Several days rewind,
Recently burned Ammuntion Wagon,
Captain Arthur Miller kicked a blackened, twisted piece of iron that had once been the rear axle of a Conestoga supply wagon. Beside him, Sergeant Higgins was counting the brass casings that hadn't detonated in the heat.
"How much did we lose, Sergeant?" Miller's voice was dangerously quiet.
"Everything in the forward haul, sir," Higgins spat, wiping soot from his forehead. "Eight thousand rounds of .30-40 Krag. The medical chest is a cinder. And the telegraph wire was exploded in one of the tent. It seems the target was meticulously been done."
Miller looked at the perimeter. His sentries were veterans of the Indian Wars, men who could hear a coyote breathe at a hundred yards. Yet, four men—if the footprints in the mud were accurate—had slipped past two picket lines, planted four synchronized charges, and vanished before the first explosion had even settled.
"It wasn't a raid," Miller muttered, kneeling to inspect a scrap of bamboo left near the wagon. "It was a demolition. Look at the placement, Higgins. One on the specific tent, one on the hitch, two in the ammunition crates. It seems they know that we are paralyze without ammunitions."
"The boys are rattled, Captain," Higgins said, nodding toward the soldiers sitting by the creek. They were clutching their Krag-Jørgensen rifles as if they expected the grass itself to stand up and bite. "They're saying it's ghosts. They didn't see a single 'Gugu' until the sky turned orange."
Miller stood up, his gaze fixing on the dark, silent treeline across the water. He had been told that the Filipinos are a disorganized rabble, led by boys and farmers who closed their eyes when they pulled the trigger. But this... this was different. This was quite a calculated move. By taking out that wagon, the "Insurgents" hadn't just killed a few mules; they had frozen an entire American battalion in its tracks. Without those eight thousands rounds, Miller couldn't support the flanking maneuver planned for tomorrow.
"Sir?" Higgins prompted. "Do we move out?"
"Move out with what, Sergeant? Rocks and harsh language?" Miller snapped. "We stay put. Double the pickets. And tell the Colonel the advance is halted. We've encountered a unit that knows exactly where our heart is, and I don't intend to let them cut it out while we're marching blind."
Miller looked down at the mud one last time. A single, clear boot print caught his eye. It was small, precise, and belonged to someone who moved with the confidence of a predator.
"Whoever led that raid," Miller whispered to the wind, "wasn't just a soldier. He was a ghost with a stopwatch. Also... he must have read books like us."
He stood up, his face reddening with a slow-boiling fury.
"But if they did read our books, we can still defeat them," Miller hissed, mostly to himself. "But this style of warfare... it's unpredictable. To be attacked before we can even launch our own attack? It's a humiliation. It's a goddamn insult to the flag."
He looked back at the charred ruins of the wagon, his hands shaking slightly with suppressed rage.
"Even if they succeeded today—and they did, spectacularly—I will remember this moment. You goddamn Filipinos... you've made this personal."
Miller turned away, his eyes burning. He was no longer just fighting a war; he was hunting a man who had made him look like an amateur.