That day, the general had assigned to do skirmishes across the region along north of Manila where the Americans are stationed. the men has been mobilized, specifically myself and the team. Andre and Bonito are securing supplies for our squad while the rest are fixing and adjusting the rifles to make sure it readied for the next battle.
A teniente (lieutenant) met me "Kabo, the supplies are ready, while the men still mobilizing, it is suitable for us to start take a look around." he suggest.
"Alright, do the scouting." I agreed and relay orders.
It took a while where we scout the area, getting the information on the enemy whereabouts. The time went until dusk. Thanks to my drills, our stamina has increased quite effectively, where we usually march for 3-5 kilometres, now we can do easily 5 kilometres above without the need of rest. So which explains why we indirectly getting ahead compared to others.
"You know, the new Kabo seems to torture his men quite arduously." One of the soldiers whispering others.
"Can't agreed more." The other one agrees.
But despite some of it whisper bad things, some Officers remained neutral or even support it.
"That boy, seems he know the drill of the army. Looks like he ever had been an instructor too."
"Haha! he might be a fine officer, but he wrong one thing, he didnt have influences among elites, how would he achieve that?" The laughter among officers remains.
~~
North of Manila
"Focus fire!"
The order rippled down the trench from officers to NCOs like a wave striking rock. Men crouched low behind makeshift earthworks—bamboo braces, sandbags, and soil barely compacted enough to stop a determined round.
Rifles cracked one after another. Some shots found flesh. Most struck dirt, wood, or nothing at all.
We had been assigned to the eastern trench, under the supervision of Teniente Todri—a solidly built man with steady hands and sharper instincts than most. Rumour had it he came from a respectable middle-class family, educated enough to read maps properly and write orders without assistance. In this army, that already placed him above many.
Across the field, American lines moved in disciplined formations. Through drifting smoke and heat haze, I estimated at least a hundred men—perhaps more held in reserve.
"Steady," I muttered to my squad. "Make every round count."
Unlike the others, my boys didn't fire wildly. They adjusted their breathing, sighted properly, and squeezed—not yanked—the trigger. The drills had paid off. I saw two Americans stumble under our volley, another fall entirely.
It wasn't much in the grand scheme of war.
But it was ours.
Truth be told, as a mere cabo, my role was limited—hold position, relay orders, maintain discipline. Nothing glamorous. Still, I knew one thing clearly: if the Philippine Army was to survive, it needed reform from the ground up.
And if I couldn't fix the whole army…
I would start with my four men.
The Americans answered with heavier support. A distant thump echoed, followed seconds later by an explosion behind our trench line. Soil rained down.
Howitzer fire.
Not constant, not overwhelming—but enough to remind us of the imbalance between us. They didn't appear to have brought full artillery batteries forward, only limited field pieces. Perhaps they underestimated this sector. Or perhaps they were probing. Hours dragged on in smoke and thunder. The exchange slowed. Then—silence.
An uneasy one.
From across the field, a voice rang out in English, loud and mocking. "Why don't you Filipinos lay down your arms? You're farmers, not soldiers!" The men around me blinked in confusion. Most didn't understand a word.
I did. I rose just enough for my voice to carry.
"If you're so brave," I called back evenly, "why not go tell the Texans how to live? Leave our fields to us."
There was a pause.
Then an angry reply: "You insolent—!" I didn't let him finish. I fired.
The crack of my rifle split the silence, and the battlefield erupted once more. This time, the Americans advanced with more urgency. But now my men were ready.
"Left flank, hold!""Pasco, conserve ammunition!""Julian, watch the ridge!"
The shooting continues until dusk, where the americans sound their trumpets, ending the assault, and retreat.
Thats quite closed ones.
Later, Tenyente Todri come to my section "Kabo, i dont know what you did but I appreciate it. He is pissed" he laughed as it was a pure insult from a filipino to americans.
"Well, lets say I learned some english before I joined here." I answered.
"Well, get some rest soldiers, we have a battle to win." He pat me and leave the section.
"Kabo, even tenyente greets you in high regard, what you just did?" Pasco teased me up.
"Ahh let it be, just some encouragement, but who knows, maybe, so how's the ammunition for now."
"Well we still have enough thanks to your drill on us, and earlier preparation, we appreciate that Kabo." Pasco stating.
~~~
The next day,
It brought smoke. The Americans resumed their assault before the mist had fully lifted from the field. Rifle fire cracked across the trenches, sharper and more deliberate than yesterday. Their rhythm had improved. They were adjusting.
By mid-morning, a runner stumbled into the command dugout where Teniente Todri and the alpereses were gathered.
"Sir! West trench reports ammunition running low!" Another followed soon after.
"South section requesting immediate resupply!"
Inside the cramped earthen shelter, the air was thick with sweat, powder, and urgency. Maps were pinned against damp soil walls, already smudged from rough handling. Alperes Villanueva wiped his brow. "We can't keep this rate of fire. The men are wasting rounds."
"They're recruits," another muttered. "They panic and shoot."
Todri's jaw tightened. "How much reserve do we have?"
"Not enough if this continues past noon."
A third messenger burst in.
"North trench requesting cartridges, sir! They say they'll be dry within the hour!"
The dugout fell into strained silence.
Every section was asking. Every section—except one. Todri looked up slowly.
"What about the eastern trench?"
The aide hesitated, glancing at his notes.
"No request, sir."
"None?"
"None, Teniente."
A faint crease formed between Todri's brows.
"They're still engaged?"
"Yes, sir."
"And no resupply call?"
The aide shook his head.
Inside the dugout, one of the alpereses scoffed lightly. "Perhaps they haven't realised they're out yet." Another added, "Or perhaps they're too stubborn to admit it."
Todri said nothing.
Outside, the thunder of rifles continued. But from the eastern trench, the firing came in measured intervals—controlled volleys, not frantic bursts. Todri stepped out of the dugout, crouching low as a round snapped overhead. He moved along the trench line until he reached the eastern sector.
There, he saw it.
Valerian's four men firing in sequence. One shot, pause. Another shot. Adjust. Fire again. No shouting. No chaos. No waste. Valerian himself was kneeling behind the parapet, watching the field before giving quiet instructions.
Todri observed for several seconds before speaking.
"You've still not asked for ammunition?"
Valerian didn't look back immediately.
"We still have enough, Teniente."
"Others do not."
Valerian glanced down at his pouch, then at his men.
"They fire when they see something worth hitting."
Todri studied him carefully.
Around them, the battle raged. Men screamed. Earth burst apart under incoming rounds. But in this section, there was discipline. Its like his men were been drilled to control their breathing, find worth time to shoot instead of blindly.
Todri gave a small nod.
"Continue."
He turned and moved back toward the command position.
Behind him, whispers had already begun among the officers.
"That cabo…He trains them too hard."
"Or perhaps not hard enough."
Todri didn't comment and return to his position.
Julian squinted down the sights of his rifle, smoke curling past his cheek. "Not going to lie," he muttered, "Kabo makes it look impossible. How come we're still firing while the others are already scraping their cartridge belts?"
Pasco snorted from beside the sandbags, wiping sweat from his brow.
"If not for the torture drills he put us through every dawn," he said, barely holding back laughter, "we'd be the same as them. Remember the counting? 'One shot, one breath!'"
Both Benito and Pablo chuckled — quiet, controlled laughter — the kind that only came when death had not yet chosen your trench. Another rifle cracked from their line.
Julian worked the bolt smoothly."Still," he added, "I heard the left flank already sent two runners asking for ammunition."
Pasco leaned slightly, peering over the edge. "And we haven't sent one."
The men glanced toward you. There's pride there. But also curiosity.
You quickly cut it short.
"Enough talking," you said firmly, but not harshly. "Watch the tree line. They'll try to close before dusk."
The laughter fades, but the morale remains.
The first shell landed short.
Earth burst upward in a violent spray, showering the trench with soil and splinters.
The second came closer.
The Americans had brought their guns forward again. This time, it was the howitzer that thundered — a deep, rolling concussion that pressed against the ribs. Not the sharp crack of rifles. Something heavier. Intentional.
Men ducked lower.
Someone cursed.
"Artillery!" Julian hissed unnecessarily.
Another shell screamed overhead and burst somewhere behind the line.
For a moment, it felt like the familiar rhythm — the Americans softening positions before another push. Then—
Another boom.
But this one came from behind them.
I heard it...its familiar..hah its the Filipino ones. hahaha well the sound is not as great like americans but I knew it The men froze.
Pasco blinked. "That's not theirs."
A second answering thunder rolled across the field, followed by the distant whistle of outgoing fire.
And then, somewhere ahead — an explosion among the American lines.
Dirt rose on the far slope. Julian slowly lifted his head.
"They brought guns…" he whispered.
From the rear trench, runners began shouting.
"Reinforcements! From Malolos!"
More rifle fire joined the line — fresh volleys, tighter cadence. New voices. Less panic. Valerian didn't smile.
He just listened.
American rifle fire grew irregular. Their howitzer answered again — but this time hurried, imprecise.
Another shell from behind screamed forward. It landed cleanly.
The field shifted. Not dramatically. Not heroically. Just enough.
"Hold your fire," Valerian ordered quietly. "Let them feel it."
Minutes passed.
Then Todri's voice carried down the trench line.
"Prepare to advance by sections! Slowly! Don't rush!"
Valerian's men moved first in pairs — short bursts forward, dropping into shallow scrapes, covering each other. Not a charge. Not glorious. Measured. Bit by bit.
The Americans began pulling back — controlled, disciplined retreat. Trumpets eventually cut through the smoke. Withdrawal call.
No rout. Just calculation. The firing thinned. Then faded.
Smoke drifted over the churned field.
Todri approached later, dust covering his boots.
"You and your men," he said simply, "change shift. Second line will take this sector."
Pasco exhaled loudly. "Finally."
Julian slung his rifle with stiff arms.
Valerian looked once more across the field — where bodies lay in uneven silence — then stepped down from the firing lip.
The noise of battle receded behind them.
Not victory.
Just survival for another day.
As they moved toward the reserve trench, the adrenaline drained.
Only now did the shaking begin in some hands.
No one laughed this time.
~~~
The alperes moved down the line, ordering search parties to move through the field.
"Check for survivors! Secure weapons! Report anything usable!" The men spread out slowly across the scarred ground. Smoke still hung low, mixing with the smell of damp soil and gunpowder.
I let my squad move, but I kept my rules simple.
"Only take what matters," I told them. "Valuables. Ammunition if it matches our rifles. No unnecessary weight." They understood immediately.
It was all about staying alive for the next fight.
Pasco and Julian moved quickly, turning over fallen packs and checking cartridge belts. Pablo worked quietly, careful and methodical despite his youth. Benito stayed alert, watching the tree line more than the bodies.
They found:
- A few usable cartridge boxes with compatible rounds
- Four rifles in decent condition after quick inspection
- Small valuables — coins, personal items, maybe trade goods later
I watched them carefully.
"Check the chamber types," I reminded Pasco. "Don't take rifles you can't maintain or feed." He nodded.
One rifle was rejected immediately — wrong caliber. Another had a cracked stock. Only four were kept after quick testing, cycling the bolts, checking firing pins, making sure they were serviceable.
No celebration. By the time the search ended, the alperes signaled the order to regroup.
"Fall back to the reserve line!"
We moved out slowly, boots sinking slightly into the soft soil. The battle noise was gone now, replaced by distant artillery rumbling like thunder beyond the hills.
My pouch felt heavier — not with gold, but with cartridges.