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Necromancer, v. 1, issue 1, July 1947

Page 6

and a petition was even drawn up in one quarter with a view to doing so. It did not come about, however, because Holland provided so much amusement and came up with so many wild stories thereafter, that he was eventually accepted and looked upon as sort of a droll pet.

You may wonder why I rehash all this since what I have written is pretty generally known, and has become a legend in fan circles. I bring it up because, as I have said, I knew Holland quite well and, although skeptical of his time travel yarn, I neither believed nor disbelieved it -- after all he has disappeared without a trace.

My reason for going over it again is to give the neofan an idea of the type of thing of which he was capable. Bearing this in mind, the new reader will be able to judge for himself whether or not to put any store in the tale I am about to relate.

It all started on a Heavy Bomber Base in southern England late in 1944. I had been rather cheesed off, and quite bored with the tediousness of life on an operational airfield closed in by soupy weather. Even the excitement of war can become humdrum with sameness after a time. Like everything else on this mundane planet, too much of one thing leads to ennuie. 

On this particular afternoon, I was killing time in the Red Cross Club. I glanced through the register of States in the library to see if anyone I knew had checked in, and there, under my home state (the latest entry on the page) was Holland's scrawled signature large as life.

I had previously heard that he was in the E.T.O., passing off as a Fighter boy, and operating out of a base near Bournemouth. An old friend had written telling me that he had been listed as missing in action after being shot down by flak in France; been in the hands of the Germans; escaped, and subsequently walked back to the United Kingdom through Spain, having had the able assistance of the wonderful bands of French patriots which made up the F.F.I. and Maquis.

I was, of course, very surprised to see his name there, and was standing wondering why he should have been posted to my station, when a Red Cross worker called me over and told me there had been a fellow named Holland inquiring as to my whereabouts.

I asked whether or not he had left any message, and learning that he had not, I naturally headed straight for the local pub in the nearby village.

As I approached the Coach and Horses that fine musty senseodor of Mild and Bitters wafted through the fog to greet me. To this day, I always feel a wave of nostalgia when I recall that homey pub-ish smell which emanates only from small village taverns in England.

Inside, a group of British arimen from a nearly Royal Air Force base were tossing darts and smoking their Woodbinos. Occsionally a typical RAF colloquialism, such as "you've had it", "gone for a Burton" and "a piece of cake" could be heard over the hubbub of American slang and general Yank boisterousness which made a den of the smoke-filled atmosphere.

It didn't take long to spot Holland sitting dreamily in a corner with his pipe in his mouth, and an almost empty mug of halfandhalf on the table before him. I stood momentarily regarding him and sharing what I was sure must be a fandom reverie.

((To be continued in the next issue.))

PAGE 6

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and a petition was even drawn up in one quarter with a view to doing so. It did not come about, however, because Holland provided so much amusement and came up with so many wild stories thereafter, that he was eventually accepted and looked upon as sort of a droll pet. You may wonder why I rehash all this since what I have written is pretty generally known, and has become a legend in fan circles. I bring it up because, as I have said, I knew Holland quite well and, although skeptical of his time travel yarn, I neither believed nor disbelieved it -- after all he has disappeared without a trace. My reason for going over it again is to give the neofan an idea of the type of thing of which he was capable. Bearing this in mind, the new reader will be able to judge for himself whether or not to put any store in the tale I am about to relate. It all started on a Heavy Bomber Base in southern England late in 1944. I had been rather cheesed off, and quite bored with the tediousness of life on an operational airfield closed in by soupy weather. Even the excitement of war can become humdrum with sameness after a time. Like everything else on this mundane planet, too much of one thing leads to ennuie. On this particular afternoon, I was killing time in the Red Cross Club. I glanced through the register of States in the library to see if anyone I knew had checked in, and there, under my home state (the latest entry on the page) was Holland's scrawled signature large as life. I had previously heard that he was in the E.T.O., passing off as a Fighter boy, and operating out of a base near Bournemouth. An old friend had written telling me that he had been listed as missing in action after being shot down by flak in France; been in the hands of the Germans; escaped, and subsequently walked back to the United Kingdom through Spain, having had the able assistance of the wonderful bands of French patriots which made up the F.F.I. and Maquis. I was, of course, very surprised to see his name there, and was standing wondering why he should have been posted to my station, when a Red Cross worker called me over and told me there had been a fellow named Holland inquiring as to my whereabouts. I asked whether or not he had left any message, and learning that he had not, I naturally headed straight for the local pub in the nearby village. As I approached the Coach and Horses that fine musty senseodor of Mild and Bitters wafted through the fog to greet me. To this day, I always feel a wave of nostalgia when I recall that homey pub-ish smell which emanates only from small village taverns in England. Inside, a group of British arimen from a nearly Royal Air Force base were tossing darts and smoking their Woodbinos. Occsionally a typical RAF colloquialism, such as "you've had it", "gone for a Burton" and "a piece of cake" could be heard over the hubbub of American slang and general Yank boisterousness which made a den of the smoke-filled atmosphere. It didn't take long to spot Holland sitting dreamily in a corner with his pipe in his mouth, and an almost empty mug of halfandhalf on the table before him. I stood momentarily regarding him and sharing what I was sure must be a fandom reverie. ((To be continued in the next issue.)) PAGE 6