Killing Kennedy: The End of Camelot Part 25

The children attending church this Sunday morning cannot possibly know that four members of the Ku Klux Klan have planted a box of dynamite near the bas.e.m.e.nt. So the explosion that shatters the spiritual calm of the church service is completely unexpected. The force of the blast is so great that it doesn't just destroy the bas.e.m.e.nt, but also blows out the back wall of the church and destroys every stained-gla.s.s window in the building-all but one. That lone surviving window portrays an image of Jesus Christ ministering to a group of small children.

The window is symbolic in a sense, because almost all of the children in the bas.e.m.e.nt this Sunday morning survive the horrific tragedy. However, four of them-Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, and Denise McNair-do not.

Their dream has come to an end.

SEPTEMBER 2, 1963.

HYANNIS PORT, Ma.s.sACHUSETTS.

NOON.

"Oh, G.o.d," reads a small plaque given to the president, "thy sea is so great and my boat is so small."

On this Labor Day, John Kennedy sees a small boat bobbing in the distance as he removes his American Optical Saratoga sungla.s.ses and eases himself into a wicker chair on the gra.s.s of Brambletyde's beachfront yard. Sitting directly across from the president, CBS journalist Walter Cronkite does the same, preparing for one of the biggest TV interviews of his life. Today the subject is the rough waters and turbulent swells being navigated by the president of the United States. Both men wear dark suits, even as the September sun beats directly down on them. Cronkite crosses his legs, while Kennedy's are stretched out in front of him. The wind messes up JFK's carefully combed hair, forcing him to reach up absentmindedly every few minutes to press it back into place. The balding Cronkite has no such problem.

At forty-six, roughly the same age as Kennedy, Walter Cronkite is considered the nation's premier television newsman. He and the president have an easy rapport, and JFK is so comfortable that he leans back in his cushioned chair during parts of the interview, just as he does when thinking over a tough problem in the Oval Office.

The two men casually banter as they are miked for sound and then sit quietly opposite each other as the final ten seconds before taping are counted down. Cronkite acknowledges an off-camera signal, and the interview begins.

The broadcaster aims his questions at JFK in a delivery that alternates between baritone rumble and easy drawl. His interviewing style is disarming and even warm, no matter how sharp his queries. As a result, Kennedy remains completely at ease. The interview sounds like a conversation between two friends well-informed about American politics. And truth be told, that isn't far from Cronkite's mind-set. He is a devoted Democrat, although he skillfully hides that fact from his viewing audience.

"Do you think you'll lose some Southern states in '64?" Cronkite asks.

"Well I lost some in '60, so I suppose I'll lose some in, uh, maybe more in '64," Kennedy smiles wistfully, forced to reveal a painful political weakness. Cronkite is letting Americans in on a secret known only to pollsters and veteran politicians. "I don't know. It's too early to tell, but I would think we were, I'm not sure that, uh, I'm the most popular figure in the country today in the South. But that's all right. I think we're going to have to wait and see a year and a half from now..."

There is now a fighting spirit in the president's eyes. The mere talk of the next election excites him. He loves the thrill of the political battle. JFK also loves being president. He is an adrenaline junkie, relishing the rush of competing for power.

Cronkite presses the president. "What do you think the issues might be in '64?"

"Well, of course, abroad would be the security of the United States. Our effort to maintain that security. To maintain the cause of freedom. At home I think it's the economy. Jobs. Opportunity for all Americans."

The president, without consulting notes, then rattles off a long list of statistics. He presses for a tax cut, to ward off a recession, he says, and backs it up with detailed financial specifics about the way in which cutting taxes would stimulate the economy.

Cronkite finally gets around to the touchy subject of Vietnam. With every pa.s.sing day, Americans are becoming more concerned about U.S. involvement in that troubled nation. The ongoing and well-publicized oppression of the Buddhists has made some Americans forget that communism is the primary reason U.S. troops are in Vietnam. There are growing cries for America to leave Southeast Asia and let the Vietnamese fight their own war.

"Everyone has said the administration would apply diplomacy in Vietnam," Cronkite begins, emphasizing the second syllable with a short letter a ("NAM" as in ram). "Which I'd a.s.sumed we'd been trying all along. What can we do in this situation that seems to parallel other famous debacles of dealing with unpopular governments?"

Cronkite has a soothing on-camera presence that television viewers have grown to trust. The president knows that convincing this newsman of his views on Vietnam is the same as convincing the voters watching at home.

"The war is going better," JFK begins. "But that doesn't mean that the events of the last two months aren't very ominous. I don't think that if greater effort isn't made by the government, that the war can be won out there. In the final a.n.a.lysis, it's their war. They're the ones who have to win it or lose it."

The president stops short of saying that U.S. troops should be removed, despite the fact that dozens of Americans have already been killed fighting another country's battles. He voices his concerns that if Vietnam falls to the Communists, then so will the rest of Asia. JFK lists the countries that will topple, beginning with Thailand and continuing all the way to India. "We're in a desperate struggle with the Communist situation," he insists, "and I don't want Asia to pa.s.s into the control of the Chinese."

Kennedy's voice intensifies, showing his disdain for both Vietnam's president Diem and those enemies that would spread communism around the world. This is not the John Kennedy whom some consider to be an affable young man who was elected based on good looks and his father's money. JFK has grown into a true world leader. He combines discipline with a powerful work ethic, knowledge, guts, and compa.s.sion.

The interview ends after twenty minutes. The president immediately pulls his sungla.s.ses from his breast pocket and slips them back on. He and Cronkite make small talk about the cost of producing a half-hour television show, but their attention soon turns to a small sunfish sailboat skimming lazily across the water. It is a dot on a sea that stretches endlessly across the horizon. Both men are sailors, fascinated by the water.

The weather in the bay is calm. Turbulence is not far away. Nevertheless, the interview has gone flawlessly. The president can now relax with his family for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying a time of peace amid all the sadness and turmoil of the previous month.

Kennedy and Cronkite shift the conversation to sailing until it is time to remove their microphones. Inside Brambletyde, just a few feet away, a grieving Jackie Kennedy hides from the cameras-and the world. The president has been spending more time not just with Jackie, but with Caroline and John, too, swimming in the ocean, allowing them to ride in the presidential helicopter, and attending Caroline's riding lessons. The president has urged his wife to put on a brave face for the media, but she's just not ready.

However, Jackie will soon break her self-imposed seclusion. She has decided to spend a few weeks in Greece with her sister, Lee Radziwill, in order to ease her mourning. The mere thought of that trip, which is still a month away, brings a rare smile to the First Lady's face.

Walter Cronkite and John Kennedy say good-bye. And on this perfect Labor Day afternoon, with the wind blowing in off the Atlantic and the sun warming their faces, neither man can possibly know that it will be Cronkite who will appear on national television in just twelve weeks to make an announcement that will shock the world.

SEPTEMBER 25, 1963.

BILLINGS, MONTANA.

LATE AFTERNOON.

November 21 and 22 are looming.

Those dates reside in the back of John F. Kennedy's mind as he stands in the rodeo ring at the Yellowstone County Fairgrounds, addressing an overflow crowd. Billings, Montana, has a population of just fifty-three thousand, and it appears as if every single citizen has come out to cheer on the president. A marching band only adds to the pageantry.

"The potential of this country is unlimited," Kennedy begins, and it's almost as if he is talking about himself. In the past five days alone, he has helped Montana's farmers by approving a ma.s.sive wheat sale to the Soviet Union, brokered a global ban on the testing of nuclear weapons, cut income taxes, and even stood before the UN General a.s.sembly promising to send men to the moon. JFK's speech that day was so outstanding that even the Soviets applauded.

The sunlight is fading but still warm as the president speaks in the open-air dirt arena, the Rocky Mountains towering in the near distance. The day smells like autumn. Kennedy's coat and tie look stiff compared to the jeans and cowboy boots worn by many in the audience, and his Boston accent is almost jarring in this iconic western setting. And when Kennedy speaks about the wonders of the American West, he quotes Henry David Th.o.r.eau-a man from Ma.s.sachusetts who never crossed the Mississippi.

But the good people of Montana don't mind a bit. They hang on the president's every word, thrilled that John Fitzgerald Kennedy has come to their town as part of his eleven-state swing through the West. The president's focus is on shoring up support for his upcoming campaign. Back in 1960, Nevada was the only western state Kennedy carried. Not only did he lose Montana and its four electoral votes, but Yellowstone County voted against JFK by a margin of 60 percent to 38 percent.

But that was three years ago.

Today, the president was mobbed when Air Force One landed at the Billings airport. Men and women of all ages pressed forward to shake his hand. Kennedy, much to the chagrin of his Secret Service bodyguards, put his life at risk by eagerly wading into the crowd. He knew that nothing would make these people happier than to go home tonight and say they had touched the president. Thousands lined the motorcade route to the fairgrounds, including men on horseback.

It would seem that JFK might just win Montana if the election were held tomorrow. And success in the West is a vital part of Kennedy's reelection strategy. A victory in Texas, for example, would almost guarantee his victory in 1964.

And so Appointments Secretary Kenny O'Donnell has selected November 21 and 22 as the likely dates of Kennedy's eagerly antic.i.p.ated Texas fund-raising trip.

The president envisions a grand tour of the state, with stops in five major cities: San Antonio, Fort Worth, Dallas, Houston, and Austin. Texas governor John Connally, the conservative Democrat who has been maintaining a discreet political distance from the president, is quietly in favor of a less ambitious itinerary. Dallas, for instance, is not Kennedy territory. It is a city where "K.O. the Kennedys" b.u.mper stickers are displayed. And parlor games about "Which Kennedy do you hate the most?" are commonplace. Children boo the president's name in cla.s.srooms, and a popular local poster of Kennedy designed to look like a mug shot bears the inscription "Wanted for Treason. This Man Is Wanted for Treasonous Activities Against the United States."

Even more ominous are the pro-a.s.sa.s.sination jokes-a situation made all the more troubling by the extraordinary murder rate in Dallas. More murders are committed in Texas than any other state, and more homicides occur in Dallas than anywhere else in Texas. The state does not regulate or register firearms, and 72 percent of the murders are by gunshot.

There is no question that John F. Kennedy's visit to the "Southwest hate capital of Dixie," as Dallas has been called, is fraught with complications.

The president will discuss this issue, along with other details of the trip, with John Connally next week at the White House. In yet another confirmation that Lyndon Johnson has no place in John Kennedy's future plans, the vice president has been neither invited to that meeting nor even told it will take place.

One statistic about the Texas trip is most glaring of all: more than 62 percent of Dallas voters rejected John Kennedy in 1960.

But JFK loves a challenge. If Billings, Montana, can be won over, then why not the "Big D"?

Meanwhile, at the exact same time President Kennedy is speaking in Montana, Lee Harvey Oswald is already on his way to Texas-and beyond. Dressed in casual slacks and a zippered jacket, Oswald rides Continental Trailways bus 5121 bound for Houston. From there he will change buses and travel due south to Mexico City. Unlike the American forces (which included among them a young Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee) that took a year to make that journey during the Mexican-American War of 1846, Oswald will make the trip in just one day.