The next morning, Teniente Todri summoned me to the command tent to discuss my promotion. I ordered my men to stand by and stay sharp, then made my way through the bustling camp.
"Look who it is," one of the sentries at the tent flap smirked, nudging his companion. "The one who blew the American putas to hell."
"Just following orders, that's all," I answered lightly.
"Well, either way, thanks for delivering that blow. The Teniente is waiting for you." The soldier stepped aside, pulling the heavy canvas flap open for me.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of tobacco and old paper. Teniente Todri sat behind his makeshift desk, signing documents and sorting through the endless bureaucracy of a mobilized army.
"Ah, Valerian. Come in, sit," he said without looking up from his papers. "We need to discuss your new post."
He set his pen down and studied the topographical map sprawled across the table in silence. Finally, he looked up.
"You understand what this promotion means, Sarhento?"
I shook my head slightly. "Not entirely, Teniente," I lied smoothly. I knew exactly what it meant, but I wanted to hear it from his perspective.
Todri tapped the edge of the map with a weathered finger.
"As a Kabo, you were responsible for a fireteam. Four men, sometimes five, excluding yourself. Your job was simple—carry out orders and keep your men alive. That changes now."
He straightened his posture and looked directly into my eyes.
"A Sarhento commands a squad. A true fighting group."
"How many men, Teniente?"
"Usually eight to twelve," he replied. "Enough to split into smaller fire-teams if the tactical situation demands it."
I thought about that. Double the responsibility meant double the risk. But in the hierarchy of the NCOs (Non-Commissioned Officers), a Sergeant carried real weight. It was the bridge between the grunts and the officers.
Todri reached for a cigar, lighting it and taking a slow draw.
"You will keep your original four men. Julian, Pasco, Sanchez, and Roberto. They already know how you think. I don't want to be the one who destroys a working unit's efficiency." He tapped a mark on the map. "However, you will receive four additional soldados transferred from other sections."
I frowned. "Are they replacements? Or cast-offs, sir?"
"A bit of both," Todri said honestly. "Some units took heavy losses recently. Others have men who need... stronger leadership."
I understood the subtext. Not every soldier in this army was well-trained. Not every officer cared enough to teach them. Since Todri had seen how I drilled my squad, he was dumping the problem children on me, trusting I could break them in.
Todri walked slowly around the table, trailing a plume of smoke. "As Sarhento, your tactical autonomy expands. You have the authority to organize routine patrols on your own. You can allocate your team for supply runs. And since you are already familiar with our logistics, you are in charge of your squad's ammunition. When the time comes, you can expect orders for independent operations. Raids. Reconnaissance. Guerrilla strikes."
I nodded slowly. The pieces were falling into place.
"As for Roberto, I won't discharge him," Todri added. "A few days in the medical tent and he will be back on his feet."
That was a massive relief. But then, Todri's expression darkened.
"Your promotion also means something else, Valerian."
I waited.
"Other officers will start paying attention to you. Climbing the ranks this quickly attracts eyes—especially from the high command. I have the power to promote you to Sarhento. But to become an Alperes (Second Lieutenant) or a Kapitan, that requires approval from men like Kapitan Rusca or General Luna himself."
His tone made it sound less like a reward and more like a warning.
"Some will approve of you," Todri continued. "Others will not."
Success creates enemies as easily as it creates friends. I was young. To the veteran soldiers who had been fighting since the 1896 revolution against Spain, I was a sudden hotshot. A kid who skipped the line.
Todri folded his arms over his chest. "That is why I can only recommend your name for Alperes conditionally. If you prove you can command this larger group... if your men remain disciplined... if your operations succeed... only then will the promotion stick. And trust me, the reality of this army will hit you much harder than you expect."
"What do you mean by that, sir?"
Todri paused, choosing his words carefully.
"This army was not built like the ones you read about in most major power military manuals, like the germans or the British Empire. I am not from a military dynasty. I learned what I know through blood and dirt. Same as you. But others?" He tapped the table lightly. "Some men wear rank not because they earned it... but because they were gifted it."
I leaned forward. "Gifted?"
"Political connections. Wealthy families. Knowing the right officials in Aguinaldo's cabinet," Todri replied bitterly. "Some have never led men into a bayonet charge, yet they command those who have. That is the reality of our Republic, Valerian."
A heavy silence hung in the tent.
"That is why men like you stand out. And why you are dangerous to them." Todri picked up a folded document from the table and handed it to me. "Your additional soldiers will report to you tomorrow morning."
I glanced down at the paper. Four names. Their ages, former occupations, and brief service records.
Todri leaned back in his chair. "Build them into a proper fighting unit, Sarhento. Because if this war continues the way I think it will..." He glanced briefly toward the northern front. "...we are going to need officers who can actually think."
Outside the tent, the camp was alive with the smells of evening cooking fires and chatter. For the grunts, it was just another day in the war. For me, it was the stepping stone.
I folded the paper and tucked it safely into my breast pocket. "Understood, Teniente."
"Good. Go meet your new men in the morning. For now, get some rest. We are still awaiting deployment orders from Malolos."
I nodded and turned to leave, but before I could push the tent flap open, Todri called out one last time.
"Remember something, Sarhento."
"Yes, Teniente?"
"Your men will live or die based on your decisions now. Do not fail them."
I paused, let the weight of the words settle in my chest, and nodded. Then, I stepped out into the humid night air.
Inside the tent, an Alperes who had been standing in the shadows stepped forward. "Teniente... do you really think that boy has what it takes to be a Sarhento, he's quite young?"
Todri leaned back, blowing a final smoke ring toward the canvas ceiling. "He succeeded where veteran officers failed on the last mission. How can I deny achievements like that? If anyone can whip those new recruits into shape, it's Valerian."
~~
The evening air was thick with the smell of roasting sweet potatoes and woodsmoke. Outside their bamboo lean-to, Valerian's original four were gathered around a small, crackling fire.
Roberto sat with his bandaged leg elevated on a hard wooden crate, wincing as he shifted. "So, it's official then? Old man Todri gave him the stripes?"
"Official as it gets," Pasco replied, leaning back against a support beam and whittling a piece of wood with his knife. "I saw him coming out of the command tent. He had that look on his face. You know the one—like he's already calculating how many miles we have to run tomorrow."
Julian let out a short, barked laugh, stirring a dented tin cup of boiling water. "From Kabo to Sarhento in the blink of an eye. I remember when we were just throwing rocks at Spanish patrols in Cavite. Now look at us. Sitting under a Sarhento who actually reads maps."
"It's not just about the maps, Julian," Sanchez said quietly. He was cleaning the bolt of his Mauser, his movements slow and deliberate. He looked up, the firelight dancing in his dark eyes. "It's that he keeps us alive. In the old days, under the Katipunan, we would just charge a Spanish blockhouse with bolos and prayers. Half of us would die before we even touched the walls. Valerian... he makes us use our heads."
"He's a hard-ass, though," Roberto grumbled, though there was a fond smirk on his face. "Making us crawl through the mud in the middle of the night. My knees still ache from that supply depot raid."
"Yeah, but you're sitting here eating, aren't you?" Pasco pointed his whittling knife at Roberto's chest. "If we had done a standard frontal charge on that American depot, you wouldn't have a bandaged leg. You'd be buried in a ditch. Sanchez is right. The boss is weird, and his drills are hell, but I'd rather bleed under his command than die under some rich boy from Manila who bought his officer's commission."
Julian nodded, taking a sip of his hot water. "Well, we better get used to it. He told me we're getting four new transfers tomorrow morning. Clean-slates from other units."
Sanchez reassembled his bolt with a sharp click. "Then it's our job to make sure they don't slow him down. If they can't handle the boss's training, we break them in ourselves."