My POV
Now with my official rank as Sarhento, several new privileges were granted to me. Other than my standard compensation—which was still chronically lacking and often delayed by the central government—my pay in paper pesos officially increased on paper. More importantly than the money, however, was the authority that came with the rank. My dealings with the camp quartermaster had become noticeably easier. Where before I had to beg, plead, or barter for basic necessities, the single cloth stripe on my collar now commanded a certain level of begrudging efficiency from the supply officers.
~~
Quartermaster's tent
The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of dry canvas, oiled leather, and the bitter aroma of over-boiled coffee. I pulled back the flap and leaned against the wooden support post.
"Sir, look who's ba-cccckkk!" I teased, watching the man behind the desk squint at a long, fluttering ledger.
The man didn't look up at first. "If you're here for more Mauser clips, the answer is no. We're down to the floorboards and—" He stopped, finally raising his head. His eyes drifted to my collar. "Oh... aiyyaaa, you again, Kabo? Wait... is that a Sarhento's stripe I see?"
I gave him a tired, sweaty grin and a small mock-salute. "I'll be looking forward to working with you again, Sir."
The Quartermaster sighed, but it was a sigh of relief. He set his pen down. "Honestly, it's a blessing to deal with a man like you. Most of these boys come in here screaming for boots they've already lost or rice they've already traded. You save my energy. So, tell me, what does the new Sarhento need?"
I took a moment to look around the crates. "Actually, as of now, not much. But I wanted to know... what's the expectation for a man in my position now? Things are changing fast."
The Quartermaster took a long, slow drag from his coffee tin. "Well, since you're a Sarhento now, the higher-ups expect you to be a bit more... self-sufficient. You'll have your own small pool of supplies to manage for your squad. You can still count on me for the big hauls, but you need to learn to sustain your own men first. If things get truly desperate, then you come find me."
He leaned back, his chair creaking. "And just a reminder, since you're moving up—I'm an Alperes. I might be surrounded by crates, but I'm still an officer. Call me 'Sir' so the recruits don't get ideas."
The realization hit me. I'd spent so much time joking with him that I'd forgotten the silver pips on his shoulders. "Alright, Sir. Understood."
"Good. Now give me twenty push-ups for the attitude."
My jaw dropped. "Twenty? Right now?"
He let out a short, bark-like laugh. "Hah! Joking, boy. Save your strength for the trenches." He stood up and offered a surprisingly firm hand. "In all seriousness, congratulations on the promotion, Valerian. I heard a rumor that your name is already on the shortlist for an Alperes commission. Make sure you get that. I'd rather argue with you as an officer than have to bail out some other fool who can't count his own bullets."
~~
Although with my recent promotion, a sudden realization weighed on my mind. I need to re-organize my squad. Although I only ten personnel including myself, that's still need arrangement or we will be the first to die in war.
Generally, there are always two distinct sides to managing a military unit in the field. There was the glamorous side—tactics, maneuvers, and warfare. Then there was the unglamorous, exhaustively difficult side: domestic camp management and non-battle duties. A squad that couldn't feed itself, repair its own gear, or manage its sanitation was a squad that would die of disease or starvation before the Americans ever fired a shot.
Some men needed to be assigned to fetch daily water and firewood. Others had to take charge of cooking rotations. A dedicated team was required to oversee the precious, dwindling stockpile of ammunition, while another detail had to ensure our leather straps, uniforms, and bayonets remained in fighting condition. Every single task mattered. In a modern army, these were automatic systems. In the Revolutionary Army of 1899, if the Sarhento didn't organize it, it didn't happen.
Because of this administrative burden, I had assigned Kabo Anya to draw up a comprehensive list of roles for our team management. Having been a Kabo for quite some time in, she understood the internal plumbing of the infantry better than anyone else in the clearing. She knew exactly who was lazy, who was meticulous, and how to divide labor without breeding resentment among the men. And to add more, I dont think she attend the military academy which makes me intrigued.
"I will have the list ready by the evening mess, Sarhento," she had promised me earlier, her notebook already resting on her knee as she scribbled down inventory columns. Watching her work, a wave of relief washed over me. Delegating the domestic paperwork to her freed my mind to focus on combat readiness. It was a partnership that was already paying massive dividends.
Moments passed by as the afternoon sun began to dip low over the horizon. The quiet rhythm of our camp routine was suddenly broken by a courier arriving from the central command tent.
The orders were clear: we were to return to Malolos for replenishment and administrative refitting.
The news was met with a mixture of heavy sighs and quiet cheers from the veterans. Malolos meant sleeping under real roofs again, if only for a few days. It meant a brief respite from the biting insects and humid trenches of the northern front.
"Alright, listen up!" I called out to the men, clapping my hands to get their attention. "Pack it up! Check your kits, count your rounds, and secure your personal belongings. We are moving out by dusk."
The clearing instantly erupted into a flurry of controlled motion. Julian and Pasco began breaking down the bamboo shelters we had erected, while Sanchez and Roberto oversaw the heavy supply crates. Miguel, Mateo, Tomas, and Andres—the new transfers—integrated seamlessly into the workflow. There was no hesitation, no dragging of boots. The drills of the previous days had forged them into a synchronized machine.
As we packed, the crunch of boots announced the arrival of our replacements. It was a fresh detachment of infantry sent from the central reserve, their white rayadillo uniforms clean and unpatched, their faces bright and untouched by the exhaustion of the front lines. They looked at us with a mix of curiosity and awe, taking in our dirt-crusted boots, our battered rifles, and the hard, lean look in our eyes. We were the veterans now, rotating out to let the fresh blood hold the line.
I walked over to the incoming Sergeant, a weary-looking man who looked like he hadn't slept in three days. We exchanged formal salutes. I handed over the sector maps and the trench logs we had maintained.
"It's all yours, Sarhento," I said, offering him a grim nod. "Watch the tree line to the north. Their scouts get aggressive after midnight."
The Sergeant took the documents, looking them over with a tired sigh. "Understood. Safe travels back to Malolos, brother."
I turned back to my unit. Ten men stood in a perfect, silent line. Their canvas packs were strapped tight to their backs, their rifles held securely at their sides. Anya stood at the flank, her posture rigid, her eyes scanning the perimeter one last time before we moved.
"Squad, attention!" I barked.
Nine pairs of heels clicked together in unison against the hard-packed earth.
"Right face! Forward... march!"
As we marched out of the camp, leaving the dust of the front lines behind us, I looked over my shoulder at the column of men. We were going back to Cavite to rest, but I knew it was only a temporary reprieve. We were sharpening the blade. And when we returned to the front, we would be ready to cut.
~~
Malolos, Republic's Capital
As we arrived at the barracks near the Pariancillo district, the capital was alive. Malolos was bustling, vibrant and noisy under the watchful, disciplined eyes of the Presidential Guards in their Rayadillo uniforms. I dismissed the men to get some well-earned rest, but I chose to walk the streets myself, observing this "Republic in its cradle" in quiet solitude.
The sounds of heavy wooden carts rolling over the packed earth of the main thoroughfares mixed with the distant, rhythmic clack of printing presses—the La Independencia newspaper was likely working on its next evening edition. Instead of the briny scent of the coast, the air here was thick with the smell of roasting coffee and the sweet, heavy aroma of tobacco from the local tobacco shop.
I passed the grand Bahay na Bato houses of the Kamestisuhan district, where the stone foundations felt more permanent than the bamboo huts of the front lines. Wealthy families peered from behind capiz-shell windows, their polished narra floors gleaming in the afternoon sun. Soldiers here didn't just lounge; they patrolled the perimeter of the Convent and the Barasoain Church, keeping a sharp eye on the influx of delegates and couriers.
I made mental notes of the warehouses near the railway station—these were the lifelines of the Republic, and likely where the black-market trade for foreign goods and ammunition thrived. A narrow alley between two stone estates reminded me to consider escape routes; in a city of politicians and high-ranking officers, a "tactical accident" was just as dangerous as an American bullet. Even when my men were resting, I couldn't shake the paranoia. In Malolos, the war wasn't just fought with rifles—it was fought with ledgers, secrets, and silver.
While I walked, some of my squad were already busy with the domestic duties Anya had ruthlessly assigned to them. I hope that they will survive. Hahahahah.
All these small tasks ensured we would be ready the moment orders arrived from the Presidential palace. Malolos was familiar in its grandeur, yes, but that very elegance bred a dangerous complacency. In this war, even a short trip for stationery or black-market Krag rounds could turn into a test of survival—and I intended for my squad to pass.
As I walked deeper through the stone-paved streets of the Pariancillo, I allowed myself a rare moment of ease. My steps led me to a small, upscale taverns tucked between two affluent storefronts. Instead of the rough scent of a port-side stall, the air here was thick with the rich, earthy aroma of premium tobacco and the sharp, refined tang of imported Spanish brandy, likely smuggled past the American blockade.
I paused near the entrance, catching my reflection in a polished window. In my past life, a single drink at the end of a long shift over the work was normal—a way to quiet the numbers in my head. Surely, one drink wouldn't hurt here, even if the "work" I was currently balancing were the lives of my men and the grain of my black powder.
~~
"Uuuff… that's strong…" I exhaled, my eyes watering as I set down the empty glass bottle.
Then came another.
And another.
By the fifth bottle, the heavy weight of the war felt… lighter. The humid air of the Bulacan lowlands felt cooler. The noisy streets of the Pariancillo felt friendlier.
"I think… I've still got my tolerance," I muttered to the empty air, pushing myself off the wooden stool to stand up. I took one confident step forward.
Then the world tilted violently on its axis.
Darkness claimed me before I hit the refined cobblestones of the capital.
—
Later…
I woke up slowly. My head was pounding like a sustained American artillery barrage. The ceiling above me—adorned with the intricate wood carvings of a repurposed Malolos estate—looked unfamiliar for a few disorienting seconds before my eyes adjusted to the dim barracks light.
I groaned and rolled my head to the side.
Anya sat on a wooden chair nearby. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was watching me with a calm, flat—and unmistakably judging—expression.
"Sarhento," she said dryly. "You blacked out. In the dirt. In the middle of a tabaquería."
I blinked twice, squinting against the light. "…I did?"
"Yes," she replied without a hint of pity. "Fortunately, I spotted you before any of the Presidential Guards or the Congressional delegates made a scene. Pasco helped me carry you back here."
I stared back up at the wooden ceiling. A heavy silence hung in the room.
"…Five bottles," she added, twisting the knife.
"…That explains a lot," I croaked.
Anya shook her head slightly, a small sigh escaping her lips. "For someone who enforces military discipline as strictly as you do, Sarge… that was unexpected."
I let out a quiet, pained groan, rubbing my throbbing temples. "I thought I had a higher tolerance. Modern alcohol must be weaker."
From the doorway, Pasco's voice piped up, thick with barely suppressed laughter. "Not anymore, Sarhento! That Isabela-aged brandy will drop a carabao!"
I closed my eyes, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. This was definitely not going into the official after-action reports to High Command at the Convent.
Without thinking much about it, my headache dulling my social filters, I reached out from the cot and briefly took Anya's hand in mine.
"Well… thanks. For taking care of me. And saving my dignity."
For a split second, Anya froze.
Her eyes flicked down to where my hand covered hers, then slowly traveled back up to my face. The ice-cold Corporal seemed momentarily trapped in place.
Slowly, she pulled her hand away—not abruptly or violently, but with smooth, quiet control.
"It was necessary," she said.
Her tone was calm, almost indifferent—but there was a faint, fraction-of-a-second pause before the words came out.
I raised an eyebrow, ignoring the throbbing in my skull. "Necessary?"
"You're the Sarhento," she replied, coolly brushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear as if nothing had happened. "If you collapse in public in the seat of the Republic, it becomes a stain on the unit's reputation. It becomes everyone's problem."
Well, I think this happens quite often, but well..
A beat of silence followed.
Then she added, much more quietly—
"…Next time, try not to make it mine."
Pasco, still leaning against the doorway, coughed loudly into his fist, clearly fighting a massive grin. He looked like he was about to burst.
I exhaled a heavy breath, letting my head sink back into the thin pillow.
"Noted, Kabo."
~~
Later that day…
Word travels faster than a Mauser bullet in a military camp. By evening roll call, I felt it.
The heavy, stifling atmosphere of discipline in Malolos had been replaced by a strange, vibrating energy. Every time I walked past my men, I caught the looks. The side-eyes. The suppressed, snickering laughter. Julian was suddenly very fascinated by the dust on his boots whenever I looked his way. Pasco didn't even bother hiding it; his shoulders were visibly shaking.
I stopped in my tracks, crossing my arms over my chest and narrowing my eyes at them.
"Something funny, Soldados?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
Pasco coughed violently into his fist, trying to straighten his posture. "No, Sarhento. Not at all."
A heavy silence hung in the air for exactly three seconds.
"…Five bottles," Pasco muttered under his breath, barely audible.
That was the breaking point. Julian completely lost it, turning his back to me and burying his face in his hands to muffle a loud wheeze. Mateo and Miguel were biting their lips so hard they were turning white.
I exhaled slowly, letting the humiliation wash over me before I delivered the hammer.
"Extra physical drills at tomorrow morning," I said flatly. "Full kit. Rifles held overhead. We'll run past the Barasoain Church until the friars complain."
That shut them up instantly. Julian's shoulders slumped, and Pasco's smirk died a sudden, painful death. Full-kit runs in the humid Bulacan morning were no joke.
Anya, who had been standing a few feet away leaning against a supply crate, uncrossed her arms. A ghost of a smile touched the corner of her lips.
"A fair punishment, sarhento," she said calmly.
I glanced over at her, my headache giving a fresh, angry throb. "For them, or for me?"
"For everyone," she replied, her eyes locked onto mine. "A leader who shares the sins of his men should share their penance. I will be timing the run."
Damn, girl... she really goes for the throat. I rubbed my temples, already dreading the morning sun.
~~
Under the shade of a worn wooden awning at the edge of the temporary barracks, Roberto laid out our ammunition in neat, gleaming rows.
"Some of these brass casings are worn and corroded," Roberto noted, his brow furrowing as he rubbed a thumb over a tarnished round. "We'll need fresh replacements soon, boss. Even in a city like this, quality is hard to find."
I nodded, crouching beside him. "Mark the ones we can still use for patrols. Set the corroded ones aside—we only chamber those for absolute emergencies."
Miguel approached us from the supply stack, holding up a coil of fuse cord. "Sarhento, this fuse is cut much shorter than the standard regulations."
"Good," I replied, checking the texture of the powder core. "Keep it."
Miguel looked confused, blinking in the morning sun. "But it burns too fast, sir. It's dangerous."
"For quick charges," I explained, leaning back. "If we are sabotaging an enemy wagon or a bridge and need to blow it and run, we don't always need a long delay. Speed is survival."
Miguel nodded slowly, the tactical gears clicking in his head.
Anya had been watching the exchange quietly, her arms crossed. She tapped the stock of a captured weapon leaning against the wooden post. "I noticed you kept that American rifle from the ambush. Don't you want to field-test it?"
She was referring to the Krag-Jørgensen bolt-action rifle. It was the standard-issue weapon of the American forces. I picked it up, running my hands over the smooth, heavy American walnut stock. I tested the bolt mechanism—it was buttery smooth, much faster and more reliable than our aging Spanish Mausers. The iron sights were crisp.
"The Krag is a beautiful weapon, Anya," I said, squinting down the barrel. "But it's useless without its specific .30-40 caliber rimmed ammunition. If we take it to the front lines without a steady supply of bullets, it just becomes a very expensive club. Unless we raid American outpost or their supplies every week, it's a logistics nightmare."
She nodded, understanding the gravity of supply chain limits. We returned to our work, maintaining our gear in the humid heat.
Later that afternoon, I decided to take a gamble. I gathered Anya and Pasco. We stripped off our rayadillo military tunics, dressing in loose, faded civilian shirts and straw hats to blend in with the local population.
We walked toward the Malolos market district. The streets were an absolute madhouse of sensory overload. Voices overlapped in a thick wall of sound—not just merchants, but political activists and newspaper criers—and the smells of roasting coffee, Bulacan delicacies, and heavy tobacco hung in the air.
We didn't stay in the open for long. Slipping away from the main thoroughfare, we turned into a labyrinth of narrow, sun-shielded alleys behind the Pariancillo district. From the whispers I had gathered from local contacts, there was a man hidden in this maze who dealt in "unregulated merchandise."
After a few blind turns, we found him. A middle-aged man wearing a sweat-stained shirt and ragged trousers leaned casually against a rotting wooden post. He was chewing tobacco, his eyes tracking us with a cold, predatory precision. It wasn't a friendly look, but in this business, paranoia was a survival trait.
"Looking for something, city folk?" he asked, his voice a gravelly rasp.
I didn't answer directly. Giving a voice to what we wanted in an open alley in the capital of the Republic was a death sentence. Instead, I gave him a slow, single nod.
That was enough.
He spat a stream of dark tobacco juice into the dirt and gestured for us to follow him inside a dilapidated storefront. It looked like a standard junk shop at first—filled with rusted pots and broken furniture. But then, the man pulled aside a heavy, moth-eaten hanging cloth at the back.
Behind it lay the real inventory.
Heavy wooden crates. Stacks of Spanish Mauser rifles. Cold iron bayonets. Loose brass ammunition piled high in worn cardboard boxes.
"Everything here is... unofficial," the man said, a faint, yellow-toothed smirk touching his lips. "But if you bring value, I provide what you need."
I signaled to Pasco. Pasco stepped forward and carefully unwrapped a burlap cloth from his shoulder. He placed the Krag-Jørgensen rifle on the table.
The man's bored expression vanished instantly. His eyes widened.
He snatched up the rifle, running his calloused hands over the chamber. He cycled the unique side-loading magazine, listening to the mechanical clicks with a professional, greedy appreciation.
"Hmmm... not common," he muttered. "An American piece. I wonder how you get this beautiful thing here, so far from the Manila trenches."
I nodded once. "Do you have the food to feed it?"
The man didn't answer. He turned his back to us and began digging through a mountain of crates, shifting heavy wooden boxes and muttering curses under his breath.
The backroom plunged into a heavy, suffocating silence. It was too quiet.
I felt Anya shift subtly beside me. My eyes were on the arms dealer, but hers weren't. She was tracking the shadows near the backdoor, her hand resting naturally near her waist. She was always watching our blind spots. It gave me a rush of pride; she was the perfect special-ops partner.
"Ah."
The man stood up, brushing dust off his trousers. He was holding several small, heavy cardboard boxes bound in twine.
"You are very lucky today, friends." He dropped them onto the splintered table. "Six boxes. That is all I have in stock, and likely all you will find in this province."
I pried open the lid of one box. The long, copper-jacketed .30-40 Krag rounds sat in neat rows. Clean. No corrosion. Perfect condition.
I gave a short nod. "Pasco."
Pasco reached into his civilian vest and produced our currency. It wasn't paper pesos. In the underworld, paper was toilet paper. He unwrapped a clean handkerchief to reveal several packs of imported cigarettes and a thick, heavy gold ring.
The man's smile widened, this time reaching his eyes. He snatched the ring up, weighing it in his palm before biting it to test the purity. Satisfied, he slipped it into his pocket.
"Now that," he purred, "is how real business is done."
I wrapped the ammunition boxes in our burlap cloth, throwing it over my shoulder. I gave the signal to leave. But just as we reached the curtain, the man's voice cut through the dark room.
"You soldiers should be careful out there."
I paused, my hand on the curtain. I didn't turn around. "We aren't soldiers. Just travelers."
The man chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "No. Of course not. Travelers don't walk like they're waiting for an artillery whistle."
The room grew icy. Anya's hand drifted back to the hilt of her knife. She was ready to paint the walls if this was a trap.
The dealer raised his palms slowly, sensing the sudden shift in gravity. "Relax. I don't sell trouble. I sell informations, or anything client need. As long as the payments are good, I don't pry, and I don't talk. It's bad for business."
"Fair enough," I said quietly.
We slipped through the curtain and pushed out into the hot, humid air of the alleyway. We didn't slow our pace until we rounded three corners and burst back onto the main, crowded street near the Plaza. Only then did Pasco let out a massive lungful of air.
"That man knows far too much for comfort, Sarge," Pasco muttered, his eyes darting through the crowd.
"I agree," I replied, shifting the heavy weight of the ammunition on my shoulder.
Anya glanced over her shoulder at the alley we had just exited. "Which means we shouldn't come back here unless we have absolutely no other choice."
"Agreed. But for Krag bullets, sometimes we have to make an exception."
"Don't you think our Revolutionary Government should be making official deals like that?" Pasco pondered as we navigated the market crowd. "If our local workshops could manufacture standard ammunition, we could fight a war of attrition. Without bullets, we're just walking corpses."
Pasco was learning. He is thinking like a modern logistics officer. If the Philippine Republic could standardize its ammunition manufacturing, the Americans would have a much harder time conquering the islands.
As we walked back toward the barracks, a heavy thought settled in my chest. Pasco was right. But until high command at the palace sorted out the politics, it was up to squad leaders like me to scavenge what we could in the dark.