A flash from Dallas

These two images are of the original UPI broadcast newswire report on the shooting and death of JFK. (Photos © Don Dale)

On Nov. 22, 1963, I was in the WTVR TV announce booth when word came that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas.

The booth was across the hall from TV master control. There was enough room for a chair and a desk, nothing else. On the desk were an intercom to master control, a video monitor, a goose-neck lamp and a notebook full of scripts for station IDs, promo tag-lines and commercials. On the wall was a Western Union clock and an "on air" light.

In 1963, WTVR TV was still broadcasting old "Amos and Andy" episodes at 1 p.m., and they inevitably ran short. My job -- before I began my afternoon show on WMBG -- was to do a brief live UPI headline newscast from the booth to round out the half hour. Then I would stay in place at 1:30 to record that evening's station IDs and promo-tags.

It was an ordinary Friday. I did the live newscast and the 1:30 live station ID. In master control, the director punched up "As the World Turns."

At about 1:35, we started recording the night's TV breaks. The light would go on. I'd say, "This is WTVR TV, the South's first television station -- Channel 6 in Richmond. It's eight o'clock." The light would go off. Except after I had recorded one break, the light didn't go off. I waited, trying not to make any noise, but the light stayed on. I looked at the monitor. An image on the screen said "CBS News Bulletin." I was curious, but the light was still on, so I sat silently in the booth.

After another 30 seconds passed, I decided that I would exit the booth as quietly as possible in case my mike was actually still live and go across the hall to see what was going on. When I opened the master control door, I heard Walter Cronkite's voice saying that President Kennedy had been shot. I was, like everyone else, stunned.

A minute or so later, I began to wonder if WMBG and WCOD had picked up on the news from the ABC network. I tore down the hallway to the WCOD control room and checked the monitor for both radio stations. Nothing but music -- light classics on WCOD, and on WMBG, deejay Bob Powell was playing Steve Lawrence's recording of "Walking Proud."

To get on the air quickly, I threw a switch on the WCOD console that gave me control of both radio stations and took a deep breath before saying, "We interrupt this program with a bulletin. President Kennedy has been seriously wounded, perhaps fatally, by a gunman in Dallas. We now join the ABC radio network for details."

The truth is, I didn't have a clue about whether ABC was broadcasting any details. But I knew that I didn't have any other information to offer, so I threw the switch and hoped. Fortunately, the radio network was just beginning its coverage.

Bob Powell came roaring out of the WMBG studio asking why the hell I had cut him off in mid-broadcast. Then he was struck dumb by the news he was hearing from ABC. Slowly, staff members from all three stations made their way to the WCOD control room. Because the station was mainly automated, it was the least-used studio in the building. But within minutes it was full of people listening silently. Some were sobbing.

Bob Powell sat down at the WCOD control board, which was still feeding to both transmitters, although he knew his job would be limited to identifying the two stations on the hour and half-hour. I went back to TV master control to see what CBS was doing. That's where I was when Walter Cronkite, still in shirtsleeves, took off his glasses and said that President Kennedy had died in Parkland Hospital just after 2:30 p.m. Eastern time, 1:30 p.m. Central time in Dallas.

I walked back to the wire room to see how UPI had handled the story. I later learned that Merriman Smith, the UPI reporter in the president's Dallas motorcade, had grabbed the press car's only mobile telephone and fed the story to UPI headquarters in Chicago. He refused to give up the phone, and UPI scored a clear beat over AP. There it all was on the teletype machine in our offices: from "Flash -- Kennedy seriously wounded" at 12:38 p.m. Central Standard Time to "Flash -- President dead" at 1:35 p.m. CST. Nobody had bothered to tear the copy, since we were sticking with the networks, so I gathered it all up in one complete roll and took it home. That's where the images above come from. That roll contains the first draft of the history of the JFK assassination.

We didn't know it then, but it would be Tuesday morning before the three stations would broadcast anything resembling normal programming. WTVR TV news director Bruce Miller and his small staff would occasionally interrupt CBS coverage to broadcast short reports of local reaction and cancellations. But the networks mobilized for 24-hour coverage -- live reports from Dallas on LBJ taking the oath of office on Air Force One at Love Field, Dan Rather's live reports from Parkland Hospital, details of Lee Harvey Oswald's arrest in a suburban Dallas movie theater, JFK's casket being loaded onto Air Force One at Love Field, Jackie Kennedy in a blood-stained pink suit on the tarmac, the plane's journey back to D.C., LBJ's terse -- but apparently deeply felt -- speech on arriving at Andrews Air Force Base, the awkward unloading of JFK's casket from the plane, and the autopsy at Bethesda Naval Hospital.

I spent almost every waking hour at the station Friday and Saturday. There wasn't much for me to do, but I wanted to be there. I was riveted by the coverage. I was a journalism major, and I was fascinated by the technical and professional details of the coverage of the biggest story of my lifetime. I had just turned 21 years old.

When I finally headed home late Friday night, it was chilly and misty in Richmond. The streets were as deserted as they are on Christmas morning. Businesses, restaurants, movie theaters -- they had all closed. But churches were open, and worshippers attended services or just gathered to pray. At Boulevard and Broad, the big People's drug store was open, but the parking lot was empty. When I got home, my parents were watching Walter Cronkite, who had found time to put on a coat and tie. I remember wondering when he'd done that.

Saturday, I spent most of the day at the station. There was little traffic. Many businesses remained closed. In the WCOD studio -- and this struck me as sheer silliness -- one executive kept asking staffers what music WCOD should play when network coverage ended. It wouldn't end for another 48 hours, but he wanted to be ready. It's odd, sometimes, what the mind will focus on in times of emotional upheaval.

On Saturday night, I stopped by my fraternity house, Phi Delta Theta, at the University of Richmond. All of the fraternity brothers were watching Cronkite. Details of the JFK lying in state and the funeral were beginning to emerge. Officials said they expected enormous crowds in D.C. on Sunday. Several of my fraternity brothers and I organized a trip to Washington. We wanted to see the president's casket and pay our respects.

Dressed in coat and tie, we drove to D.C. Sunday morning and luckily found a parking spot near the Mall. At 9 a.m., we joined a line that stretched many blocks into the Capitol. It moved at a somber pace, and we began to speculate that it might be dark before we made it into the Rotunda.

Someone in line ahead of us had a transistor radio, and we could hear continuing coverage of the assassination and its aftermath. Just past noon, we heard reports that Oswald had been shot in Dallas. The tenor of the crowd changed. Some were frightened at hearing about still another violent murder in Dallas. Some began to cry. We were all shocked. The line seemed to stop moving. By about 4 p.m., it became clear to me and my fraternity brothers that we would not likely get anywhere near the Rotunda until late that night, so we decided to give up and go back to Richmond.

It was quiet in the car as we drove south, and that's when the enormity of what was happening stopped being just a news story for me and began to be personal. It was the first time I allowed myself to feel my own reactions, and I was devastated. The whole world, it seemed, had changed completely.

Back at the fraternity house Sunday night, we watched TV as people passed by Kennedy's coffin and Cronkite provided updates on plans for Monday's funeral. Jackie Kennedy had decided that JFK would be buried at Arlington National Cemetery, and she wanted an eternal flame.

On Monday, I watched the funeral at the Phi Delt house. The image of John-John saluting on the steps of the church sticks in my mind. Another unforgettable image was the long-lens camera-shot from a hillside in Arlington as the funeral cortege made its way slowly across the Potomac with the Lincoln Memorial in the background. We watched as Jackie Kennedy lit the eternal flame with a taper and JFK's brothers, Robert and Teddy, symbolically did the same.

And then it was over.

It would be 40 years before I visited JFK's grave at Arlington. My friend Walter's mother was being buried beside Walter's father in Arlington Cemetery. Frank Foery, the man who taught me to appreciate a manhattan, had been a retired Army lieutenant colonel, a veteran of World War II.

I arrived early, and while I was waiting, I walked over to see the Kennedy grave and the eternal flame. It's a peaceful site. The grave itself is on a slight hill with a beautiful view of Washington across the river. Nearby are quotations from President Kennedy's inaugural address, including the one we know so well: "And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you -- ask what you can do for your country." The grave marker is a spare marble tablet. It reads:

John Fitzgerald Kennedy
1917-1963