soon gather about me. I always came loaded down with cigarettes and other things that soldiers are fond of, except intoxicants. One youthful soldier after another rolls back his sleeves and displays tattooed figures for me to rave over: "That proves you are completely masculine, and I worship you for having it done." Others double back their right arms and let me feel of their biceps: "I call you 'Strength!' I call you 'Power!' I call you a man of iron! Mighty man of war! Mighty man of valor! Mighty man of renown!"
Later one who meets me for the first time asks: "Do you call yourself a girl? In all my life I never vidi puellam cum peni!"
"I know I am only part girl. I have a girl's mind and breasts and my body otherwise is much like a girl's."
"If you don't believe Jennie is a girl, just feel of her breasts."
Several stick their hands into my bosom. "He's got a girl's breasts all right."
They ask me to sing, listen attentively, and then remark: 'That is a high tenor. It has an effect on the voice all right."
"Are you and I of the same sex?" I ask, taking pleasure in our physical and psychical contrasts.
"No, Jennie, you are a baby, and we are the big, big braves."
My presence would inspire them to an evening of innocent frolicking, and they would play pranks on me, for example, dancing around the room shrieking like wild Indians, brandishing their swords, and banging them on
