When the regiment got into camp near the trenches and the men were given the regulation uniform of the army, the officers decreed that the girls’ soldiering should come to an end. The real business of fighting was about to begin and women were not wanted. They could be sanitaries, said the commander. So they went back to women’s clothes and women’s historic job of waiting on men. This girl, however, objected, and finally confided to one of her men friends that the sanitary’s work was too distasteful for her to endure longer. “Why should I be obliged to patch up wounds?” she asked. “It is much easier to make them.” The soldier found some regimentals for her and she went out and fought in a skirmish line. When the commander heard of it he was terribly angry and to frighten her he put her on sentry duty in an exposed post. “He thought he’d cure me of my taste for fighting,” she chuckled, “but I wasn’t frightened a bit, and so he said, ‘Well, be a soldier if you are so bent on it. We need soldiers.’ And so, I fought.” She described her first and only battle where she helped storm several lines of trenches and was one of thirty-seven survivors out of a thousand in her regiment who took part in the engagement. Her wounds, she said, did not hurt much at the time, but she was bleeding pretty badly and thought she ought to get to the hospital. “Just then I saw our captain, and he was badly wounded, almost unconscious in fact, and I had to get him to the rear on my back. It was all that I could do, for about that time I felt that I was growing weak and would soon have to sit down. I managed to get him as far as the first line of Red Cross men, and then I went under. I had been hit in the side by a bullet or a piece of shrapnel and I was pretty sick for a while. By and by I felt better and somehow got back to the rear. The first thing I saw was one of our men who was weeping with his head in his hands. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, and when he looked up and saw me he gave a yell. ‘They said you had been killed,’ he shouted. And he began to dance a hornpipe. Poor chap, he had been wounded too and before he had danced more than a few steps he began to bleed and fell over in a faint.” The ambulances were pretty full, so this plucky young creature thought she could walk the three or four versts to the hospital. She had to give up before long and a captain of another regiment, himself wounded, took her into his cart or whatever conveyance he had, and carried her to the hospital. “Our captain was there,” she finished, “quite out of his head with pain. He kept saying, ‘Don’t let that girl go back to the field. Don’t let her fight again. She is too young.’ He did not know then that I had carried him off on my back, and me wounded too.”