"Now that you have your orders, Sarhento, you are dismissed!" General Luna barked, turning his back to us and returning his fierce gaze to the topographical maps on the table. "Now get to the front. Let your actions do the talking from here on out."
I snapped a crisp salute, Anya following suit with fluid, practiced precision. We turned on our heels, our boots clicking against the stone floor as we exited the suffocating atmosphere of the command post.
The moment the heavy oak doors shut behind us, the humid air rushed into my lungs. Outside, the indigo-clad Tiradores de la Muerte still stood like stone statues, their eyes tracking our every movement with predatory stillness. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. That was an incredible level of discipline—I only hoped the rest of our soldiers could match it.
"Sarhento, it's not like I'm against the idea of us acting as the front line," Anya said quietly as we walked. "But if we are to do it with only ten men, including you, this mission itself is a dangerous gamble."
I answered back, "Anya, please. Don't forget about the regular men assigned down there. But as Teniente mentioned previously, they are in a state of poor preparation."
Before we could take more than ten paces down the convent steps, the door behind us creaked open again. Colonel Paco Román stepped out into the afternoon sun, his steady gaze and calm demeanor instantly catching my attention. He walked down the stone steps with measured strides, stopping right in front of us with his hands firmly in his pockets.
"Sarhento Valerian, Kabo Anya. A moment," Colonel Román said, his voice dropping to a low, confidential tone.
"Colonel," I said, inclining my head respectfully.
Román looked at me carefully, searching for any signs of panic. "The General's temper is legendary, but his tactical instincts are rarely wrong, that I can assure you. He is testing you because he cannot afford to lose the bridgehead. If we lose it, the road to the capital will open like a red carpet, and that is a truly disastrous sign. But tell me... now that you have your orders, what is your immediate assessment?"
I didn't hesitate. If I was going to navigate the inner circle of the revolutionary high command, I needed to show him I wasn't just another raw recruit.
"Colonel, if we are holding the absolute center of that meat grinder, I need to know the parameters of my command," I stated firmly. "When the General says we are taking charge of the sector, is it strictly my nine people? Or will I have tactical authority over the regular companies already stationed at the riverbank? Also, I'm just a mere Sarhento, I don't hold more authority."
Román offered a faint, approving nod. "Hmm, now that you ask, that is quite the right question. As we mentioned just now, the regular soldados currently holding those trenches are disorganized and on the verge of panic. You will have local authority over your designated sector to implement your fire-team rotations, and by extension, those disorganized men will be under your command too. But do not expect a massive influx of fresh reinforcements. The central reserve is tied up elsewhere. And don't worry about the authorities, we will give an official order papers, so anyone from outside will not intervene."
"Understood," I replied, my modern strategic mind already running the logistics. "And what should we expect for the upcoming days? Are the Americans planning a full-scale offensive, or are they sticking to probing actions?"
"Our scouts report that they might be bringing up more field pieces," Román answered grimly, his dark eyes narrowing. "They want to clear the bridgehead to secure the railway line. As of now, you have to get ready, 2 days max, that's the estimation. If you see a way to disrupt their momentum as you claim, do it cleanly. Don't waste men for glory."
"Yes, Colonel. We will focus entirely on maximizing enemy casualties," I said.
"Now that's what I want to hear. Prove the General wrong about 'hotshot kids,' Sarhento," Román said, offering a brief nod of encouragement before turning back toward the heavy oak doors of the convent.
Anya adjusted the strap of her rifle, a cold grin touching her lips. "At least the Colonel has a head on his shoulders."
"Let's hope the regular companies listen to us," I muttered, adjusting my hat. "Come on, let's find Todri."
Teniente Todri was waiting for us near the edge of the camp's perimeter, pacing nervously by a row of supply wagons. The moment he saw both of us walking back with our heads still attached to our necks, a massive wave of relief washed over his face.
"Thank the anitos," Todri breathed, rushing toward us. "When the doors closed, I thought I'd be writing execution reports by dusk. What did he say?"
"It seems you might have to delay those execution reports, Teniente. The General has ordered us straight to the front lines at the riverbanks," I explained quietly. "We are to handle the defense of the bridgehead sector."
Todri's expression hardened instantly. "The center? That's a suicide assignment, Valerian. The companies down there are completely rattled, you're not even an Officer. Sometimes, I truly wonder if an NCO should be in charge. The officer previously in charge deserted the post, and thanks to that, everything has become completely disorganized." He shook his head, but quickly regained his military bearing. "Alright. If those are the General's orders, we move now. Follow me."
Todri led us swiftly through the labyrinth of the temporary camp, our pace fast and focused. The casual chatter of the standard infantry faded away as we neared the low, muddy paths leading down toward the Bulacan riverbanks. The distant, rhythmic thud of American artillery echoed through the humid air, shaking the earth beneath our boots.
~~
After a few minutes of hard marching, Todri stopped behind a reinforced earthen berm that marked the secondary defensive line.
"Your men are right through here. While you were in the meeting, I had your men arranged to this location," Todri said, gesturing toward a sheltered dugout tucked beneath a massive bamboo grove.
I stepped into the clearing, and a surge of pride cut through the tension in my chest. Sitting in a tight, disciplined circle were my eight soldados. Julian, Mateo, and Miguel—our first fire team—were methodically checking the bolt mechanisms of their Mausers. Sanchez, Roberto, and Andres—the second team—were organizing the leather bandoliers, while Pasco and Tomas kept a fierce, watchful eye over our heavy, mahogany supply crates.
The moment my boots crunched against the dry dirt, all eight men bolted upright, snapping into a unified, flawless salute.
"Sarhento on deck!" Pasco called out.
I returned the salute, looking at the sharp, clean lines of my squad. They didn't look like the panicked, shattered recruits scattered across the rest of the Bulacan line; they looked like a professional unit.
"At ease, gentlemen," I commanded, stepping into the center of the dugout. Anya stood right beside me, her icy, vigilant gaze scanning the perimeter. "Gather around. It seems we've just received our orders directly from General Luna."
The boys looked visibly shocked when they heard the name. "Boss, you don't mean... that lunatic?" Julian blurted out.
"SHUSH! Are you trying to get us killed?!" The boys slapped Julian hard across the shoulder.
"It's okay, guys. We're quite far from the command post," I said with a smirk. "But Julian, make sure you give me a warning next time you plan on saying that. That way, I can stand by with some flowers for your funeral."
The men burst into quiet laughter, and Julian offered a sheepish grin. "Hehe. Okay, boss."
"So, moving on," I continued, bringing their focus back. "We are setting up here to arrange a new defense for the bridgehead sector. As you know, we are the front line now. Even though we have Teniente Todri holding the secondary line, it is confirmed that we will not receive fresh reinforcements to support our sector."
The men focused intently on me as Anya nodded along. "Therefore, we will utilize the disorganized men already down there to support our positions. And as for the trenches themselves... did you notice how shallow they are?"
The men looked around, and a few of them quickly stood up to inspect the defensive line they were occupying. The earthworks were uneven, shallow, and tedious to move through.
"Boss, it looks just like any other trench we have out here," Pasco noted.
I sighed. "Exactly. And if you want to know the truth, these shallow trenches will become our graveyard. I need all of you to start digging them deeper—by at least an extra two to three meters—to survive the incoming artillery shells. We know already that the Americans are bringing up heavier field pieces, as you are aware of, so it is best to dig in now to eliminate that risk."
The men understood the gravity immediately. "Right away, boss."
They grabbed their entrenching tools and immediately prepared to fortify their position, first to secure the already made trenches.
~~
As I walked down the muddy trench line, my boots squelched loudly in the silt as the regular soldiers scrambled to find shovels and bolos. I stopped near a collapsed section of the earthworks where a few men were huddled under a ragged canvas shelter.
"Is there any NCO or officer left standing in this section?" I called out, my voice booming over the scraping sound of entrenching tools. "Any person of high rank around, step forward now!"
There was a tense pause before a man crawled out from beneath the canvas. His uniform was caked in dried river mud, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. On his collar pinned a single, dirt-smudged stripe. A Cabo.
"Kabo Flores, Sarhento," he said, pushing himself up to deliver a shaky, fatigued salute. "I'm the only NCO left in this company. The Teniente deserted two nights ago, and the Sarhentos...well, two are dead from the previous probing actions, and the last one disappeared into the brush with a fractured shoulder."
I returned the salute quickly and kept my face neutral, masking the frustration that wanted to boil over. "Alright, Flores. Give me a headcount. How many remaining men do we actually have left in this sector?"
Flores swallowed hard, checking a damp notebook he pulled from his tunic. "On paper, we were a company of eighty. Right now? We have forty-two regular soldados still breathing and present in these ditches. Five are wounded but can still chamber a round. The rest... ran for the secondary line or simply vanished into the lowlands when the commanding officer bolted."
Forty-two men. Combined with my original squad, that gave us fifty-two rifles to hold the center of the meat grinder. It wasn't a battalion, but under a strict fire-team rotation, it was a force I could actually work with.
"I need the sitrep from the previous engagements," I commanded, leaning against the shallow trench wall as Anya stood guard behind us, her eyes locked on the murky riverbank. "Tell me exactly how the Americans attacked, what their patterns were, and what happened before the line collapsed into this state."
Flores let out a weary breath, pointing across the river toward the darkened tree line. "The previous sitrep is simple, Sarhento—it was total slaughter. The Americans didn't even launch a full infantry charge at first. They started with their scouts probing our flanks right before dawn. Once our men panicked and started firing blindly, wasting our ammunition, their field pieces opened up from across the creek. The shell fire chewed through these shallow earthworks like paper. When our Teniente saw his own men getting buried alive by the mud, he lost his nerve, screamed that the position was indefensible, and ran."
"And the infantry advance?" Anya asked, her voice tight.
"They moved in disciplined columns right after the shelling stopped," Flores explained, his hands trembling slightly as he remembered the assault. "In terms of the fire rate, I can say that the enemy are quite tense. We couldn't match their rate of fire. We fell back to this pocket, and they held their position across the bank, waiting to bring up heavier artillery for the main push. And we couldn't expect when. Might be few days from now."
I nodded slowly, my modern strategic mind analyzing the data. The blueprint of the American tactic was clear: probe to induce panic, soften with shrapnel, and advance under superior fire volume. It was predictable, mechanical, and entirely lethal against untrained troops. But it also meant that if we broke their predictable rhythm, their momentum would crack. Thankfully, Colonel Paco has been informed of this. At least I know the gist of it.
"Thank you for the sitrep, Kabo," I said, patting Flores on the shoulder. "Now listen to me. Your forty-two men are no longer a leaderless rabble. The General gave me direct orders to hold this bridgehead. My first order of business is to divide your remaining force into three temporary sections right now. My squad will guide your men on how to deepen these holes, and you will liaise with Kabo Anya regarding the guard shifts. The clock is ticking, and I want every single one of those forty-two men dug in deep enough to make the American artillery completely useless."
"A Sarhento?" Flores muttered, a sudden spark of purpose returning to his tired eyes. "I expected some hotshot officer from the capital, but an NCO who actually knows how to entrench... as long as it keeps my boys alive, I'm with you." He turned on his heel and began shouting for his squad leaders to assemble.
"Kabo, do you think the men will obey?"
Flores let out a dry, rasping chuckle. "They'll complain the entire time, Sarhento. They're infantry—it's what they do best. But they'll dig. Better to sweat under a Sergeant's curse tonight than get buried under an American shell tomorrow. I'll get them moving."