HALF LETTER

We sent Dale Eunson, the fiction editor of our little magazine, to Bermuda a while ago to let some fiction writers who live there know that we are still in business. As a result of Dale's trip, we received (in addition to his expense account) two stories which appear in this month's issue: "The Sniper" by Constantine Fitz Gibbon on Page 50 and "Deep in the Heart" on Page 48 which was written by Dale himself. Maybe Dale overlooked something when he made out his expense account. He should have listed himself among the writers he dined and entertained.

As a matter of fact, Dale did not actually meet Fitz Gibbon in Bermuda, although Fitz Gibbon was there at the time. But Dale did spend some time in Bermuda with Frederic Wakeman, author of "The Hucksters" and "The Saxon Charm." Wakeman and Fitz Gibbon are friends and neighbors and when

Fitz Gibbon mentioned to Wakeman that he had written a short story, Wakeman naturally thought of Eunson and advised his friend to send it to us. See why it pays to send people to places like Bermuda?

Fitz Gibbon is a nephew and protégé of Norman Douglas, the British author who wrote "South Wind," considered by many critics one of the most perfect novels of the century. Fitz Gibbon has been writing in England since he was fifteen. His novel, "The Arabian Bird," will be published April fifteenth by Rinehart and Company. (Aside to sportsmen and sharpshooters: that rifle in the Austin Briggs illustration for "The Sniper" is a Mauser Waffen Lux, courtesy of Abercrombie and Fitch.)

Getting back to the Dale Eunson story—hab you the

Published by Cosmopolitan Magazine for the amusement, interest and edification of people in advertising

the Better Way

Written by M. I. Pitkin

Volume III, Number 2

January, 1948

ISLAND IRONISTS

Eighty years ago, in one of Scotland's lordliest castles, a babe was born who was destined in due course to become a scientist, a master of several languages (including the Russian), a classical scholar, an accomplished student of music, a diplomat, a world traveler, a novelist, and the wittiest Scotchman of his time.

He was christened Norman Douglas, and thirty years later he married Elsa, daughter of Augustus Fitz Gibbon, of Mount Shannon, County Limerick, Eire, who bore him two sons. ~~It is a slight difference to me~~ / - John Nº 2!

In the course of time, Douglas established himself, seasonally, for a number of years on the island of Capri off the shore of Naples, where he studied the native rocks and vegetation, and observed with interest the exotic capers and peccadillos of the international smart set.

In 1917 these observations were published in the form of a witty and learned novel called "South Wind" which made the author's reputation, and which many consider one of the most remarkable fictional achievements of the century.

In fact, professor George Saintsbury of Edinburgh University, then 75, and beloved throughout the world as first among urbane and civilized literary critics, immediately on reading it sat down and wrote Douglas the following note -- "Dear Sir: Permit me to be tedious, as well as illegible. I am seventy-five. I have read more novels than a man of seven hundred and fifty ought to have done. For some twenty years I used to review hundreds, or thereabouts, of English and scores of French as they came out. For another twenty, the first of this so-called age, I have come across just two new novelists who have given me something that I can recommend to a friend. The author of 'South Wind' is the second in order of time, not rank."

It would be futile in this space to convey by quotation the deep and eloquent flow of whimsy and speculation that sweeps through the book, but a flash or so of the Douglas drollery can be tucked in. One "South Wind" character, for example, remarks: "I am not a snob. From the social point of view I don't care a tuppenny damn for anyone. On the other hand, my origin has given me something of Dr. Samuel Johnson's respect for what he calls his betters. I like the upper classes, especially when they behave according to their old traditions. That is why I like Miss Wilberforce. She conducts herself, if report be true, with all the shamelessness of a great lady."

GREAT WRITING MAKES GREAT READING!

CONTENTS COPR. 1948, HEARST MAGAZINES INC. REPRODUCTION ONLY BY PERMISSION OF COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE

2.

At another point, an innocent and naive old Duchess has been given flowers and a mildly lewd novel by one of the mischevous wits of the island. Later she says: "Mr. Keith, I have not yet thanked you for those flowers and the book you sent. The flowers are quite too lovely. Look at them! You are spoiling me -- you really are! But I don't think I shall like the book. Lady Cecilia and her maid and that man, I forget his name -- they do all sorts of things. They don't seem to be very nice people." To which the paradoxical donor replies: "You have nothing but nice people 'round you, Duchess. Why should you want to read about them? There is so much goodness in real life. Do let us keep it out of our books."

In describing a once gaudy but now ruined villa, the author arrests you with a macabre smile: "Those hastily built walls and staring windows wore an air of faded futility, almost of indecency -- as though the mouldering bones of some long-forgotten lady of pleasure had crept out of their tomb to give themselves an airing in the sunshine."

And in a hundred places you'll find placid little ironies like this: "His income was already such that he could afford to be honest; nothing but the force of old habits kept him from developing into a positive saint."

When asked some years later if "South Wind" had brought him a fortune, Douglas grimaced, "South Wind, indeed! Do you know what I got for that? Seventy-five pounds. I sold the book outright -- too hard up to make terms. Haven't received another penny for it."

But he did achieve fame, and distinguished friends, and the priceless spiritual satisfaction of having, in the fulness of his unique powers, produced a wise and amusing masterpiece.

We identify Douglas to this extent because in our opinion you will soon hear considerable of a nephew and protégé of his, Constantine Fitz Gibbon, who is following in his famous uncle's fictional footsteps.

Fitz Gibbon has been writing in England since he was fifteen. A novel of his, "The Arabian Bird", will be published April first by Rinehart and Company. He, also, is a frequenter of islands, and is living at present on Bermuda, a neighbor and friend of Frederic Wakeman, author of "The Hucksters."

We have not seen the manuscript of Fitz Gibbon's novel, but Dale Eunson, fiction editor of Cosmopolitan, recently visited Wakeman on Bermuda, and brought back a short story by Fitz Gibbon called "The Sniper" which you will find on page 50 of the current (January) issue. Before we had any idea who Fitz Gibbon was, we read "The Sniper" and were deeply impressed by its finish, and its subtle portrayal of an authentic and rather hair-lifting sort of aristocrat. If the venerable Douglas has been parenting his nephew's talent, we can well understand the reason, and wish him a measure of Flaubert's success with de Maupassant.

Sportsmen and sharpshooters, incidentally, will be interested to know that the rifle in the Austin Briggs illustration for this story is a Mauser Waffen Lux, provided for the purpose by that dreamhouse of sportsmanly gear, Abercrombie and Fitch.

A quietly blood-chilling
story about a character
you probably would
not care to meet

the
Sniper

BY CONSTANTINE FITZ GIBBON

ILLUSTRATED BY AUSTIN BRIGGS

I live in New York because I like living in New York, and I enjoy having tea at the Plaza, particularly if I am feeling rather depressed. Those dry and dusty palms, combined with the syrupy, soothing music of the stringed instruments, provide, in my opinion, an ideal background for mild self-pity or gentle nostalgia. The people who wait at table are quietly deferential, and once or twice a motherly looking old woman, who, I suppose, occupies some official position in the hotel hierarchy has asked me if everything was all right. I am not, I think, a particularly sentimental man; nonetheless, there are times when I enjoy an hour or so of regret, an autumnal feeling with Verlaine or a snows-of-yesteryear sigh for the girls and whatnot of my youth. On such occasions I go alone to the Plaza.

Since I got out of the Army I have been there sel-
dom. But last Sunday my wife was entertaining some
friends of hers, dull people who are as bored by me
as I am by them. After a dreary walk in Central Park
I decided that a cup of tea and some good music would
put me in a suitable frame of mind for tacing any of
those guests who might still be in the apartment when
I got home.

The dear old place was just the same, everybody
looking very rich except the very richest. My China
tea tasted just the way China tea always does at the
Plaza, and I leaned back and lit a cigarette while the
orchestra played, "You Made Me Love You" as a
hesitant fox trot. Outside it was a hot and dusty
afternoon; inside there were no seasons, but only
teatime.

I glanced at the two women at the next table. They
were shaking their hats at each other over some
friend's shame. Those hats seemed . . . And then my
eyes focused behind them, on the next table. Two
men—one young, with his back to me; one in early
middle age—were seated (Continued on page 124)

wound in front of her. She had done what she had to do because there was no one to help her, no one in this world. And he had torn that suit to shreds. A wound was what he looked like in that torn suit, an obscene wound. A monster of a child.

"Do you wish me to die now, this minute?" she said bitterly. "Here, take the knife, kill me now. What will you wear now, you savage? ... Why did you do it? Tell me. Why, why?"

"It was tight," he said.

"But it was loose; my God, it was loose."

"It was tight," he said again. He made a

fist and pounded the table with his bitter cry. "It felt like"—he looked at her—"like iron."

There was a look in his face, a conviction she could not fathom. He was trying to give her some truth of which he was positive. She was caught by that look, by that effort to explain an indignity that he could not possibly endure. A latent, an unknown pride in him began to rise. She perceived at last that he would endure no indignities, and this became something strong moving from him to her. Unexpectedly she felt the tears begin to well, the long-delayed crying. She

could hardly hold them down, and now she wished to cry alone.

"Come here, Harry," she said in a harsh, strained voice.

He came near her and she kissed him hard on the mouth. "It was tight?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Here," he said vaguely, moving his hand across his chest.

"All right," she said, "put on your other suit."

He put it on and came back to her.

"Go on down," she said harshly. "Go down and play."

THE END

The Sniper (Continued from page 51)

there, drinking what looked like Scotch and soda. Surely I knew the older one, the one with dark hair? He caught my eye, smiled and nodded.

It is embarrassing to be recognized when you cannot recognize the other man. But try as I might, I could not remember his name or where I had met him. All I knew was that he filled me with a slight memory of dislike. He was wearing a dark lounge suit, probably made in London, certainly expensive. In his buttonhole was a dark red carnation. He was talking earnestly to the younger man, leaning across the table. His thin face was heavily lined, and there was an almost haggard insistence in his manner of speaking. He had taken no further notice of me, and his story or argument was obviously reaching some sort of climax. I was still wondering, with vague irritation, where I had seen him before. Then he made a gesture which brought it all back. He pushed his glass to one side and rested his elbows on the table. His hands were flattened together, his long fingers straight, in the manner of a child saying its prayers. The expression of his face became even more intensely haggard. The boy was nodding his head, in agreement or interest. Slowly the older man let his two hands, still together, fall to one side. I knew him now ... I was back in Brittany in 1944.

THE three of us, René, Bill and I, had been dropped shortly before D-day. We had not landed together, and I never saw Bill or René again. When the fighting came our way the small group of resistance soldiers which I more or less commanded began shooting at stray Germans. Sabotage was over. This promised to be the most exciting and dangerous, though probably the least important, part of our job.

We were in a wood west of Morlaix, covering the road to Brest. A German paratroop division had been going down that road for the past two days, and we had let them go, since they were in too big formations for us to be able to do anything about them. It was late afternoon, and I hoped that American troops would appear next day. I had about twenty Bretons with me, tough little men, like all Celts. Some of them spoke no French, and I gave them orders through Foreix, an ex-engine-driver, who really did look like Hollywood's idea of a maquis.

There was a sandy track through our wood, and I had posted a lookout man to watch the junction of this track with the main road. When he sent a message that a civilian car was coming up the track towards us, we scattered and covered the road. All that maquis business was very much like cops and robbers. I stayed behind a thick bush waiting.

The car was a big limousine, painted sky blue. It was driven by a blond boy in German uniform. It stopped near where I stood and out of the back stepped

a man—the same man who was now having tea at the Plaza. That afternoon in Brittainy he had been dressed much as he was at the Plaza—in a dark lounge suit with a red carnation in his buttonhole and one of those Anthony Eden hats on his head. He wore yellow hats and carried a silver-headed cane. He stood by the car and gazed about him in the manner of a man looking for a friend in the foyer of a theater. When he spoke to his driver I came forward with my automatic in my hand.

"Ah, there you are!" he said. "You are the American officer?"

I nodded.

He went on, "May I introduce myself? I am the Marquis de Courterolles. I heard in the village that you had a platoon of soldiers up here. I wish to place myself and my servant at your disposal."

He spoke that perfect, careful English which one hears only from foreigners. My Bretons, looking like characters from "Treasure Island," were appearing one by one from the undergrowth.

He glanced toward them. "Your men?" he asked, in a somewhat offensive manner.

"What exactly do you want?" I demanded.

"I hoped that you might find use for my rifle with your little guerrilla band." He pronounced guerrilla in the Spanish manner.

He seemed unpleasant to me, and I did not like to think that he could find my whereabouts so exactly, merely by asking in a near-by village. But I disagreed with Foreix, who wanted to kill them both immediately. Courterolles explained that the driver, though a German, was not in the German army. He was merely a valet-chauffeur, and he wore German uniform only because this made it easier for Courterolles to move about. I agreed to take him on, chiefly because I could not let him go, and I did not think that I should shoot him. He turned out to be the best shot I have ever seen.

His servant unpacked the baggage which was stowed in the back of the car. There were two cases of rifles, four rifles in all, though not two pairs. I know very little about guns, except for the ones they give you in the Army, but Courterolles explained to me that one was an English sporting rifle, designed for the shooting of big game at great distances; one was a similar weapon of American make, but effective only at short range owing to the fact that it was equipped with a silencer; the third was an elephant gun, a clumsy, heavy weapon; the fourth was a new type German service rifle which, in addition to telescopic sights, also had an infrared attachment for night shooting. Except for the rifle with the silencer, all were equipped with extremely powerful telescopic sights.

I commented on this, saying the marquis evidently liked shooting at long range."

"Yes," he said seriously. "I am a sniper."

"And Hans, too?" Hans was the German servant, who was at the time engaged in preparing an omelette for his master on a spirit stove.

"Hans does not shoot. Hans is a servant."

I looked at Hans, but his expression had not changed.

I do not know if I have managed to convey the macabre impression this Frenchman made upon me. If I have failed to do so, it may be that the few weeks previous to my meeting with him had been in themselves so strange that new peculiarities had become routine, and therefore the more difficult to describe. He certainly struck an odd note, however, among those Breton desperadoes, as he sat there on a small canvas folding chair, eating an omelette fines herbes and drinking a half bottle of white Burgundy, while his German servant cleaned his guns. Foreix had told a cousin of his to keep an eye on the marquis, and to shoot him if he showed any signs of doing anything treacherous. We covered his big car with branches and immobilized the engine.

That evening we were to occupy the tiny village of Sainte-Anne, which was on the Brest road about a mile from our wood. I told Courterolles that we were planning a small attack (we believed that there were hardly any Germans in Sainte-Anne), but he showed no interest. He said, "It would be a pity to waste my talent for shooting in a—melee."

"Listen," I said, "I don't know who you are, and I don't much care. But so long as you're with me you'll do what I tell you. Do I make myself clear?"

"Of course, naturally. I only thought that I could perhaps be more useful..."

He looked quite unhappy at the thought that he had annoyed me. But it was time for me to visit the lookout man and tell him my plans for the night. The German valet was cleaning Courterolles' knife and fork with handfuls of grass. The Bretons were getting ready to move. I got up.

"May I accompany you?"

Courterolles was standing at my shoulder. He still wore his hat and gloves, but instead of the walking stick he carried the English sporting rifle. He held it by the point of balance, negligently, the way some women carry a handbag. A pair of binoculars in a leather case hung from his shoulder.

"All right," I said.

After all it could do no harm. We would have left this place in an hour. But I nodded to Foreix's cousin to follow. We walked in silence for the few minutes that it took to reach the lookout.

He watched the main road, twelve hundred yards below him, where the sandy track entered the wood. I gave him instructions about our move. He told me what traffic there had been in the past two hours: occasional cars; apparently no

124

German military formation was around.

Courterolles, meanwhile, was examin-
ing the short visible stretch of road
through his binoculars. When I had fin-
ished talking to the lookout and was
about to start back towards the others,
he turned to me politely. "If a German
car should happen to pass. . . ?" he
asked courteously, leaving his sentence
unfinished.

The light was beginning to fail, but I
wished to show I was not impressed. "If
you think you can damage it," I said.

He laid the English sporting rifle along
the branch of a stunted tree, first placing
his red silk handkerchief between the
barrel and the bark. Almost immediately
a car appeared, traveling fast. It was too
far away in the half light for me to be
sure of its nationality, but Courterolles
fired. The car veered and crashed, turn-
ing over and bursting into flames. I
looked through my binoculars and saw
that it was a German staff car. I was
turning to congratulate Courterolles when
he fired again. It was a motorcyclist who
fell over his handle bars and was carried
that way for some yards before his ma-
chine turned off the road.

Courterolles reloaded. "You see?" he
said.

I did. We walked back to where the
others were getting ready for our "at-
tack" on Sainte-Anne.

"The first one," said Courterolles, "was
not a clear kill. I got him here"—he
tapped me just below the right shoulder,
an unpleasant sensation—and had he
not burned in his car, I am afraid he
might have lived. The second, on the
other hand, was a good shot—in the side
of the head, just below the helmet."

"You are a fine shot, Monsieur," I said.
"Where did you learn?"

"From my father to begin with. He
was very fond of big-game shooting. He
took me with him even when I was a
small child. Then I was in Spain."

"On which side?"

With most people who fought in Spain
there is no need to ask this question.

"I was in Madrid."

"With the International Brigade?"

"Not exactly." He smiled at me. "My
relationship with the International Brig-
ade was similar to that which I now have
the honor to have with your force. As
you see, I am a sniper."

We had returned to the others. I was
collecting my gear, and I heard Cour-
terolles describing to Hans, in German,
his recent successes.

"So ist er gefallen," said Courterolles,
and then, for the first time, I saw him
make that gesture with his two hands
together, the gesture I have already de-
scribed as resembling that of a child at
prayer. When he came to the part about
the man falling, his two hands, still held
together, fell gently to one side.

It annoyed me to give in to him, but
he was obviously quite right in saying
that he would be wasted in close-quarter
fighting such as we might anticipate at
Sainte-Anne. I left him with Hans and
Foreix's cousin in a little spinney below
the lookout place. He had his night rifle,
and I told him to shoot anything German
that was going toward Sainte-Anne. They
were all three to join us in the village
at first light.

We occupied the village after more
fighting than I had expected, taking
equal to a few tired Germans. They were
more like deserters than prisoners of
war, all maintaining fervently that they
were anti-Nazis, and we shut them up in
a deserted pigsty. Shortly after dawn
Courterolles and the others joined us.
Courterolles had killed many Germans
that night. I congratulated him, but he
only smiled.

"The only one I enjoyed," he said—
and I noticed that somehow he had pro-
cured a fresh carnation—"was one on
foot who was running away from Sainte-
Anne. I believe, by the way he fell, that
I must have got him exactly between
the eyes."

He made the gesture with his hands
and turned to his German servant. "Nicht
wahr, Hänsel?" And then, to me, "Night
shooting is an amusing novelty, but in
some respects unsatisfactory. Do you not
think so?"

I think that in the tired and almost
hypothetical condition in which I was that
dawn, I might have agreed with Foreix
and shot Courterolles. But at the moment
the first of Patton's fat tanks began to
bump through Sainte-Anne. In the ex-
citement of that unbelievable encounter,
I forgot Courterolles. Later, when I
looked for him, both he and Hans had dis-
appeared. I never knew what happened to
the large limousine.

THAT afternoon at the Plaza was the
first time that I had seen him since. I finished
my tea quickly and tried to catch the
waiter's attention that I might pay my
bill. I became unpleasantly aware that
Courterolles' companion was looking
over his shoulder at me. Before I could
get the waiter they came to my table.

"This is indeed a pleasure," said Cour-
terolles. "May I introduce Captain Hugel,
recently a pilot in your Twentieth Air
Force?"

I looked at the stocky American. He
could hardly have been more than twen-
ty-one; even so his civilian clothes
seemed to hang on him clumsily. His hair
was cut short all over his head. I sup-
pose people told him he looked like Cag-
ney. I had met scores of men just like
him during the war. They used to read
comic books and talk about steak and
ice cream and inevitably they would
show you photographs of their mothers
or their cars or their girls, or sometimes
all three on one photograph. Amiable but
intensely boring, they had seemed won-
derful in battle and rather absurd in
Paris or Rome. Back home, I suppose
they just disappeared into the national
background, those who were still alive.

Hugel said to me, "George tells me you
were in Brittanny with him, with the
guerrillas." He too used the Spanish pro-
nunciation.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I was."

The waiter came. I paid my bill. They
were still standing in front of me. I
realized that I was being rude. I did not
much care; in fact, I really wanted to be
rude, but I felt I must say something.

"Whatever happened to Hans?" I asked.
"And what are you doing over here?"

"Hans? Ah, you mean my valet. Why, I
believe he returned to his home in the
Pfalz. And I. What am I doing here?
Nothing, my dear friend." He smiled, a
tired smile, anxious to please but not over-
ly so. "I have just returned from South
America. Captain Hugel and I are leav-
ing shortly for a tour of the Holy Land.
I came to New York only for the neces-
sary equipment." He smiled at Hugel.
"It is so long—with all these dull wars—
since one has been able to visit interest-
ing places." Hugel nodded. "It will be a
particularly interesting trip for Captain
Hugel; his father is a minister."

Hugel nodded again. I made an apology
and left. Never have my wife's dull
friends seemed so delightful. I told them
the story of Courterolles, and I told them
about Hugel. They were shocked, and
one of them thought I ought to get in
touch with Hugel's father. But after all, if
a man can pilot a B-29, he should be able
to look after himself, don't you agree?

THE END

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125