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Milty's Mag, issue 9, March 1943

Page 2

True, several announced this as their final plunge, their parting struggle, but some of them may find, as Corporal Bridges and I have found out, that publishing need stop only when you get to the very front lines themselves. Maybe not even then. Who knows?

In other words, fellas, the FAPA has given me a shot in the arm. In an otherwise aimless existence it has given me something to think about and write about for many evenings to come -- at least until my classes start. The fondness which I've had for the FAPA since Blitzkrieg days is strengthened. People, this is something to keep going. Personally, I'm not going to miss another mailing even if I have to pencil each copy while lying in a fox-hole.

12/21/42.

Hilarious sight Department: Myself reading the mailing.

A short-arm inspection was announced for 1 pm and did not take place until three. So all afternoon I sat around in nothing but my overcoat and slippers, absorbed in the mailing. I spent all afternoon reading, and started to write immediately upon finishing.This is going to be mimeographed as soon as possible, so that I will have consecutive parts of this mag complete as I go along, in case I can't finish, for any reason. Watch the dates on these pages.

Further Hilarious Sights Department: In fact, practically unbelievable. Even impossible:

Pvt. Milty playing hymns on the piano in a Skid Row mission. It's like this: Saturday midnight I'm walking up Main Street, which is LA's rough and ready neighborhood, just looking at the sights. I pass what used to be a mission -- one of those places where down-and-outers used to come in for a supper and a sermon. Only now most of the bums are working in aircraft factories, so they've turned the place into a hospitality house for servicemen. I look through the window and -- naturally-- the first thing that hits me square in the eye is a big concert grant piano standing on a stage in the rear. Hmmm -- I says. I been getting frequent practice at one of the USO clubs, but here we have a grand piano.

So, first thing Sunday morning I wanders into the place, and the preacher is playing hymns on an Everett Orgatron. Hmmm, I once more says. After coffee and doughnuts I ask one of the ladies if it's OK to use the big piano, and she says go right ahead, so I wander over to it and am muchly pleased to find that it is a Baldwin in fine condition. So I start digging into the Moonlight Sonata, and pound delightedly through all three movements, watched over by a large poster which says: When did you write to Mother? By the time I get to the end, the fine-upstanding-young-man who leads the Sunday morning services is asking me to play for the hymn singing. I was trapped.

So I dood it. May Ghu grant absolution for my purple-dyed soul.

Could I let them know I was a vampire?

And then, a few weeks later, I was playing at the USO, minding my own business, when they asked me to play the wedding march for a ceremony to be performed right there by a round, roly, plump little Salvation Army chaplain.

Everything happens to me.

The fine~upstanding-young-man at the mission mentioned above tried to get me to accept Jesus Christ as my savior. I said it was such a new concept to me that I couldn't give him an answer right then. For some reason or other the LASFS became quite hilarious over the story.

Saving...

True, several announced this as their final plunge, their parting struggle, but some of them may find, as Corporal Bridges and I have found out, that publishing need stop only when you get to the very front lines themselves. Maybe not even then. Who knows? In other words, fellas, the FAPA has given me a shot in the arm. In an otherwise aimless existence it has given me something to think about and write about for many evenings to come -- at least until my classes start. The fondness which I've had for the FAPA since Blitzkrieg days is strengthened. People, this is something to keep going. Personally, I'm not going to miss another mailing even if I have to pencil each copy while lying in a fox-hole. 12/21/42. Hilarious sight Department: Myself reading the mailing. A short-arm inspection was announced for 1 pm and did not take place until three. So all afternoon I sat around in nothing but my overcoat and slippers, absorbed in the mailing. I spent all afternoon reading, and started to write immediately upon finishing.This is going to be mimeographed as soon as possible, so that I will have consecutive parts of this mag complete as I go along, in case I can't finish, for any reason. Watch the dates on these pages. Further Hilarious Sights Department: In fact, practically unbelievable. Even impossible: Pvt. Milty playing hymns on the piano in a Skid Row mission. It's like this: Saturday midnight I'm walking up Main Street, which is LA's rough and ready neighborhood, just looking at the sights. I pass what used to be a mission -- one of those places where down-and-outers used to come in for a supper and a sermon. Only now most of the bums are working in aircraft factories, so they've turned the place into a hospitality house for servicemen. I look through the window and -- naturally-- the first thing that hits me square in the eye is a big concert grant piano standing on a stage in the rear. Hmmm -- I says. I been getting frequent practice at one of the USO clubs, but here we have a grand piano. So, first thing Sunday morning I wanders into the place, and the preacher is playing hymns on an Everett Orgatron. Hmmm, I once more says. After coffee and doughnuts I ask one of the ladies if it's OK to use the big piano, and she says go right ahead, so I wander over to it and am muchly pleased to find that it is a Baldwin in fine condition. So I start digging into the Moonlight Sonata, and pound delightedly through all three movements, watched over by a large poster which says: When did you write to Mother? By the time I get to the end, the fine-upstanding-young-man who leads the Sunday morning services is asking me to play for the hymn singing. I was trapped. So I dood it. May Ghu grant absolution for my purple-dyed soul. Could I let them know I was a vampire? And then, a few weeks later, I was playing at the USO, minding my own business, when they asked me to play the wedding march for a ceremony to be performed right there by a round, roly, plump little Salvation Army chaplain. Everything happens to me. The fine~upstanding-young-man at the mission mentioned above tried to get me to accept Jesus Christ as my savior. I said it was such a new concept to me that I couldn't give him an answer right then. For some reason or other the LASFS became quite hilarious over the story.