School and home remained disconnected worlds for me. Apart from the usual parental demands such as “Get your homework done” at home, my family members never discussed anything about history, math, geography, or government, civics, or politics. We rarely watched the local news, much less national news, and we did not subscribe to either of Houston’s two newspapers. Although they were US citizens, my parents never voted during my childhood. Civic involvement was not a priority to my parents. They focused on making a living and feeding eight kids. Clearly, my later interest in law and government were acquired tastes.
My freshman year at a new school, Douglas MacArthur High School, got off to a rough start, perhaps because of my last name. I was placed in a number of remedial classes, but determined to prove myself, I worked harder. By the end of that year, I had turned things around, earning As and Bs. During my sophomore year, I was also successful on the athletic fields. Although I was relatively small, I was agile and fast, and I had no qualms about tackling the big guys. I earned my position as starting middle linebacker on our junior varsity football team. That same year, I also made the varsity baseball team, playing the shortstop position. My self-esteem rose commensurately with my success in sports, as did my popularity with my peers.
With success in the classroom and on the athletic field, I developed an I-can-do-this attitude. Perhaps equally important, I began asking myself, Why not me? If others can succeed and make their marks in the world, why not me? That sounds rather innocuous nowadays, but for a kid with my upbringing, that question was nothing less than transformational.
Like most teenagers, I soon became more aware of material possessions, noting especially what my family and I did not have, compared to what other kids seemed to take for granted. I was embarrassed about sharing a bedroom with my three brothers, so I never invited friends over after school or to spend the night on weekends. Whenever I got a ride home from school or football practice, I usually asked to be dropped off at a corner, down the road from my house, so my friends couldn’t see where and how I lived. My conduct was foolish and immature, and my father would have slapped me across the back of the head—literally—had he known of my duplicity. But I wanted desperately to fit in with my buddies from school, to not be ostracized because of my family’s poverty. It did not occur to me that some of my friends might be hiding their own embarrassment.
I continued to do well academically, and my parents even became more supportive of my athletic pursuits. I was still on the varsity baseball team and was also selected as an All-District strong safety in football.
My senior year began and ended far too soon. In between, I became a member of the National Honor Society, dated the head baton-twirler who motivated me to be better, and I lettered again in football and baseball. By many universities’ criteria, I might have been considered a prime candidate for admission or possibly scholarship assistance, but neither my high school guidance counselor nor my parents encouraged me to pursue higher education. While a few of my friends planned to enroll in community colleges, most of my buddies were merely excited about getting out of school, leaving home, landing a job, and living on their own. I assumed that’s what I would do as well, since I could not afford to attend college.
My older sister, Angie, and I both graduated from MacArthur High School in May 1973. It was a happy day for the Gonzales family, and our parents beamed with pride. Even my low-keyed father seemed excited. I had graduated with honors—23 out of 389 graduates—but in the midst of the celebration, I felt slightly lost. I had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
A few days after graduation, I interviewed for various blue-collar jobs I had seen advertised. I was hired by Houston Belt and Terminal Railroad Company, but I didn’t really see my future as a track-switcher. Nevertheless, the pay was good, and I managed to save a few dollars working there briefly during the early summer of ’73.
Meanwhile, a high school friend and I talked frequently about joining the air force. His father was an air force veteran who often spoke to us in grandiose terms about the benefits of a military career. The more I thought about it, the more the military made sense for me. I could earn a steady paycheck, learn a trade, serve our country, and I’d even receive GI Bill benefits in case I wanted to think more seriously about attending college one day. The armed forces was a siren’s call for young men and women like me who hailed from poor, underprivileged families. The Vietnam War was winding down, and although I had never even been aboard an airplane, the air force seemed like a way I could see the world.
Without even consulting my parents, I signed on with the air force for a four-year stint. My enlistment would not take effect, however, until I turned eighteen years of age. Early on the morning of August 23, 1973, the air force recruiter arrived at my home to transport me to the induction center. Apparently, he wasn’t taking any chances that I might back out.
He needn’t have worried. I had no intention of reneging on my commitment. Quite the opposite: I was excited to begin a new adventure. Having never served in the military, my father eyed the recruiter suspiciously, but he said little about my decision to enlist. My mother, however, was surprised that I had joined the military service. She hadn’t expected that of me. Nevertheless, she was supportive and hugged me as we said good-bye. I hugged my father and walked out the door with barely a gym bag full of possessions. I was off to see the world.
CHAPTER 3
SNOW BIRD
I stepped onto an airplane for the first time at eighteen years of age, my virgin flight whisking me from Houston to San Antonio, where I began basic training at Lackland Air Force Base, part of Joint Base San Antonio, which now includes Fort Sam Houston and Randolph Air Force Base. Although I probably didn’t think so at the time, joining the military was one of the best decisions of my life. The discipline was good for me, and I learned how to take care of myself.
Following basic training and a short leave, I reported to technical training school at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi. I graduated from tech school as a weapons technician/operator about six weeks later and was immediately confronted with what I now realize was one of the pivotal points of my life. It started with some of the best news any airman could ever receive: I was being assigned to duty in Key West, Florida. Wow, beautiful beaches, tropical breezes, and a laid-back, easygoing atmosphere—and they were going to pay me for serving there too.
I was informed, however, that during my four-year tour of duty in the air force, I would have to serve one tour in a remote location, probably for at least a year. I could enjoy working in Key West now, with the knowledge that the more difficult tour would follow, or I could take the harder, remote assignment now, location yet to be determined.
My father had always taught me to do the hard job first. Getting the difficult work out of the way made everything else that followed seem that much easier. That was the more responsible and mature thing to do. My choice was clear. I was my father’s son, so I kissed Key West good-bye without even seeing it.
When my new orders came through, I discovered that I had received the remote assignment—one of the most remote in the entire air force. I was assigned for one year at a forward early-warning radar site at Fort Yukon, Alaska, located north of the Arctic Circle. Only about one hundred men were stationed at the site, and the nearest civilization—a small village of about six hundred Alaskan natives—was nearly a mile away. Fort Yukon was accessible only by air during the winter months, but it could be reached by boat during the summer, traveling up the Fort Yukon River—after the ice had melted. I reported at the end of January 1974.
Despite the bone-chilling temperatures, I loved Alaska. I spent several evenings staring up into the dark northern sky, mesmerized by the awesome greenish-yellow aurora borealis, the northern lights. I watched dashes of red pierce the darkness, along with streaks of blue, or what looked like whirlwinds of green, as the gaseous particles from the earth’s atmosphere collided with gaseous part
icles from the sun. I watched as God put on a spectacular free show every winter night. I had never seen anything quite like it.
As a Forward Early Warning Radar station, Fort Yukon was on the front lines in standing guard against ballistic missile attacks or any air or ground incursions, especially by the Soviet Union, headed toward Alaska and, ultimately, mainland North America. My deployment occurred during the Cold War, so tension and suspicion between the United States and the Soviet Union were still intense. The US/Soviet nuclear arms policies of Mutually Assured Destruction, based on the idea that if the Russians launched nukes at us, we would retaliate in kind—and vice versa—kept the world in an awkward, precarious balance, but there was no denying that a perpetual threat existed.
Our job at Fort Yukon was to maintain a vigilant lookout, especially for missile attacks, but also to keep our electronic eyes open for any aircraft that might be operating in US airspace. If we detected anything unusual, our station sent notice to Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage, where F-4 fighter jets immediately scrambled and took to the air to check out and deter the intruders.
I was a weapons controller technician, so part of my job was to keep my eyes on the radar scope and report to the officer who was in communication with the pilot of a scrambled jet. I calculated attack angles and tracked the armament and the fuel capacity, constantly feeding the information to the controller, to assist the officer as the fighter jet tracked the intruder.
Partly to pass the time, I took on an extra job cleaning the officers’ lounge, and as a result I got to know two officers who had graduated from the Air Force Academy. They seemed impressed when they noticed me studying for a correspondence course I was taking from Alaska Methodist University.
“Have you ever considered applying to the Air Force Academy?” one of the officers asked.
“No, sir. Not really.”
“You could get an entire college education there for free and become an officer, maybe a pilot.”
I had never thought about becoming an officer, and I had no illusions about becoming an air force pilot, so I had never seriously considered applying to the academy. I didn’t know much about the appointment process to America’s military academies, nor did I know that the acceptance level was low and the candidates for entrance were highly competitive. Each year, thousands of America’s best and brightest young men (and eventually women) applied for entrance, hoping to earn their college degrees and officers’ commissions. Most of those applicants were turned away. Usually, a candidate was nominated by his or her US congressman or senator. I didn’t even know a government official at that time.
Nevertheless, with the encouragement of these officers, I began to think, Why not? Why not me? Maybe I could become an officer. It is worth a try, and I have nothing to lose. Perhaps, more importantly, I realized that if I didn’t believe in myself, if I didn’t think I deserved it, why should anyone else? Sure, acceptance at the Air Force Academy was a long shot, and I had no connections, but the officers informed me that like the other military academies, the Air Force Academy accepted a few candidates each year from its regular rank and file enlisted men. I had a shot.
I decided to go for it.
But it wasn’t a one-man effort. In fact, looking back, I’m amazed at how many of my officers and fellow airmen pitched in to help me, flying me to Fairbanks to take the physical fitness test, arranging for me to take the ACT at Fort Yukon, even introducing me to the commanding general of the Alaska Air Command to obtain a recommendation. And then in December 1974, just days before Christmas, I received word: I was ordered to report to the US Air Force Academy Preparatory School in Colorado Springs early in January 1975. It was a conditional acceptance; if I successfully completed a semester of refresher courses in math and English, I would be admitted to the Air Force Academy.
I scrambled to pack up my gear. I had no idea where all this would lead, but if I could get to Elmendorf Air Force Base in time to process out, I could spend Christmas in Texas with my family. I said hasty good-byes to my officers and friends at Fort Yukon and caught the plane to Elmendorf. As the aircraft sliced through the winter haze, I thought back over my choices. By choosing the hard road rather than the duty in Key West, I had discovered an opportunity that might change the direction of my entire life. I breathed a silent prayer and thanked God for guiding my steps.
CHAPTER 4
FROM A FALCON TO AN OWL
The Academy Prep School is located on US Air Force Academy grounds, a few miles from the main campus, where I was welcomed along with seven other midterm “regulars,” men who were already in the air force and had likewise been selected. In addition to our academic studies, we maintained a rigorous physical fitness regimen that included long-distance runs, swimming, and other conditioning exercises. I studied hard, and when the grades were posted in early June, I was accepted at the academy, entering on June 30, 1975, as a member of the class of 1979, the last all-male class of approximately four thousand in the cadet wing.
Because of the semester at the prep school, getting acclimated to life at the academy was relatively easy, and I soon fell into a routine, studying and working hard as a cadet. My fellow freshmen in Squadron 33, nicknamed “Cellar rats,” selected me as their representative to the freshmen class council, where I interacted with the thirty-nine representatives from other squadrons and was subsequently elected as class council president. The council was an advisory group with no real authority in a strictly military environment, but it did provide me opportunities to communicate with and get to know the commandant of cadets.
In both the fall and spring semesters, I managed to make the dean’s list—which recognized academic achievement—and the commandant’s list—which recognized exceptional military achievement. My success placed me on the superintendent’s list, a highly sought-after position among serious-minded cadets. As a reward for making the superintendent’s list, I received primo choices for summer electives. I chose to fly gliders.
I was proud to be among a group of men who were committing our lives to serving our country. When I went home for summer break, my parents and siblings seemed proud to see me in uniform. I relished being home for a few weeks, although I was reminded of how much I missed my family and life in Houston. All too soon, it was time to return to another daunting dose of academics and military drills.
Though I still did well, I eased off on the military aspects and focused more on academics during my second year at the academy. I especially enjoyed courses in national security and military history. I loved the intricacies of these courses, especially the military tactics used in famous battles, and I seemed to grasp the class content much easier than my courses in math, engineering, and science.
I even allowed more time for a social life. Once a week, I attended an evening Bible study hosted in a home, which included both military cadets and young women from Colorado Springs and the surrounding area. Not surprisingly, the Bible study proved quite popular among cadets.
One night at Bible study, I met Diane Clemens, an attractive, green-eyed young coed from Illinois, who attended the University of Northern Colorado at Greeley, located just north of Denver. She was visiting with some female friends from Colorado Springs who regularly attended the Bible study, so she came along. Diane possessed a vibrant and devout Christian faith, and she sang and played guitar beautifully. We were immediately attracted to each other and soon began dating. We attended the Bible study together whenever Diane was in town, and I made numerous trips to Greeley as our relationship continued to grow.
As I approached the end of my second year at the academy, another pivotal point regarding my future loomed large. Although I loved being at the academy and learning to fly gliders intensified my interest in becoming a pilot, I wondered if I would qualify for pilot training due to my eyesight, which had begun to degenerate. Moreover, I pondered whether I was meant for something besides a military career. I prayed frequently and seriously about the direction of my life, asking
God to guide my steps.
I knew if I continued one day into my next semester at the academy, I would be locked in and would owe the air force a longer service commitment if I subsequently left, even though by now I was close to fulfilling my initial four-year contract. If I were ever going to change course, now was the time.
My childhood dream of attending Rice University returned, but I didn’t want to foolishly walk away from a priceless opportunity at the academy. As I considered my options, it seemed as though I couldn’t lose. If I stayed on, I could complete my studies and serve my country in the air force. It would be a good life and career—certainly more than I could have expected had I stayed in Humble. On the other hand, if I applied to Rice and was accepted, that would be my answer to prayer, and an indication that I should pursue a different sort of career. As an act of faith, I filled out the required forms for admission to Rice and put the matter in God’s hands. I didn’t discuss my decision with my parents, nor did I discuss the possibility of leaving the academy with any of my fellow cadets or officers.
On May 13, 1977, I received my answer. The Rice University Office of Admissions accepted me, and I could transfer in as a junior in the 1979 class. Two weeks after my notification from Rice, I withdrew from the Air Force Academy. The air force placed me in the air force reserves with an honorable discharge that would become effective August 23, 1979.
When I returned to Texas at the end of the semester, I informed my parents and siblings that I was home to stay, that I was going to remain in Houston and attend Rice. My mom was thrilled to have me home, but my father wasn’t too keen on the idea of my quitting the academy. It wasn’t that he wanted me to be a pilot; he simply didn’t like the idea of one of his children quitting anything. He didn’t say much—he rarely did—and I think he was at least pleased that I planned to finish my college degree program. Still, I’m sure the question rankled in his mind: Why is my son quitting? Quitting was a foreign concept to my family.
True Faith and Allegiance Page 4