I had no idea at the time of what I had accomplished. But when the soldiers whom I had picked up were brought to the relief-station and asked who rescued them, about fifty replied, “Yashka.” This was communicated to the Commander, who recommended me for an Order of the 4th Degree, “for distinguished valour shown in the saving of many lives under fire.” Our kitchen had been destroyed the previous night by the enemy’s fire, and we were very hungry. Our ranks were replenished by fresh drafts, and our artillery again boomed all day, playing havoc with the enemy’s wire fences. We guessed that it meant another order to advance the following night, and our expectations proved correct. At about the same hour as the previous morning we climbed out and started to run towards the enemy’s position. Again a rain of shells and bullets, again scores of wounded and killed, again smoke and gas and blood and mud. But we reached the wire entanglement and it was down and torn to pieces this time. We halted for an instant, emitting an inhuman “Hurrah! Hurrah!” that struck terror into those Germans that were still alive in their half-demolished trenches, and with fixed bayonets rushed forward and jumped into them. As I was about to descend into the ditch I suddenly observed a huge German taking aim at me. Hardly did I have time to fire when something struck my right leg, and I had a sensation of a warm liquid trickling down my flesh. I fell. My comrades had put the enemy to flight and were pursuing him. There were many wounded, and cries of “Save me, Holy Jesus!” came from every direction. I suffered little pain and made several efforts to get up and reach our trenches. But every time I failed. I was too weak. There I lay in the darkness of the night, within fifty feet of what had been, twenty-four hours before, the enemy’s position, waiting for dawn and relief. To be sure, I was not alone. Hundreds, thousands of gallant comrades were scattered on the field for miles. It was four hours after I was wounded before day arrived and with it our stretcher-bearers. I was picked up and carried to a first-aid station a mile and a half in the rear. My wound was bandaged, and I was sent on to the Division Hospital. There I was placed on a hospital train and taken to Kiev. It was about Easter of 1915 when I arrived in Kiev. The station there was so crowded with wounded from the front that hundreds of stretchers could not be accommodated inside and were lined up in rows on the platform outside. I was picked up by an ambulance and taken to the Eugene Lazaret, where I was kept in the same ward with the men. Of course, it was a military hospital, and there was no woman’s ward.