My Personal Board of Directors: Charles R. Marriott

One of the best moves I made on the 17th of October 1972 – the day I decided to start keeping a journal, and though I’d had several false starts during high school I’ve been able to keep writing ever since that day forty-seven years ago. I started out using a blank book, then switched to typewritten pages during my bicycle penance and eventually made the jump to digital media in 1986. At one time I would write at least weekly but since I started blogging I add to my journal maybe once a quarter. I’ve never begrudged the time and effort in all that writing, my only regret being that I didn’t start and continue when I first got the idea in the fall of 1969; had I done so I would have had more information with which to write about Charles Rodney Marriott.

Thought I only knew him for nine months, Marriott definitely holds a seat in my personal Board of Directors, and by that I mean that group of adult men who advised and coached me through the rough spots and junctures in life and in general made up for the lack of guidance from my own family. I shy away from the word “mentor” as the only Mentor I knew of was a member of T.H.U.N.D.E.R. Agents – a Tower Comics character of minor interest, being one of the second string of heroes ignored in favor of everyone’s favorite Dynamo. I learned the meaning of the word when I reached college but the definition was confusing – the idea of someone actually taking time with me was utterly foreign. It was also a word used overmuch and without a lot of real thought by people that I should have been able to trust, so I’ve adopted the “board of directors” to use instead.

Charles Rodney Marriott was a former Marine hired as an English instructor at Kenai Central High School in the fall of 1969, having served for thirty years and retiring as a warrant officer after having served in World War II, Korea and Vietnam. As a service brat I was happy to have him as an instructor but looking back it was an unusual choice on the part of the school district given the unrest over the war in Vietnam and changes in society in general.

It was a time for interesting changes in our own little academic world as well: that fall the English classes were radically re-organized for sophomores, juniors and seniors. Instead of taking one class from one teacher for the entire school year students were to enroll in a different module every nine weeks. There were some guidelines – you had to take a set number of classes in three categories (literature, composition and oral skills) but other than that, students were free to put together their own program. Marriott was my instructor for two classes: Newspapers & Magazines during the second nine week grading period and Motion Pictures for the fourth.

I wasn’t sure what to expect out of the Newspapers & Magazines class other than we each would be getting copies of Time magazine and the New York Times national edition each week. I assumed that we’d just be reading articles and making reports on what we read so I was surprised when he showed up for the first class pushing a film projector into the classroom. We then spent the next week watching movies about the production and dissemination of propaganda. The films were ‘50s era productions made by the Department of Defense to counter Communist propaganda but despite the hyperbole they were effective in teaching us about propaganda techniques such as “Glittering Generalities”, “Jumping on The Bandwagon” and “Poisoning the Well” that are found in propaganda from both sides of the political spectrum – but I was truly baffled when the films stopped as I had no idea what we’d be doing for the other eight weeks of the grading period.

That’s when we went back to those issues of Time and the New York Times; we took the propaganda techniques we learned about in the films and tried to find examples in the news stories…and were collectively horrified to find those tricks and techniques in all the stories. We expanded our search to other publications and found that the pattern continued, and Mr. Marriott would have us discuss what we found while managing to stay fairly objective about what we found.

It was at this point in my life that I stopped taking news reports at face value and started to analyze each message as best I could as a sixteen year old from Sterling, Alaska. Even now I mentally filter every new story I watch or read through those analytical tools, tools that eventually got me starting to seriously think about intelligence and security careers in the military.

(OK, OK so it really all started with Napoleon Solo and Ilya Kuriyakin from The Man from UNCLE but Marriott’s class was a BIG plus!.)

As he was one of a team teaching the Motions Pictures class took from him later in the spring he didn’t have quite the same impact but he still would take time to talk to me personally about my life and my future plans involving military service – I think my status as a Navy service brat made it a little easier for him to be candid with me. Unfortunately a low grade classroom scandal about R-rated cartoons a student drew on a chalkboard prevented him from gaining tenure and he left KCHS rather precipitously after just one year, not even leaving a photo in the yearbook at his departure.

I saw him just one more time when he stopped by the locker room during two-a-day football practice the following August and for the next almost-50 years I had no idea what happened to him until I started research for this post. It turned out that he married Ruth Kilcher (pop star Jewel’s grandmother) and ended up living less than twenty miles from me when we lived in Knoxville until he passed away in 2005. Finding that out was a little tough to deal with, knowing that as I was teaching my teen-age sons about analyzing news stories for propaganda techniques the guy that taught me literally lived just over the river and through the woods. I would have loved introducing my sons to him.

…and I hope that as he read those local newspapers, magazines and watched local TV coverage he may have seen the stories that were written about our “family of artists”. I hope he was able to connect the dots and figure out who I was, and able to feel a measure of pride and credit for the contribution he made in my life.

     (Special Thanks to Glenn Tauriainen for assistance in research for this story)

Northway Mall Office “Plug”

NorthwayMallChugach

This illustration may have been the first assignment I received from the Anchorage advertising firm Murray, Bradley and Rocky. After I ran the ARCO illustration on the 22nd I got to thinking, which got me to rooting around what tear-sheets and records I still have from that time – and this is what I came up with. I know that I did it in late 1980 but so much was going at the time I can’t be sure which one happened first

…and my records are so spotty. For years I kept meticulous records, hauling at least two (and sometimes more) full file cabinets everywhere we went but after thirty-nine years and seven moves I’ve lost a lot of stuff. It’s the kind of illustration you’d see now only in a specialty publication or used to establish a nostalgic theme and would now be done in Photoshop or purchased from one of the numerous photo houses that flood the Internet.

It’s also of a time before internet commerce lead to the proliferation of ‘dead malls”. While Northway Mall was headed in that direction long before the rise of the Internet, when this advertisement first ran it was the one nicest shopping centers in Anchorage, anchored at each end and the middle with major retailers like Safeway and Pay-n-Save.

…though we were more interested in the Waldenbooks, gaming arcade and Art’s Video Mart stores where a good portion of my lieutenant’s pay was squandered on the 1st and 15th of every month….

Space 1889: Tales of The Ether

1889TalesEther

While I was heavily involved with Space:1889 the bulk of my work involved conceptual design rather than cover paintings, so when I did get a cover it was a real treat.  One bit of trivia – I used myself as a model for the erstwhile Naval Landing Brigade lieutenant, which was kind of neat as at the time I was serving in the U.S.Navy Reserve as a Restricted Line (Intelligence) officer….with the rank of lieutenant!

Technical notes: Acrylic on 16″X24″ Masonite panel. It was my first cover painting rendered without the use of an airbrush. It was pretty much a Christmas vacation produced in Sterling over the late December ’88 /early January ’89 time frame and shown at BOSKONE a month or two before print.

As an ardent Gerry Anderson fan I had to wince a bit at the use of ‘Space: 1889” as a title for the game series – I was never sure what the intent was in the play off the title of Sir Gerry’s Space: 1999 program.

Mayday Cover Art

Mayday

I produced this illustration in and around the kiddie Traveller box art, with both projects getting sent to press just prior to my deployment via C-130 for JRX BRIM FROST 1983. I was glad to have the work but more than a little stressed as I was responsible for both getting the battalion ready to go as well as the running the airfield control group for the entire exercise once we got to the area of operations.

I also wondered why GDW was opting for a second cover so soon after the first printing. Say what you want about style but the original cover art by Rodger MacGowan is definitely an iconic piece in the Traveller mythos.

I have no idea where the original art ended up but I do remember it as measuring about 18″X24″ and was rendered with airbrush, colored pencil, marker and marbilized enamel on cold-press illustration board.

An Old Favorite…

CobraUpdate

As a bullet-proof twenty-six-year-old it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t continue on flight status throughout my entire career so the transition from UH-1 helicopter to M35A2 truck was a little rough. It took almost as long to adjust to the grounding as it took me to work through the loss of my father twenty-three years later, but my grounding would have been much more difficult had there not been some powerful compensations in play

One such compensation was working at the U.S. Army Aviation Digest. Shortly after arriving at FT Rucker I had made contact with the editor Dick and made arrangements to contribute – I knew that I’d eventually end up in the illustration market it seemed prudent to round out my student portfolio with actual printed work. When I was grounded I was able to wangle a staff assignment there which was infinitely better than being assigned to hand out socks at the gym.

The experience and printed work I gained at the Digest was the compensation I needed to help me cope with my vocational loss. Out of the dozen or so pieces I did there this illustration for an article on the AH1 Cobra Up-date program was my favorite. The original is much nicer looking than this printed version – the range of blues and greys just wasn’t reproduced adequately by the two-color system the digest used. The fact that the original hangs in our sitting room is a minor miracle; the Byzantine network of regulations governing pay and compensation for commissioned officers is such that any work I created for the magazine technically belonged to the Army, but as the editor was lecturing me on that matter the staff designer whisked the original out of the office and into my car.

Technical Notes: 21”X28”   Airbrush, pen and Prismacolor pencil on illustration board

Note: There is a significant technical error with this work of art that I was totally oblivious to before a friend and long-time gunship pilot pointed it out to me.

Feel free to comment.

1981: Anniversary

It was a beautiful golden day that only September in Alaska can give to you. As I whooshed through the wet underbrush I’d occasionally glance back at companions equally focused on harvesting cranberries: in one direction was my Beautiful Saxon Princess toting our newborn younger son in a kid-pack while vainly trying to simultaneously pick berries and keep up with our wandering two-year old; in the other directions our friends with their toddlers  a little farther off. I looked past them to Pioneer Peak, then in the opposite direction to the Sleeping Lady. Autumn in Wasilla – life couldn’t get any better.

Suddenly my digital wristwatch chirped, shaking me out of my reverie. I looked down to see the small screen flash [09/07/81] with a small star to the right of the numbers …but I was totally baffled at the information on the display

  • Why was the alarm going off at 2:00 in the afternoon?
  • Why was tomorrow’s date on the display?
  • What did the little star signify?

…then I remembered that I had set my watch for Zulu time during the alert earlier in the week and that 2:00/14:00 was midnight in Greenwich England. As for the little star – why was the 7th of September important?

May 1980

There is nothing sadder than a second lieutenant trying to be dignified so I was glad that I was off-post, in civilian clothes and effectively unidentifiable as I periodically shivered with the sheer joy of being stationed at FT Richardson Alaska.1 It was my first break in the whirlwind of in-processing and with my little family staying with my parents down in Sterling our quarters on post were a little too empty so I drove into Anchorage for the evening to visit my old stomping grounds.

First on the list was the McDonalds on Northern Lights Boulevard – a destination for my family during trips up from the Peninsula as well as the last stop on the way south for the team bus after playing Anchorage schools. As I stood in line I tried to picture my football cronies around me and noticed with a start a bespectacled redhead guy who looked very familiar.

As I gave my order I mentally thumbed through the travel squad:

  • Carter?
  • Carlson?
  • Cutsinger?

No – none of the names fit.

  • Wetzel?
  • Wiggins?
  • Wilbourne?

None of them either – and when I looked up the red-headed guy was walking around the corner into the dining area. Ever curious I decided to exit using the door on that side of the building and as I walked past I saw him sitting with his young family. As I walked past his wife looked up and our eyes locked.

It was my (former) Best Friend.2

September 1980

Life had been a blur: I had no sooner finished in-processing when I was sent to Snowhawk ( Arctic Warfare Orientation) followed immediately by NBC (Nuclear, Biological & Chemical Warfare) course…and after that I was so busy getting my platoon organized that the chance encounter at McDonalds had been forgotten.

I was so distracted that I barely heard the heads-up my Beautiful Saxon Princess gave me about a church auxiliary leadership meeting to be held in our home …which would include “one or two people you already know”. I idly thought about the kids I’d gone to church with at the old 11th and E street chapel almost twenty years earlier and wondered which of the pig-tailed little girls had grown up and would be in our home tonight.

I totally missed The Look.

The night arrived and it came to pass that as I was worshipping in front of the soldier’s altar of Corcoran jump-boots, KIWI shoe polish and old diaper I heard hesitant footsteps first climb the stairs to our bathroom then come to a stop outside the study door. I stopped polishing and strained to hear anything, then got up and walked to the door to come face to face with my (former) Best Friend for the first time in seven years. The intestinal Stukas went into action making me wonder if I could ever be heard over the gurgling of my stomach, and I reached back to scratch my neck – not because it itched but to buy time to think of something suave and sophisticated to say.

“URRKKK!”

She replied softly “Hello David” and we stood there for a few minutes exchanging pleasantries dancing around what we were really thinking while I feigned indifference and struggled to keep my inner dialog inner:

 “It was so long ago I can hardly remember the actual break-up”

 “Yeah”   (Well I do: the 11th of December 1973. 9:37 PM Mountain Standard time)

 “We were both so young and inexperienced with relationships.”

“Yeah”   ( I am so glad I kept my mouth shut about Debbie)

“Your wife is so sweet and so pretty”

 “Yeah”   ( Too bad you…Yeah)

 …and then another potty-seeking lady started up the stairs behind us bringing the conversation to an abrupt halt and sending us back to our respective lives and families.

September 1981

My company commander peered at me over the rims of his BCGs3

“You know LTD this is (bleeping) perverse. Once you break up with someone you don’t stay friends. What the h*ll am I do with an executive officer that has obviously lost his mind.”

Captain Kay’s carefully cultivated coarse exterior cracked for a moment and his eyes softened:

” Seriously Dave, what do you hope to accomplish by taking your family on an outing with your old fiancé and her family? You’re a soldier – what do they say about opening old wounds?”

To be completely honest I had no idea, just that it seemed the right thing to do when my Beautiful Saxon Princess presented the plan earlier in the week to go cranberry picking with my Former Best Friend and her family. In the past year we’d dipped out toes into the “just friends” pool and it seemed to work OK, in fact rather than opening old wounds it made me appreciate my Beautiful Saxon Princess even more. It all had all worked to make life even more “OK” as I stood out in the cranberry bushes looking at my beeping, flashing digital wristwatch.

[09/07/81]? I finally remembered. I’d first met my Former Best Friend on the 7th of September 1971. Why I’d had it programmed in my watch I will never know, but as I stood there in the golden autumn sunlight I thought to myself.

” It was such long time ago, but I remember that all we wanted was to be happily married someday and it looks like we got what we wanted. We’re both married – albeit to different people – and yes, I am very, very happy”

I looked down at my watch, pushed the program-button until the [09/07/81] disappeared, permanently erased then carried my bucket of cranberries over to the car.

___________________________________________________________________________

Notes:

  1. FT Richardson had been my first introduction to the Army when I spent time there as a military rug-rat when we lived across town in Spenard and then later when we’d drive up from the Kenai Peninsula

2. See 1972: Subterranean Spring Break

3. BCG’s: birth control glasses. Army-issue black horn rim glasses that reportedly make          the wearer so unattractive that no one would ever reproduce with them.

Bladeship Model

bladeship

I designed the bladeship to be Starfleet’s primary Special Operations support vessel – a concept that kicked off a short but brisk discussion that recently spread across WordPress and Facebook.  Essentially an SR-71, an AC-130 and a submarine rolled into one ship, the bladeship was central to an (unfortunately) unpublished special operations supplement I wrote for FASA’s Star Trek role-playing game back in the day. The fact that at the time I was also serving as the battalion S2 (intelligence) for the 1st battalion, 19th Special Forces Group (ABN) UTARNG was most definitely a factor in the whole project

The aforementioned discussion got me thinking about all the work that went into the project and how it could be of enough interest to support a couple of posts. Unfortunately, I started the original bladeship project thirty-four years and seven houses ago, and as I learned in the army “three moves equal one fire” …so I’ve essentially been burned out twice since 1985.

I still have  some “stuff” left, including this Styrene and Bondo ® model built in scale to the original AMT USS Enterprise model. As I think about this I’m pretty sure I’ve already written a post or two  about the bladeship but A) it’s been awhile and B) the pertinent files have proved to be elusive.

Reworked Hansen’s Roughriders

2019-01-03 hansen's roughriders rework

One of the reasons I embarked on my long-term figure drawing program in the early 2000’s  was a comment I once received about the  drawing this image replaces.

“Oh – it’s a female figure? I never realized that!”

Granted, field operations leaves little time for beauty care, but I never made a mistake identifying gender when I was in the military myselfr so the comment stung a little…and that’s probably why my female figures are now a little more glam. True, the uniform on this particular cone-rifleman is a tad more snug than the way it was  in the original drawing, but I did forego high-heel combat boots.

Original 1986 version:

hansen's roughriders 1986

1974: Spring Camp

I was so damn tired.

I was the only man in a two-man foxhole, my buddy long gone to a squad leader’s meeting at the command post leaving me to pull guard duty alone through the night to the next morning. I had never been so sleep-deprived in my life – several times I had to hold back from sounding the alarm after seeing what I thought were giant Neanderthal aliens.1

Welcome to ROTC Spring Camp.

The BYU ROTC program in 1974 was much more rigorous than I’d expected, with a strict discipline that lingered from an earlier time when the looming specter of conscription put teeth into the threat of being ‘dropped from the program’. The abrupt change from the more easy-going first-names-only program at Ricks College threw me off but I quickly got up to speed with spit-shined boots, starched fatigues and an ego surrounded by mental sandbags.

Truth be told I needed something to throw myself into, and the French Foreign Legion was not recruiting at the time. I had been riding high during my last semester in Rexburg, but then in a twist that would make any soap opera proud I went through a broken engagement, a missed application deadline and an equally disastrous rebound relationship that left me marooned in Provo for a semester, living in a dank basement apartment with five strangers and a totally useless line-up of classes at a university that I never, ever wanted to attend.

Looking back it should have been no surprise that I got heavily involved in the ROTC program. It was the one place at BYU that I was able to make friends, it provided my shattered pride with positive reinforcement through the butt-load of merits I earned during tactical lab exercises, and it generally formed a band-aid over the gaping emotional wound left from the break-up. If there was a downside it was the manner in which my overly gung-ho attitude generated antipathy in some of my less motivated squad-mates. I was so caught up in the program that it surprised no one that I volunteered for Spring Camp even though attendance was optional for second year cadets, but to be honest there was little military zeal in my decision. I could see no sense in spending the four days of Spring Break watching the paint dry on the wall of my crappy little apartment.

The camp was held in the desert adjacent to Dugway Proving Grounds and was designed to prepare third year cadets for advanced training at FT Lewis (WA) the following summer. We would participate in a series of tactical problems and training exercises with third year cadets in rotating leadership positions  – and though as a second-year cadet my mission was to simply be someone to give orders to, I surprised evaluators when I proved to be much more than just a body to command. Growing up in rural Alaska had given me an excellent set of fieldcraft skills, and I was also more accustomed to rustic living conditions than my proto-yuppie cadet companions.

The training schedule included seventy hours of various exercises leading to a 24-hour long-range patrol designed to be the capstone of the spring camp experience. For me the patrol was anticlimactic as my peak came the previous morning during a squad exercise involving a hasty attack. As mentioned I was slated to be a redshirt2  during the exercise, so I had slipped my mental gear selector into neutral and let my mind wander while we were double-timing to the training site, only to be startled back to life with:

“DEITRICK! SQUAD LEADER!”

“Huh?” (my snappy come-back!)

A squad-mate hissed “You’re the squad leader for this problem!”

Few things in life have terrified me as much as those seven words did. Lack of experience coupled with complete inattention up to that point started my knees knocking and my internal Stukas dive-bombing. After receiving my assignment I stepped aside to devise a plan and write an order but all I could think of was:

  • Imminent failure and resultant humiliation
  • Swift expulsion from the program
  • Prompt transportation to a military prison or penal colony in South America

I was totally >bleeping<  lost…and found that coherent speech was not my friend as I began to brief my squad mates, but when I opened the session to questions I inexplicably became more articulate. I was momentarily bewildered at my sudden expertise until I realized what was really happening: I was being indirectly coached by my squad-mates, all third-year cadets (some veterans) who knew their stuff and knew that I didn’t. Rather than belittle me they were subtly carrying me; when I opened the briefing up for questions they’d each ask very detailed leading questions which verbally pulled me into devising a good, professional operation order.

I remember one in particular – a third year cadet with prior service named Don Card. I can visualize every detail of his face picked out in sharp detail by the morning sun to one side with a complex expression on his face that was brave, benign and several other “B’s” all at the same time. I was dumbfounded –  competitive grading meant there was no benefit to helping me, yet there he stood,  gently nudging me into competence with his leading questions.

I managed to implement the order and lead the squad in a textbook hasty attack that earned me  an outstanding spot report, but I had little time to bask in my tactical glory – as soon as we took the objective we were hustled back to our bivouac area to prepare for the aforementioned long-range patrol of which I remember very little. Neither do I remember much about breaking camp or the trip back to campus. Oh, I did get some John Wayne points for carrying the radio for the entire 25 kilometers despite twisting my knee early in the exercisebut all these years later the one moment I remember the best was the earlier exercise when the other guys elbowed me towards excellence. That little bit of compassion that in turn led to a little bit of positive reinforcement was just enough to push me through an emotional quagmire that could have easily diverted me down a very bad path.

Any study of military science will almost immediately reveal that there is a minimum level of transpersonal commitment an army must have in order to function or even exist, that without a willingness to forego personal comfort and safety for the collective good any group of soldiers can easily devolve into glorified gang members. At the same time products of popular media like Combat, The Sands of Iwo Jima, and Band of Brothers would have us assume such selflessness would always entail dramatic measures like jumping on a hand grenade to save the rest of the squad or something equally extreme in nature. That sunlit morning in the spring of 1974 taught me that sometimes selflessness measured in very small doses can do just as much good as the grand gestures.


  1. …from the first season Star Trek TOS Episode “The Galileo Seven”
  2. Star Trek term for an expendable crew member
  3. While attending the basic course as a second lieutenant five years later I ran into our cadet lane grader (now an active duty captain) attending the advanced course. He still remembered the incident and my rather coarse response when he asked if I wanted a medivac after the injury. He laughed and said, “Right there I knew you were going to make through the program!”