The desolation of her life must have crept into her crude appeal. Somebody answered with permission to join a regiment of men forming in the vicinity of Tomsk. From that day, Marie Bachkarova became simply “Bachkarova.” Her woman’s name and her long brown braids went first. She changed her trailing skirt with the ruffle on the bottom for soldier’s breeches tucked into the tops of high black boots. A vizored cap daringly replaced her folded kerchief, and the transformation was complete. The strength and breadth, and the deep, full-toned voice of a man, were hers. Passing her on the street, you had to look three times to make sure she was not a man. After the first few days of grumbling protest, her comrades seldom remembered she was a woman. In the two years that followed, Bachkarova was three times wounded, still Destiny kept her deeper purposes concealed. One spring day in 1917, when Bachkarova was lying on a cot in a military hospital, a shrapnel bullet-hole as big as a man’s fist in her back, some one brought news of desertions in the army. “The men won’t fight,” said the Red Cross nurse, laying fresh gauze upon the wound. “They are a pack of cowards. They are drunk with freedom.” It was not altogether the truth: for every deed of ignorance and cowardice, the Russian front has registered one of heroism. But Destiny does not stop for anything so complex as absolute truth. She lingered at Bachkarova’s bedside that afternoon long enough to do her work. “The men won’t fight,” said Bachkarova to herself. “The men won’t fight!” she repeated. Then, suddenly forgetful of the hole in her back, she raised herself quickly from the pillow. “Women--women will fight!” she said. Exhausted, she fell back on her pillow. She had her big idea. It was the idea that produced one of the most pathetic and most dramatic facts of the Russian summer of 1917. On an afternoon in early June, two years and three months from the day that Sidor Petroff hobbled on crutches into the meat-shop to tell Marie Bachkarova that her husband was dead, Bachkarova, illiterate peasant woman from an obscure Siberian village, knelt in the great square in front of St. Isaac’s Cathedral in Petrograd, while the priests sprinkled holy water, and thousands of necks craned for a glimpse of her. On that day she became a full-fledged officer of the Russian Army--the first woman officer in the world. Her command, two hundred and fifty young soldier women, stood at attention while three generals of high rank buckled on her sword, and, after their fashion with brother officers, kissed her on both cheeks. Into the keeping of Orlova they gave a proud gold-and-white banner. It was a gift from Kerensky, and from its standards fluttered the colors of the Battalion of Death. On each girl’s sleeve were the same distinguishing marks--red “for the Revolution that must not die,” and black “for a death that is preferable to dishonor for Russia.”