The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins
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for their almost daily attention and care in recent years. A very heartfelt and personal thanks to my sitter Millie Boihem and especially to my caregiver and friend Kent Bossier, who has gone far beyond the call of duty with my daily care. Thank you for everything; I could not have done it without you.
My brother priests have provided me with wonderful spiritual and intellectual support in this endeavor and in many others, especially Rev. Msgr. Clinton Doskey, Rev. Msgr. Charles Duke, Rev. Msgr. Crosby Kern, Rev. Adrian Hall, and Deacons Butch Shartle, Nelvin Luke, Jack Finn, Ricky Suprean, and Acolytes Jay Frantz and Jay Weil. These men have also helped me with the daily celebration of Mass in recent years, and I thank them.
Archbishop Francis Schulte, Archbishop Alfred Hughes, and Archbishop Gregory Aymond have been confidants and great friends. May the Lord continue to bless them and the people of Louisiana.
And finally my wonderful family — my nieces and nephews, especially those who have spent time with me in New Orleans over the last several years, including Peggy Hannan Laramie, Michael and Kathy Hannan, Tom Hannan, Paul Hannan, J.T. Hannan, Kara Hannan McGinn, and Kate Hannan.
My brothers and sister provided much of the material for this book, and I love them for it — Thomas Hannan, Dr. Francis Hannan, Mary Hannan Mahoney, William T. Hannan, Denis Hannan, and John Hannan.
My brother Patrick “Jerry” Hannan has helped me in more ways than I can count; profuse thanks to him.
And, finally, this book is dedicated to my parents, Patrick F. Hannan and Lilian Hannan. I still think about them every day.
CHAPTER 1
The Funeral of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy
November 25, 1963. As I slowly climbed the familiar steps to the elevated pulpit in the Cathedral of St. Matthew in Washington, D.C., I felt as numb and emotionally exhausted as every other American struggling to make sense of the stunningly brutal murder of the thirty-fifth President of the United States, John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
My own grieving, however, would have to wait. First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy had asked that I deliver the eulogy for her husband — and my friend. Though I had presided over hundreds of funerals in my thirty years as a priest and bishop, nothing had prepared me for today. More than a religious good-bye, this was the world’s wake, a seminal moment in American history, beamed by television to every corner of a globe still reeling in shock and disbelief. Three days earlier John Kennedy — America’s first Catholic, and, arguably, most charismatic president, a statesman of vigor, vision, virtue, and vice — had been brutally gunned down as his motorcade crawled along the cheering, crowd-lined streets of Dallas, killed by a twenty-four-year-old sharpshooter brandishing a rifle.
And though, of course, he was my President, ours had been a more personal relationship. Having met the dashing war hero and wealthy, if unknown Massachusetts congressman in the late forties, our friendship had continued into the White House where — when Catholic doctrine jousted with political instincts — I, secretly, counseled him. And now, at just forty-six, four years younger than I, he was dead from three fatal gunshots.
Taking my place behind the raised pulpit, I glanced down on his coffin, draped in the American flag, resting in the center aisle at the foot of the sanctuary. To get my bearings, I scanned the sea of black, searching for Jackie who with Bobby on one side, Ted the other, sat erect and composed, her fatigued, red eyes concealed behind a nearly opaque ebony veil. The remainder of the pew, meanwhile, was filled with sisters: Jack’s — Eunice, Jean, and Pat — as well as Jackie’s — Lee Radziwill — all so youthful it was hard to fathom that they were attending the funeral of a husband, brother, peer.
Behind the Kennedy family, a staggering array of the world’s powerful, accomplished, wealthy, famous (and not), headed up by newly sworn-in President Lyndon Johnson and his wife Lady Bird, were packed into every conceivable corner of St. Matthew’s. Rushing to Washington, they had gathered on this brilliant, sun-saturated fall day to sit in somber attendance on the lone casket in the center aisle — with the exception, that is, of French President, Charles De Gaulle. Having insisted on honoring the French tradition of standing during a Requiem Mass, the six-foot, five-inch De Gaulle loomed, a Gallic lighthouse in the storm, over those around him — ignoring FBI warnings that (due to threats on his life) he presented the perfect target for an assassin’s bullet.
To the millions transfixed on the television coverage, the seating arrangement undoubtedly seemed perfectly choreographed. But that was hardly the case. As mourners filed into the cathedral, confusion reigned. Not having buried a sitting president since Franklin Roosevelt in 1945, the woefully unprepared State Department had scrambled to stage an event of this magnitude and speed. With only three days to issue — and RSVP — invitations, the harried officials had no idea which dignitaries would actually show up, resulting in a rash of security and diplomatic faux pas — my own included. Overwhelmed, the ushers and Secret Service accidentally sat two former presidents — Harry Truman and Dwight Eisenhower — on a side, not center aisle, unable to be seen. Consequently, I left both out of my salutation.
But then, I wasn’t supposed to be standing here in the first place. Had the Kennedys followed Church protocol, it would have been the archbishop of Washington, Archbishop Patrick A. O’Boyle, not I — a chancellor serving under him — giving the eulogy. In truth, my seven years as the auxiliary bishop of the Washington Archdiocese placed me squarely on the lower end of the ecclesiastical totem pole. And, per Church hierarchy, the archbishop of Washington should have been asked to deliver the eulogy for the archdiocese’s most important Catholic. But Jackie had other ideas. Because of my long-standing, personal relationship with her husband, she sent word through Sargent Shriver, husband of Jack’s sister Eunice, that she wanted me to deliver the remarks. And it was definitely her call. Behind Jackie’s gentle, demure demeanor was a will of iron, readily enforced, if necessary, in the strongest possible terms. The First Lady wanted neither a lengthy service nor sermon — ten minutes at most. So when Sarge pointed out (during a family discussion) that, technically, it was Archbishop O’Boyle’s job, she dug in her heels.
“Absolutely not,” she snapped, dismissing his second attempt. “It’s going to be Hannan or no one. If they ask, just tell them I got hysterical and you couldn’t straighten me out.” Though incredibly honored, if flabbergasted, to learn of her decision, it put me in a real bind — immediately alleviated by the graciousness of Archbishop O’Boyle. Deep down, he must have been deeply hurt at being passed over in this sacred responsibility for his auxiliary bishop. But, if so, he shared none of his personal disappointment with me. From start to finish, he was completely noble.
As fate would have it, the Archbishop and I had been together in Rome, attending the second session of the Vatican Council, when I heard the terrible news that President Kennedy had been assassinated. As a member of the American Bishops Committee, I conducted a daily afternoon press conference, along with a panel of U.S. bishops and Church experts, for the hundreds of media covering the Council. That day, after finishing, I headed back to the Hotel Eden. Walking into the lobby, I was assaulted by the palpable rage and frustration in the air. Spotting me, an elegant Frenchman, trailed by four others, rushed up, asking in perfect English, “What does this mean? This tragedy is an outrage. Is it a Communist plot?”
“What happened?” I asked.
“President Kennedy was killed. He was shot. Did the Communists do it?” Before I could answer, a second voice piped in, and a third, all echoing the same question, same lament.
Immobilized by inertia, I could not, did not, want to believe what I was hearing. My first instinct was to deny. Surely, there had been a mistake … these people didn’t know what they were talking about! But their anger was real — and convincing. “No … no … I don’t know who did it,” I finally stammered. “As you can see, I’m coming from a session of the Council.” We stood in bewildered silence. Seconds later, as if snapping out of a trance, I suddenly became aware of other clusters of puzzled, panicked faces … the instantaneous camaraderie being forged among strangers, united by their need to know: “Who did it? Was it the Communists?”
Threading through the crowd to