Modern Screen (Dec 1931 - Nov 1932 (assorted issues))

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THE MOST DYNAMIC WOMAN IN HOLLYWOOD back from the windows, so you fire over the sills; the Reds can see you better than you can see them, and girl after girl tumbles to the parquet floor. You drive the attackers off. They come on again. More girls die. You wonder how soon a bullet will sear into your own breast. The attack goes on all day. Not until night do the Cossacks charge the Reds, drive them off, and enter the palace to relieve you. NATHALIE BUCKNALL, now chief of the Research Department at the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer studio, was at nineteen a slim blond girl with blue eyes, whom British visitors to Petrograd often took to be English, an impression which was heightened by her fluent speech in that tongue. As a matter of fact, she spoke perfect French and German also, as do all cultured Russians. Nathalie was at St. Anne's College in Petrograd, studying engineering and architecture. Strange as those professions may seem for a woman, they were her choice ; and when Nathalie makes a choice nothing dissuades her. War was declared. Nathalie instantly enlisted as a nurse. For a year she served at the Czarevitch Alexei's Hospital in Petrograd. Then the Grand Duchesses Tatiana and Marie endowed several hospital trains, to bring wounded from the front, five days' journey away, and Nathalie volunteered for duty on them. On her first trip, as the train rolled along, she leaned out of the window and saw German planes overhead. A small black object detached itself from the plane and fell toward her. There was a racking boom. "Bombs !" cried the head nurse. "They're bombing us in spite (Continued on page 123) ♦ ♦ ♦ Amazing, this woman's terrific energy and dauntless courage. Her bravery is equal to any man's By JACK JAMISON YOU are a nineteen-year-old schoolgirl. You have left a home of luxury and delicacy, where your life has been a sheltered one, to join an organization with the name of The Women's Battalion of Death. You have been in it only six weeks. You scarcely know what a gun is. One morning you are pulled out of bed at five o'clock. After prayers, a rifle is thrust into your hands. Your commander says, "The Bolsheviks are attacking the palace. There are no troops. All the defense rests upon us." Through the grey light you march to the huge palace. Scattered shots are fired at your column on the way. The girl next you staggers and falls, coughing blood. In the palace, you barricade the great doors. The Reds are advancing through the gardens, firing from behind shrubbery. You aim and fire whenever you see a man— you, who have never been able to bear seeing a chicken killed! No one has told you to stand