Mrs. Kennedy left her bed
chamber and walked to the
rear compartment of the plane.
This was the so-called family
living room, a private area
where she and Kennedy, family
and friends had spent many
happy airborne hours chatting
and dining together.
Kennedy’s casket had been
placed in this compartment,
carried aboard by a group of
Secret Service agents.
Mrs. Kennedy went into the
rear lounge and took a chair
beside the coffin. There she
remained throughout the flight.
Her vigil was shared at times
by four staff members close to
the slain chief executive: David
Powers, his buddy and personal
assistant; Kenneth P. O’Don
nell, appointments secretary
and key political adviser;
Lawrence O’Brien, chief Kenne
dy liaison man with Congress,
and Brig. Gen. Godfrey
McHugh, Kennedy’s Air Force
aide.
Kennedy’s military aide, Maj.
Gen. Chester V. Clifton, was
busy most of the trip in the
forward areas of the plane,
sending messages and making
arrangements for arrival
ceremonies and movement of
the body to Bethesda Naval
Hospital.
As the flight progressed,
Johnson walked back into the
main compartment. My porta
ble typewriter was lost some
where around the hospital and I
was writing on an oversized
electric typewriter which Ken
nedy’s personal secretary, Mrs.
Evelyn Lincoln, had used to
type his speech texts.
Johnson came up to the table
where Roberts and I were
trying to record the history we
had just witnessed.
“I’m going to make a short
statement in a few minutes and
give you copies of it,” he said.
“Then when I get on the
ground, I’ll do it over again.”
It was the first public
utterance of the new chief
executive, brief and moving.
When the plane was about 45
minutes from Washington, the
new President got on a special
radio-telephone and placed a
call to Mrs. Rose Kennedy, the
late President’s mother.
“I wish to God there was
something I could do,” he told
her, “I just wanted you to know
that.”
Then Mrs. Johnson wanted to
talk to the elder Mrs. Kennedy.
“We feel like the heart has
been cut out of us,” Mrs.
Johnsen said. She broke down
for a moment and began to sob.
Recovering in a few seconds,
she added, “Our love and our
prayers are with you.”
Thirty minutes out of Wa
shington, Johnson put in a call
for Nellie Connally, wife of the
seriously wounded Texas gover
nor.
The new President said to the
governor’s wife:
“We are praying for you,
darling, and I know that
everything is going to be all
right, isn’t it? Give him a hug
and a kiss for me.”
It was dark when Air Force
One began to skim over the
lights of the Washington area,
lining up for a landing at
Andrews Air Force Base. The
plane touched down at 5:59
p.m. EST.
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