Days after the battle, the men finally allowed themselves a breath. We rested, recovered our strength, and settled into our daily routines—cleaning weapons, mending uniforms, sharing stories over tin cups of bitter coffee. Under General Antonio Luna, the soldiers are quite good. Their loyalty, willingness to follow him. That part is I deeply respect. From what I heard, most officers will tend to lavishly spending their time like mostly their leaders still lurks in regionalism and factionalism. But those under General Luna, well lets just say it was the most decent.
Rumors always found their way through the ranks, and I caught wind of one that left me shaking my head. They said Luna once nearly killed Kapitán Janolino of the Kawit Brigade during the attack. The reason? Sheer, infuriating negligence.
During a battle—while Luna's men bled and died on the front lines—Janolino sat idle, doing nothing. His excuse? "I only follow the president's orders."
To me, that's a load of horse shit. When a general gives you an order, you follow it. Period. I don't care if the president himself holds the highest military authority—Marshal, Commander-in-Chief, or whatever title—if you're assigned under a general, you follow his command in the field. That's how armies win wars and how soldiers stay alive.
Janolino was under Luna's direct command. There's no excuse for his inaction. If I had been in Luna's shoes that day, I might not have stopped at "nearly" killing him. I'd have shot the bastard's balls clean off.
Well thats my perspective. Despite everyone doing their things. An NCO suddenly called me.
"Recruit Valerian?!. Recruit!!"
"Yes Sir! Im here" The NCO, slapped my head. "Next time, focus! Kapitán Rusca called you upon."
"Yes sir!" I arrange my things, and preparing myself to meet this Kapitán.
"Haha, looks who's been stupid enough to been called by Rusca!!" One of the soldier being funny.
"Oh shut up!" I yelled and brush it off. I know its just a joke.
That was my perspective, at least. While everyone else went about their business—cleaning rifles, gambling over cards, or napping in the shade—an NCO's voice suddenly cut through the camp.
"Private Valerian?! Private!"
"Yes, sir! I'm here!" I called out, springing to my feet.
The NCO strode over, smacked the back of my head, and barked, "Next time, focus! Kapitán Rusca wants to see you. Now."
"Yes, sir!" I replied, quickly gathering my gear and straightening my uniform. My stomach knotted—Rusca wasn't exactly known for casual chats.
From the side, one of the soldiers smirked. "Haha! Look who's stupid enough to get called in by Rusca!"
"Oh, shut up," I shot back, brushing it off with a wave. I knew it was just a joke… mostly.
Commanders Tent
I stepped through the heavy canvas flaps into the dimly lit interior of the command tent. The smell of tobacco and oiled metal hung thick in the air. Two officers were inside, each absorbed in his own task.
One sat slouched in a folding chair, sipping lazily from a tin cup that reeked of rum. The other, seated at a low table, was hunched over his rifle, methodically disassembling and cleaning the weapon with the precision of a jeweler.
"You're that boy?" the mustached officer asked without looking up from his drink, his voice gruff but tinged with curiosity.
"Recruit Valerian," I replied, standing straight as a post.
He gave a slight nod, then jerked his chin toward the tent's entrance. "Wait here." With a small hand gesture, he signaled the other officer to fetch Kapitán Rusca.
The man cleaning his rifle set it down, stood, and stepped outside. I remained at attention, letting my eyes wander briefly over the tent's interior—maps pinned to the central table, stacks of ammunition crates in the corner, and a sword mounted neatly on a rack, its steel glinting faintly in the muted light.
Moments later, the flap rustled and in walked Kapitán Eduardo Rusca himself. He was a stocky man of medium height, his short, neatly combed hair framing a face that radiated authority. Three silver stars gleamed on his shoulder boards, catching the light as he moved.
"Sir!" I barked, snapping a salute so sharp my palm stung.
"Hahaha, at ease, soldier," Rusca chuckled, waving his hand in a relaxed gesture. I lowered my arm and stood at ease, though my spine remained straight.
He stepped closer, eyeing me with the kind of scrutiny that made a man feel weighed and measured in an instant. "So," he began, a faint smile tugging at his lips, "I've heard about you."
Back to the battlefield.
I stood amid the chaos, saber drawn, bellowing orders until my throat burned. "COVER THE GENERAL! FORWARD!" My voice fought against the thunder of rifles and the dull, stomach-churning boom of artillery. Somewhere ahead, General Luna—damn fool that he was—had charged headlong into the enemy, his horse cutting a wild path through no-man's-land.
My men surged forward in a desperate wave, their boots pounding the mud, bayonets catching flickers of light. I kept my eyes sweeping the line, half-looking for openings, half-looking for troublemakers. Deserters were always a curse in the smoke; a man would vanish into the haze and never return.
That's when I noticed one soldier breaking formation. At first, I cursed under my breath—another bastard running for cover. But before I could react, the battle roared to a higher pitch.
A burst of automatic fire ripped through our ranks. The enemy's machine gun spat lead in long, merciless streams, cutting down my men like grass before the scythe. I ducked instinctively, mud spattering my face. The roar was deafening, a metal storm churning the earth itself.
I shouted for the men to spread, to keep moving, but every second felt like the line was unraveling. My focus was fixed on silencing that gun… and then it happened.
A single rifle shot cracked across the battlefield—different, sharper. The gunner's head jerked back violently, and the machine gun fell silent. For a moment, the sudden absence of that metal shriek felt unreal.
I blinked through the smoke. Someone had killed him.
Across the field, the enemy lines rippled with confusion. I saw an officer—an American, judging by his blue coat—lean over the fallen gunner, shouting something to his men. The words were in English, fast and sharp, but I couldn't make them out through the gunfire.
Then he dropped too. Another shot—clean, precise—and the officer was face-down in the dirt.
One by one, I noticed them—their soldiers falling, their formation faltering, men collapsing in quick succession. It wasn't random fire. This was deliberate, surgical. Whoever was behind those shots wasn't just lucky… they knew exactly where to place each bullet.
I didn't have time to dwell on it. "PUSH! DRIVE THEM BACK!" I roared, pointing my saber toward the wavering enemy line. My men obeyed, their own courage stoked by the sudden turn of the tide.
In the chaos, I kept scanning for the soldier I'd seen break away earlier. The smoke made it impossible to be sure, but a faint suspicion stirred in my gut. Was it the same man responsible for those shots? I couldn't tell.
What I did know was this—something had just shifted in our favor. And in war, you didn't question good fortune when it came soaked in blood.
Original POV
Rusca's smile was faint, but his eyes were sharp—measuring me.
"I've heard about you," he said, his voice steady, almost casual. "Of course, not from the officers… but from the men."
He walked past me toward a small table in the corner. The tent smelled faintly of damp earth and boiled coffee. On the table lay a rough wooden bowl of kamote and half a bundle of dried tuyo. Rusca picked one up absentmindedly, tearing a piece as he spoke.
"After that madness with the general," he continued, "I made it my business to find out who exactly took down the enemy's machine gunner… and the officer who tried to rally their men. Took a bit of asking. Soldiers are quick to boast, but they're quicker to point to the man who actually did the work."
He looked at me again, eyes narrowing. "It was your name, Valerian."
I swallowed hard. "Sir, I only did what any soldier should—"
He cut me off with a small laugh. "Save it. Although Im not as crazy as General Luna, but I know bravery when I see it. And I also know most men would have kept their heads down that day, praying the machine gun jammed on its own. You didn't. You broke from the ranks, risked being shot as a deserter, and turned the fight in our favor."
Outside the tent, I could hear the wind pushing through the kubo-style fencing, rattling the strands of dried palay hung there to keep away damp. The faint smell of rice husk smoke drifted in from a nearby cookfire.
Rusca set the tuyo aside, wiped his hands on a rag, and straightened his tunic. "I don't give out praise lightly. And I don't give promotions without a reason. But after what I've heard…" He stepped closer, his voice lowering. "You've earned one."
My heart skipped. "Sir?"
"You're no longer just a recruit, Valerian. As of today, usually the recruit will promote to Soldado (more like a private) but you are special case, you'll hold the rank of Cabo (Corporal) in the Revolutionary Army. Wear it well."
He reached into a small tin box on the table, pulled out a pair of worn but neatly polished corporal's chevrons, and placed them in my hand. They smelled faintly of sun-dried cloth and sweat—passed down from another soldier, perhaps one who never came back.
I stood straighter, saluted, and said, "Thank you, Kapitán."
Rusca gave a half-smile, the kind that vanished almost as soon as it appeared. "Don't thank me. Thank your aim… and maybe the anitos watching over you that day. As for your rank, you will have 4 people on you. It might be fresh recruit so train them well, if you have anythin you can refer to me or any respective officers. As for salaries, you will receive 9 pesos monthly, but due to our discrepancies, you will receive in other form."
"Sir?" I dont even know.