It was not customary to inscribe the name of a Commander on the flag of a military unit, he explained, but the name of Maria Botchkareva was emblazoned on this standard, which, in case of my death, would be returned to the Cathedral and never used by another Commander. As he spoke and said the prayers, in the course of which he sprinkled me three times with holy water, I prayed to the Lord with all my heart and might. The ceremony lasted about an hour, after which two soldiers, delegates from the First and Third armies presented to me two icons, given by fellow-soldiers, with inscriptions on the cases, expressing their trust in me as the woman who would lead Russia to honour and renown. I was humbled. I did not consider myself worthy of such honours. When asked to receive the two icons I fell on my knees before them and prayed for God’s guidance. How could I, an ignorant woman, justify the hope and trust of so many brave and enlightened sons of my country? General Kornilov, representing the army, then presented me with a revolver and sword with handles of gold. “You have deserved these gallant weapons, and you will not disgrace them,” he said, and kissed me on the cheek. I kissed the sword, and pledged myself never to disgrace the weapons and to use them in the defence of my country. Kerensky then pinned the epaulets of a Lieutenant on my shoulders, promoting me to the rank of an officer. He, also, kissed me, and was followed by some of the distinguished guests, who congratulated me warmly. The high officials departed and General Polovtzev took charge for the rest of the day. I was too overcome to regain my self-possession quickly. I was raised up by the hands of General Polovtzev and General Anosov first. Then some officers of junior rank carried me. Next I was raised above the crowd by some enthusiastic soldiers, and dragged out of their hands by even more jubilant sailors. All the time I was very uncomfortable, but the ovation continued and the cheers would not subside. Women in the throng forced their way to me, kissing my feet and blessing me. It was a patriotic throng, and love for Russia was the dominant note. Orators mounted improvised platforms and talked of the coming offensive and the Battalion of Death, finishing with a “Long live Botchkareva!” The emotion of the soldiers at the moment was such that they cried: “We will go with Botchkareva to the front.” Speakers pointed to the women as heroes, calling upon every able-bodied man to rise to the defence of Russia. It was a wonderful day: a dream, not a day. Had my fancy come true? Had this group of women already accomplished the object for which it was organized? It seemed so that day. I felt that Russia’s manhood was ready to follow the Battalion and strike the final blow for the salvation of the country.