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Milty's Mag, issue 9, March 1943

Front cover

MILTY'S MAG

CPL. Milton A. Rothman, Co. C., Hq. Bn., OTC, Camp Santa Anita, Arcadia, Cal.

For the March, 1943, mailing of the fantasy Amateur Press Association

Gosh, Wow, Boy-oh-Boy.

It was like this: He'd been in the army three months. He'd worked pretty hard in his training, but he sort of enjoyed it, since he was used to keeping busy, anyway. Then they sent him to California to be an instructor in a new training center. There weren't any students for a couple of months, so there wasn't much to do. There were a couple of work details, one day of KP, two nights of guard duty, which he spent counting the numerous meteors -- but no real work. Oh, there was a week of practice teaching, but that didn't take much effort. He'd started out with the best intentions of preparing lessons for the future, but there were circumstances which pulled the impetus out of that. So it was a pretty soft time. 

Evenings and weekends were the kind of thing the average soldier dreams about in optimistic moments. Los Angeles was nearbye, and every free evening, which meant nearly every evening, was spent there. In a month he had been to three ballets, two concerts, a play, a dance, innumerable movies, and had given a piano recital. You see, although is opportunities were the inapproachable aim of most soldiers, he took advantage of them in his own moderate manner. None of this fleshpot business for him.

Well, that sounds perfect, doesn't it. What a pleasant sort of life to lead.

Strange, then, that he should gradually become dissatisfied and unhappy. What foolishness to be dissatisfied in the midst of a life of pleasure.

The reason was this: In the midst of a world where engineers were making new things, scientists were making new discoveries, men were learning, learning, everything was moving fast ahead --- he was standing still. While men were working furiously all over the world, and even in the California Desert a hundred miles from him, tank corps trainees were sleeping in holes and living on field rations, he was sitting indolently at concerts, bathing his empty mind in a flood of sensory impressions.

Gradually this restlessness came over him. What could he do with himself? How could he get out of his rut? How could he regain the intellectual drive which he had formerly possessed?

This is all about me, of course you know. I'm a hell of a guy, ain't I? When things are going bad, I'm unhappy, When things are going well, I'm still unhappy. I don't know when I'm well off. But maybe you can see my reasons, if I've explained them clearly enough. 

Well, like in the stories, a happy ending happened today. The December FAPA mailing came.

"Migod!" I shrieked silently, staggering under its weight. (Soft life has been taking its effect.) "Did I not say fandom was collapsing?" I couldn't even be sad that Milty's Mag was not there, for I knew that it was being sent out in a supplemental mailing.

It was really heartening to see that fans were still publishing. I'd begun to think that they had stopped. But here they were, back in force, with the most amazing array of wonderful, beautiful, controversial material.

Saving...

MILTY'S MAG CPL. Milton A. Rothman, Co. C., Hq. Bn., OTC, Camp Santa Anita, Arcadia, Cal. For the March, 1943, mailing of the fantasy Amateur Press Association Gosh, Wow, Boy-oh-Boy. It was like this: He'd been in the army three months. He'd worked pretty hard in his training, but he sort of enjoyed it, since he was used to keeping busy, anyway. Then they sent him to California to be an instructor in a new training center. There weren't any students for a couple of months, so there wasn't much to do. There were a couple of work details, one day of KP, two nights of guard duty, which he spent counting the numerous meteors -- but no real work. Oh, there was a week of practice teaching, but that didn't take much effort. He'd started out with the best intentions of preparing lessons for the future, but there were circumstances which pulled the impetus out of that. So it was a pretty soft time. Evenings and weekends were the kind of thing the average soldier dreams about in optimistic moments. Los Angeles was nearbye, and every free evening, which meant nearly every evening, was spent there. In a month he had been to three ballets, two concerts, a play, a dance, innumerable movies, and had given a piano recital. You see, although is opportunities were the inapproachable aim of most soldiers, he took advantage of them in his own moderate manner. None of this fleshpot business for him. Well, that sounds perfect, doesn't it. What a pleasant sort of life to lead. Strange, then, that he should gradually become dissatisfied and unhappy. What foolishness to be dissatisfied in the midst of a life of pleasure. The reason was this: In the midst of a world where engineers were making new things, scientists were making new discoveries, men were learning, learning, everything was moving fast ahead --- he was standing still. While men were working furiously all over the world, and even in the California Desert a hundred miles from him, tank corps trainees were sleeping in holes and living on field rations, he was sitting indolently at concerts, bathing his empty mind in a flood of sensory impressions. Gradually this restlessness came over him. What could he do with himself? How could he get out of his rut? How could he regain the intellectual drive which he had formerly possessed? This is all about me, of course you know. I'm a hell of a guy, ain't I? When things are going bad, I'm unhappy, When things are going well, I'm still unhappy. I don't know when I'm well off. But maybe you can see my reasons, if I've explained them clearly enough. Well, like in the stories, a happy ending happened today. The December FAPA mailing came. "Migod!" I shrieked silently, staggering under its weight. (Soft life has been taking its effect.) "Did I not say fandom was collapsing?" I couldn't even be sad that Milty's Mag was not there, for I knew that it was being sent out in a supplemental mailing. It was really heartening to see that fans were still publishing. I'd begun to think that they had stopped. But here they were, back in force, with the most amazing array of wonderful, beautiful, controversial material.