The Day Kennedy Was Shot (18 page)

It was obvious to Jove that, in flight, the three presidential planes had spread farther apart. They had taken off from Carswell at two-minute intervals but radar showed that the Clipper had come in a little faster; the Vice-President's
AF-2
had swung wide to the right which gave it additional space; and Colonel Swindal had climbed to 7,000 feet to ease the moderate turbulence and had held the speed down to a minimum.

Mr. Jove liked that. A little spacing never hurt any aircraft. He was a dark, wavy-haired man with an office below the tower, but he wanted to be in the tower this time. Two weeks ago, the Air Force had sent Major Charles Nedbal to Jove to work out the entire procedure. It was a nothing flight, from nowhere to nowhere in no time, but Nedbal wanted to know where the fire trucks and ambulance would be stationed, whether they could follow the plane on an apron runway without being hit by jet blast, who would man the “Follow Me” jeep, what turns would be made, and where each of the three planes would come to rest.

He also had to know and report on departure procedures when the President had finished his Trade Mart speech; what gate; what minute of what hour; what commercial jets might be taking off or landing at or near Love Field at 2:45
P.M.;
when he could have a weather projection for November 22, 1963, and what would be the three favored flight plans direct to Bergstrom Air Force Base at Austin, Texas.

Jove answered the questions. Even service trucks with fuel for airliners were to be ruled off the runways, aprons, and roads from a half hour before the flight from Fort Worth until Colonel Swindal brought his plane to the parking area at Gate 24 and called an all clear after he stopped his engines. Jove was proud
of the airport. It was modern and as flat as a good billiard table. It ran over two miles between Mockingbird Lane and Bachman Lake and a mile and a half in the other direction from New Lemmon Avenue to Denton Drive.

The terminal was in the middle, between runways. There was a huge lobby, full of shops and restaurants, and a bronze statue of a Texas Ranger. There was a parking area for 1,666 automobiles, but it was not enough and there was contention between the police and the residents. Love was used by several airlines; the main ones were American, Braniff, Delta, and Eastern. Mr. Jove used his binoculars and could see mechanics on the opposite side of the field dropping work to come out on the apron.

The Clipper threaded the line down Lemmon Avenue, came in over the fence, and used a little runway before dropping with a screech of rubber to the concrete. The time was 11:29
A.M.
It ran a little way down and then the skipper closed his “clams” and threw the engines into reverse. No problem. The shriek overpowered all other sound, then died to a whisper as the skipper made a left onto taxiway 14 and back up on 16. He was moving past the tower as Jack Jove picked up
AF-2
coming in on final and heard his men, now divided between telling the Clipper where to park and working the Vice-President's plane down over Lemmon Avenue.

It made an ideal landing at 11:33 and was parked before
AF-1
came in at 11:39. The Johnsons and their guests had disembarked and been greeted by the Dallas mayor and council before the striking blue and white of aircraft 26000, gleaming in sunlight, came to a stop on runway 31 and watched the little “Follow Me” truck lead it to the nest. The crowd behind the turnbuckle fence was bigger than anticipated, and Channel One of the police department was busy reassigning men to the congested areas.

All of it seemed to be leisurely and jolly, but there was a
surge of excitement which permeated even the jaded. This was the event, and it was a predictable one, but it carried a thrill which could not be suppressed. The crowd behind the fence was screaming and the people were jumping up and down. In the tower, Jove told himself that it was an uneventful landing, but his stomach convulsed when he thought: here is the President of the United States. The press hurried to places behind a roped area on the field. Secret Service men coming off the first plane were met by Winston Lawson, who sent some directly to the Trade Mart.

Along the airport fence was a long line of silent limousines, peopled with chauffeurs. The three monster birds stood almost together as they disgorged people, some of whom ran while others walked. Inside the rear of
AF-1
, the President fingered the knot of his tie and Kenny O'Donnell threaded his way toward him with good news. He whispered that Governor Connally had been impressed by the crowds and had said of Kennedy: “If he wants Yarborough at the head table, that's where Yarborough will sit.”

Mr. Kennedy was pleased. “Terrific,” he murmured. “That makes the whole trip worthwhile.” Mrs. Kennedy, hearing the news, smiled. If it was good news for Jack it was good news for her. Down on the hot concrete, Vice-President Johnson led the state and local delegation over to
AF-1
. A runner rug was rolled to the ramp; Mrs. Johnson had a bouquet, and all faces turned up to the curved door of the plane. A flick of the hand from the White House advance man, Winston Lawson, and the drivers started the engines of the automobiles.

The door opened and Mrs. Kennedy, radiant in pink, stood in view. Air Force personnel at the foot of the ramp came to attention and saluted. The crowd shouted from behind the fence as she inched carefully down the thirteen steps, a gloved hand on the railing, the other holding the pink handbag, the dark face alight with appreciation. Behind her, the President stepped slowly, glancing down at Lyndon Johnson with a “What? You
again?” grin. There was no smile on the face of Connally as he held his big cowboy hat in his left hand and assisted Nellie with his right.

Behind them, Agent-in-Charge Roy Kellerman preceded the congressional delegation. He had to remain close to the President and, at the same time, establish immediate contact with Lawson. Mr. Kennedy was shaking hands with the Johnsons. The press was protesting that the ropes represented too small an enclosure to see anything; television cameras, like boxy turtles, slowly followed the action; Mrs. Kennedy was presented with a bouquet of velvet-red roses; Governor Connally walked swiftly ahead of Mr. Kennedy to shake hands with the Dallas politicians; Secret Service agents moved from group to group, saying: “Please get in your car. Please get in your car.” Mrs. Connally smiled her sweetest as she accepted a bouquet.

Kennedy was given two charcoal portraits, one of himself and one of his wife, and he glanced at them with a studied esteem and gave them to Paul Landis, an agent. Congressman Henry Gonzalez, from the San Antonio area, walked around patting his chest and studying the crowd: “I haven't got my steel vest yet.” Dignitaries began to hurry to the automobiles and sit in the wrong ones. Kellerman got to Lawson, who said: “Your program is all set. There should be no problem here.”

Police Chief Jesse Curry stood beside the lead car, calling in that there was a slight delay in starting, but it would be less than estimated. The President drew his wife's attention to an elderly woman who sat in a wheelchair, and they paused for a moment, stooping to chat. Mr. Kennedy looked up to see the people jammed against the other side of the steel fence and he led his wife toward it, bowing and smiling. It was a friendly crowd, shouting to be seen and acknowledged, but some of the members of the press sensed hostility and a few reporters and still cameramen tried to follow the Kennedys.

Congressmen and local officials joined the President and,
in a moment, he was lost to view. Roy Kellerman elbowed his way through the throng; Clint Hill was pushed away from Mrs. Kennedy. Hundreds of hands were sticking through and over the fence and it was obvious that Mr. Kennedy, far from feeling a sense of danger, was surprised and elated at the warmth of the greeting. He “walked” his hands along the fence. His wife felt that the people were friendly but that they were “pulling” her hands. Some of the writers assumed that the President was trying to show the press that he was not afraid. Vice-President and Mrs. Johnson were part of the eddy which swirled along the fence, shaking hands. Johnson, tall and solid, looked over heads to make certain that the President had not left the fence for the car.

He was now fifty feet ahead of the motorcade, and Secret Service driver William Greer, a stocky veteran who derived pleasure from driving the President, began to inch the vehicle forward so that the Kennedys would not have far to walk. The President was tiring of the handshaking; the reaching through and over the fence would sharpen the ache in his back. He could not see that, beyond the foremost fringe of people, some high school students were holding aloft unfriendly placards: “Help Kennedy Stamp Out Democracy”; “In 1964, Goldwater and Freedom”; “Yankee Go Home”; “You're a Traitor.”

The elevator came down with the noise of an off-center disc rotating slowly. Some of the workers on the ground floor were stalling. It was almost lunchtime and they could see the people gathering all over the sunny plaza. Often, a game of dominoes proved to be exciting at lunch, but today was special. White and Negro, they took a few orders, filled them hurriedly, and prepared to finish a sandwich and coffee before the parade arrived. The elevator arrived at the ground floor and Lee Harvey Oswald got off.

He did not join the group nor seem to notice the people gath
ering outside the Texas School Book Depository. He scouted the order box and picked out three. The first was from Mrs. Hazel Carroll of the Reading Clinic at Southern Methodist University. It asked for a copy of
Parliamentary Procedure
at $1.40. The second was from M. J. Morton of the Dallas Independent School District asking for ten copies of
Basic Reading Skills for High Schools, Revised
, at $1.12 per copy. The third came from M. K. Baker, Junior High School, Reynosa, New Mexico, requesting one copy of
Basic Reading Skills for Junior High Schools.
All were published by Scott, Foresman & Company.

They were snapped onto the clipboard Oswald carried and, with the monotonous attitude of a mine mule, he went back to the elevator and started up to the sixth floor. Some of the employees went to the second floor to the little commissary to get bottles of Coke and cookies from machines. The small office force on that floor had practically quit, with the exception of a woman clerk, because the excitement of the Kennedy visit now permeated areas which had been immune to it. As Bonnie Ray Williams, Negro employee, said: “We always quit five or ten minutes before lunchtime, but today, well, all of us is so anxious to see the President—we're quitting five or ten minutes ahead of that so that we can wash up quick and not miss anything.”

Some of the fellows played the daily game of manning the two elevators—which were back to back in the middle of the Depository—and racing each other to the main floor. Today Charlie Givens had the east elevator and Bonnie Ray had the west one. At the sixth floor, each called to his friends. Givens saw Lee Harvey Oswald on the fifth floor and he yelled: “Come on, boy,” and Lee shook his head negatively. “It's near lunchtime,” Givens said.

The sullen clerk said: “No, sir. When you get downstairs, close the gate to the elevator.” This was the only elevator which could be called back up if both doors were closed at the ground
-floor level. Charlie looked to make sure that his group was inside the car, and he could hear Bonnie Ray's car moving down ahead of him, picking up other clerks. “Okay,” he said to Lee Harvey Oswald. “Okay.”

The two elevators completed their race to the main floor, and Givens patted his pockets and found that he had left his cigarettes in a jacket upstairs. Alone, he rode back up. When he reached the sixth floor, he saw Lee Harvey Oswald walking along the panel of windows facing Elm Street and the crowds below. There was nothing uncommon about it, except that Charlie Givens thought that, a moment ago, Lee had been on the fifth floor. It made no difference and they did not exchange greetings.

When Charlie got his cigarettes and ran back to the elevator, the fifth, sixth, and seventh floors of the Texas School Book Depository were, for a time, empty except for the presence of Oswald. The foreman, William H. Shelley, who had been busy supervising the laying of the sixth floor, was down in his small office next to Roy Truly's eating half his lunch. It was his habit to eat part and to finish it in mid-afternoon.

Shelley had ordered the workers to move the small book cartons along the Elm Street side of the sixth floor but had left some
First Grade Think and Do
cartons along the back wall. These cartons were four times as large as the others. Lee Harvey Oswald now moved the big cartons diagonally across to the Elm Street side, making a wall about four and a half feet high. Smaller cartons were placed inside the “wall” so that, if a man chose, he could sit on them, recessed from the window but be able to look out. As a spyglass on the motorcade, this sixth-floor window in the east corner of the building was one of the best in Dallas.

Looking straight out, across the top of Dealey Plaza, a Kennedy enthusiast could see the motorcade approaching head on along Houston Street. Then, immediately below the window,
the cars would make a left turn and run westerly, down the slope to the triple underpass, and, from the window, the happy couple in the car would veer neither to left nor right—merely grow smaller. This window was one of the rare places where a citizen could look down with a grand view of the parade on two streets, one northbound, one west.

Lunch had never been suffered with such silent speed. The men ate and hurried outside to find elevated positions on the Depository steps or on the lawn at the opposite curb for an unobstructed view. Bonnie Ray Williams thought he heard some of the fellows, like Danny Arce and Billy Lovelady and Charlie Givens and some of the other sociable “guys” say that they were going back upstairs to watch the parade.

Williams got his sandwich, and ran to the second floor and got a bottle of Dr. Pepper, then back to the elevator and up to the sixth floor. He looked around the vast barn-like floor and saw no one. It was silent. The sun sifted its beams through the rows of double windows and picked up motes of dust in the air. Bonnie Ray looked around, but none of the fellows was on the floor. He saw the everlasting cardboard cartons stacked in mounds here and there, and the cleared space where the floorworkers had knocked off for lunch, and it just seemed funny that he had beat everybody back up.