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Authors: Jim Bishop
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SS men everywhere.
One afternoon, when the Presidentâs eyes blurred, he asked to see an ophthalmologist. The Secret Service asked him to please remain in the White House until they could send men to the doctorâs office, clean out the waiting room, study the examining room, the doctor, and his nurse, and âsanitizeâ the sidewalk and the buildings on the opposite side of the street. After all this was done, Kennedy left the South Grounds with a Secret Service car ahead of him and one behind. For the President, it was beyond bearance. At the doctorâs office, he had had to sit in the car until the men in the sunglasses nodded to him that it was safe to emerge.
Gerald Behn had been running beside the Presidentâs car in Mexico City in June 1962, amid the din of a full-throated Latin welcome, when a âbeatnikâ broke the police lines and planted himself squarely before the Presidentâs car. When he saw that it would not stop, he skirted the fender with a twist of the hip like a matador avoiding horns. As the car passed, the bearded one approached President Kennedy, and Mr. Behn had knocked him down with a punch. The man had been arrestedby the Mexican police and was found to be an American with a police record. The President was angry. He told Mr. Behn that he should not have hit the man.
In a Berlin motorcade, enthused youths broke police lines and the Secret Service agents dropped off the follow-up car to interpose themselves between the President and his admirers. This also incurred presidential wrath. In Seattle, Phoenix, and Bonham, Texas, in November 1961, Mr. Kennedy ordered the Secret Service to stop riding the rear bumpers of his car. Only four days ago, in Tampa, Florida, the President looked over his shoulder and saw Special Agents Donald Lawton and Charles Zboril on the rear steps of his car and he ordered them off. The motorcade was moving too fast, so Floyd Boring radioed the follow-up car and the Presidentâs driver to slow down. The Secret Service men got off.
It was not that the President did not appreciate the protection. He didnât want it to be obvious. When he was in a good mood, he said: âProtection is Jim Rowleyâs job. He has never lost a President yet.â Mr. Kennedy knew as well as the Secret Service did that 100 percent protection is impossible. âAny man who wants to trade his life for mine . . .â The percentage of protection decreases with the daring of the âboss.â If he waves his personal police force away, he hampers its work. If he departs from schedule, or stops the motorcade to shake hands, or leaves a welcoming group to walk along the edge of a crowd shaking hands, or even if he stands still in a street of tall buildings, his percentage of protection drops to the danger point.
Now Gerald Behn had the news from Fort Worth. He could sit at his desk and worry. He could call his Chief and win understanding and sympathy. Or he could proceed with the small tasks of his office, knowing that Mr. Kennedy had always been proved right before, and the Secret Service wrong. Nothing had ever happened to him that could be called dangerous. In a dozen hours, the President would be at the LBJ ranch for a day or two,and the place was a cinch to secure. It was off the main road, and the entrances and exits were easily sealed. The nearest town, Johnson City, was about fourteen miles away. The two families would rest up, enjoy a Texas barbecue, invite some of the Johnson friends over, then take a plane back to Washington. A simple and safe procedure.
On the wall of Mr. Behnâs office hung a framed poem:
Fame is fleeting, fitful flame
Which shines a while on John Jonesâ name
And then puts John right on the spot;
The flame shines on
But John does not.
The President took a call from the White House. It was Richard Goodwin, an assistant, who said that The New York Times was about to write an article about him. Goodwin had
One afternoon, when the Presidentâs eyes blurred, he asked to see an ophthalmologist. The Secret Service asked him to please remain in the White House until they could send men to the doctorâs office, clean out the waiting room, study the examining room, the doctor, and his nurse, and âsanitizeâ the sidewalk and the buildings on the opposite side of the street. After all this was done, Kennedy left the South Grounds with a Secret Service car ahead of him and one behind. For the President, it was beyond bearance. At the doctorâs office, he had had to sit in the car until the men in the sunglasses nodded to him that it was safe to emerge.
Gerald Behn had been running beside the Presidentâs car in Mexico City in June 1962, amid the din of a full-throated Latin welcome, when a âbeatnikâ broke the police lines and planted himself squarely before the Presidentâs car. When he saw that it would not stop, he skirted the fender with a twist of the hip like a matador avoiding horns. As the car passed, the bearded one approached President Kennedy, and Mr. Behn had knocked him down with a punch. The man had been arrestedby the Mexican police and was found to be an American with a police record. The President was angry. He told Mr. Behn that he should not have hit the man.
In a Berlin motorcade, enthused youths broke police lines and the Secret Service agents dropped off the follow-up car to interpose themselves between the President and his admirers. This also incurred presidential wrath. In Seattle, Phoenix, and Bonham, Texas, in November 1961, Mr. Kennedy ordered the Secret Service to stop riding the rear bumpers of his car. Only four days ago, in Tampa, Florida, the President looked over his shoulder and saw Special Agents Donald Lawton and Charles Zboril on the rear steps of his car and he ordered them off. The motorcade was moving too fast, so Floyd Boring radioed the follow-up car and the Presidentâs driver to slow down. The Secret Service men got off.
It was not that the President did not appreciate the protection. He didnât want it to be obvious. When he was in a good mood, he said: âProtection is Jim Rowleyâs job. He has never lost a President yet.â Mr. Kennedy knew as well as the Secret Service did that 100 percent protection is impossible. âAny man who wants to trade his life for mine . . .â The percentage of protection decreases with the daring of the âboss.â If he waves his personal police force away, he hampers its work. If he departs from schedule, or stops the motorcade to shake hands, or leaves a welcoming group to walk along the edge of a crowd shaking hands, or even if he stands still in a street of tall buildings, his percentage of protection drops to the danger point.
Now Gerald Behn had the news from Fort Worth. He could sit at his desk and worry. He could call his Chief and win understanding and sympathy. Or he could proceed with the small tasks of his office, knowing that Mr. Kennedy had always been proved right before, and the Secret Service wrong. Nothing had ever happened to him that could be called dangerous. In a dozen hours, the President would be at the LBJ ranch for a day or two,and the place was a cinch to secure. It was off the main road, and the entrances and exits were easily sealed. The nearest town, Johnson City, was about fourteen miles away. The two families would rest up, enjoy a Texas barbecue, invite some of the Johnson friends over, then take a plane back to Washington. A simple and safe procedure.
On the wall of Mr. Behnâs office hung a framed poem:
Fame is fleeting, fitful flame
Which shines a while on John Jonesâ name
And then puts John right on the spot;
The flame shines on
But John does not.
The President took a call from the White House. It was Richard Goodwin, an assistant, who said that The New York Times was about to write an article about him. Goodwin had
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