General Luna' POV
The air at the Malolos railway station was a thick, suffocating blend of mid-morning heat, the sulfurous tang of coal smoke, and the restless energy of an army that was half-formed and wholly impatient. Under the shade of the station's overhang, a small wooden table had been set with a civility that felt almost violent against the backdrop of war.
General Antonio Luna sat with the rigid poise of a man who was himself a drawn sword. He watched a steam locomotive—a massive, black-iron beast—hissing rhythmic clouds of white vapor onto the platform. His uniform was impeccable, the gold sun of the Republic on his collar catching the light with every slight movement.
Across from him, Colonel Paco Roman and Kapitan Eduardo Rusca were deep in the logistical chaos that Luna demanded be treated as a symphony. Roman was leaned over a map, his brow furrowed as he calculated the tonnage of troop transport, while Rusca was busy "negotiating" with the British station master whose face was currently a shade of pale that matched his linen suit.
"The train belongs to the Republic, Señor," Rusca's voice drifted over, jovial yet edged with the lethality of a man who enjoyed a good fight. "Whether you like the taste of the coal or not, we are taking it to Bulacan. Unless, of course, you'd like to explain to the General why his mobilization is being delayed by a schedule written in London?"
Luna didn't look up. He lifted a delicate porcelain cup, the tea inside dark and bitter, much like his own thoughts.
"Let them argue, Paco," Luna said, his voice a low, cultured rasp. "The British unfortunately understand two things: contracts and cannons. Since we've torn up the contracts, Rusca is merely trying to provide the alternative."
A courier, breathless and dust-covered, approached the table with a sharp salute that Luna barely acknowledged with a nod. The boy handed over a heavy vellum envelope sealed with deep crimson wax—the mark of the Santos family. Luna broke the seal with a pocketknife, his movements surgical. As he read, his dark eyebrows climbed upward, and a rare, contemplative silence settled over him.
"Teodoro Santos," Luna mused, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "That old fox has finally decided that the Republic is worth more than his silence. It seems he's offering some deal of requisitions accross the Central Luzon. But, instead of the supplies, it is these 'catalyst' that interests me. He mentions a soldier. A Sarhento. One that named Valerian Osmeriana."
At the mention of the name, Eduardo Rusca suddenly stopped his badgering of the station master. He turned, his eyes widening with a flash of recognition as he walked toward the table, pointing a finger in the air as if a missing gear had finally clicked into place.
"Valerian?" Rusca asked, a grin spreading across his face. "Wait, Antonio... Osmeriana? That's the lad from the Manila campaign! Don't you remember?"
Luna glanced up, his gaze icy. "I remember a thousand names, Eduardo. Most of them are carved into headstones. Now tell me why this one individual is different than the others?"
"Because he's the one that I personally promoted to Kabo during your 'suicide charge' at the Caloocan lines," Rusca explained, leaning over the table with growing excitement. "When the Americans pinned us down with that Maxim gun, I saw this soldier break rank. I thought he was defecting—running from the noise like a frightened dog under the pretext of fear. I was ready to shoot him myself."
Rusca chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. "But instead, he was trying to find a spot to shoot back. He crawled forward, found a gap in the smoke, and picked off the machine gunner and the commanding officer in two shots. I gave him the stripes of a Kabo, after some time searching for him, not gonna lie, it's quite hard to search among the recruits."
Paco Roman looked up from the maps, his interest piqued. "The sharpshooter from the trenches? Well that was unexpected. I'm not sure if that's all he is, but it seems the story didnt stop there, is it?."
"Well yeah, it didn't," Rusca continued, nodding vigorously. "A few weeks later, I read Teniente Todri's report on past few weeks, The same men led four men under his team, disrupting the American outpost which involved the explosion of the ammunition depot and few key points. But it seems it seems this Kabo's actions has some impact on the American's advancement actually which explains why the attack has been quite lowered. Thanks to the success disruption, Todri was so impressed he bumped him to Sarhento immediately. The recommendation for Alperes is actually sitting in the backlog of the Ministry of War as we speak."
Luna looked back down at the letter, his thumb tracing the embossed "S" of the Santos family. The scowl on his face didn't disappear, but it shifted from irritation to a cold, predatory focus.
"So," Luna whispered, "the boy who shoots officers and machine gunners is now the same man who manage to charms the most stubborn Don in Malolos. He has a habit of being where the fire is hottest, and now he is where the gold is hidden."
"Santos asks me why I am wasting such a 'singular competence' on relief duty," Luna said, his voice regaining its iron authority. "He asks why I have not yet met the man who is apparently doing more for my logistics than half my staff."
Luna stood up, the chair scraping sharply against the stone platform. He walked to the edge of the station, looking out at the black-iron locomotive that was finally being coupled to the troop cars.
"Paco, find out where Valerian section is currently billeted. If this Osmeriana has found a way to secure modern Mausers and Orbeas without a single manifest landing on my desk, I want to know if he is a man I should promote... or one I should have shot for being too clever for his own good."
"He's a fighter, Antonio," Rusca added, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "Most of these boys are waiting for permission to win. This Valerian? He's already winning. He just hasn't told anyone yet. And also, I read the reports from Teniente Todri, he has a knack on training his men into efficient killers"
Luna looked back at the letter, then out at the hazy distance toward the north.
"Finish the sequestration of the train," Luna commanded. "Once we are in Bulacan, I want this Sarhento brought to me. I want to see the face of the man who managed to embarrass my depot security, silence an American Maxim gun, and charm the Santos family in the span of a few months. If he truly is a 'bridge' to the elite's resources, then perhaps the Republic has a heartbeat after all."
He took a final, cold sip of his tea and threw the porcelain cup toward the tracks, where it shattered into a hundred white shards.
"The time for tea is over," Luna growled. "Let's see if this Valerian is a soldier... or a miracle."
~~
Malolos Provincial Barracks
The Krag-Jørgensen rifle felt heavy in my hands—and finally usable. With the bullet sizing issue resolved, we had real firepower.
After a brief, quiet discussion with Anya, we decided it was time to reorganize. Ten men. It wasn't a large unit, but it was enough to require a rigid structure. I had Pasco call everyone to the assembly point in the barracks yard. They formed up quickly, their boots scraping against the dry dirt.
"At ease," I ordered.
The tension in their shoulders loosened slightly.
"As you are all aware," I began, my eyes scanning the line, "Kabo Anya is now my second-in-command. In my absence, she speaks with my authority. Her orders are my orders."
If Anya felt their eyes, she didn't show it. She stood like a statue, just watching them. Good. Let them learn her silence was more dangerous than a shout.
"Pasco," I continued.
He straightened instantly. "Sir!"
"You are in charge of ammunition and equipment. You ensure we are supplied for patrols, for combat, and for everything in between. Count every round. Guard every crate."
"Yes, Sarhento!"
"Tomas. You assist him." Tomas nodded firmly, his face set.
Then, I looked at the rest of them. "Moving forward, we will operate in two fire teams." I pointed down the line. "First team: Julian, Mateo, Miguel. Second team: Sanchez, Roberto, Andres."
A brief pause. I let the names sink in.
"Rotations will depend on the assignment."
Sanchez raised his hand. I nodded to him. "Yes?"
"Why divide the teams, Sarhento?"
Good. He was thinking, not just nodding blindly. I stepped forward, closing the distance between us.
"For efficiency," I said. "If we deploy as one block, everyone gets exhausted at the same time. If everyone is exhausted, we die. This way, one team operates while the other rests. However, if the situation demands it, we will deploy as a single, combined squad. Be ready for both."
Silence followed. Sanchez absorbed it, his jaw tightening. He nodded. "Yes, Sarhento."
Anya finally spoke, her voice cutting through the humid air. "Rotation schedules will be posted by sundown," she added calmly. "Memorize them. There will be no excuses."
No one argued.
~~
Days later,
Malolos Capital.
Despite fierce resistance from the Filipinos, the Americans had managed to secure a strong foothold in Manila at a surprisingly swift pace. Even with Americans' advancement, thanks to Valerian's small effort, the advancement are halt due to shortage of bullets, without Todri realizing, the mission led by Valerian has indeed make the American bleed, for the first time. One that might be overlooked.
~
In a modest room adorned with maps and reports, Teniente Todri sat at his desk, focused on the documents before him. The door creaked open, and an aide stepped in, holding a folded letter with a sense of urgency.
"Teniente Todri," the aide said, presenting the orders with a snap of his wrist.
"Give it to me," Todri replied, his tone steady but curious. The aide handed over the letter, and Todri unfolded it, scanning the contents. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Well, it's time to go."
~
Outside, the sharp, brass notes of a bugle cut through the heavy air, snapping the barracks to attention. Men froze mid-drill, their heels clicking against the hard-packed earth.
"Dismiss the drill!" I ordered.
The standard infantry scattered in a frantic rush toward the assembly point, but my squad didn't break. They shifted into a steady, synchronized march. Watching them, a grim satisfaction settled in my chest. Their discipline was starting to separate them from the raw recruits.
Later that afternoon, the entire garrison was assembled under the baking sun. Teniente Todri stepped onto a raised wooden crate, his voice booming over the murmurs of the men.
"Listen up!"
Silence fell over the ranks.
"By nightfall, we will march back to Bulacan," Todri shouted, his gaze scanning the crowd. "A train has been secured for us by the Commandancia. We are expected to move out promptly. Pack your kit—ammunition, rations, blankets, everything you can carry. This isn't a drill, and we aren't coming back here. We will be out for duty."
The men exchanged glances. As I stand beside my section, well I know that thanks to our 'requisition' previously, we come prepared. They didn't waste time. They broke ranks and set to work, the barracks suddenly alive with the metallic clatter of mess kits, the cinching of leather straps, and the counting of brass cartridges.
"Dismissed!" Todri barked.
As the chaos of packing swirled around me, I stood still. Taking a train to the front lines in Bulacan meant stepping directly into the meat grinder. What I know is I need to bleed Americans' ammunition supplies to make sure they are not able to launch grand attack.
~~
The march from the barracks to the train station was a symphony of heavy boots and clanking gear. The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and deep oranges. Torches and oil lanterns flickered along the tracks, illuminating the massive, iron beast waiting for us. As we marched through the narrow streets, the townspeople lined the cobblestones to watch us pass. I scanned their faces in the flickering torchlight. Some were young and excited, cheering and waving their hats as if we were off to a grand adventure. Others just stared in hollow silence, their eyes unreadable and vacant. But in the faces of the mothers and the old men, I saw the truth. They didn't cheer. They watched us go with a quiet, heavy sorrow, knowing all too well that many of the boys marching tonight would never ride that train back home.
The steam locomotive hissed, venting white plumes into the humid night air. It smelled heavily of burning coal, grease, and sweat.
"Keep the squad together!" I shouted over the mechanical roar of the engine. "Pasco, Tomas—make sure our crates are safe. Nobody touches them but us!"
"On it, Sarhento!" Pasco yelled back, his rifle slung tight over his shoulder as he and Tomas shouldered the heavy wooden crates of Krag ammunitions, extra sidearms with its bullets, and supplies that we received.
The station was a madhouse. Hundreds of Republican soldiers were funneling toward the open sliding doors of the wooden boxcars. Officers were shouting conflicting orders, horses were whinnying as they were forced onto flatbeds, and local vendors were desperately trying to sell fruit and tobacco through the iron grates to the men inside.
"First team, up!" I ordered, gesturing toward our assigned car.
Julian, Mateo, and Miguel hauled themselves into the dark interior of the train car. The wood is still new, since this would be the first time trains will be used for army mobilization, thanks to General Luna's initiative I presume.
Anya stood at the threshold, her eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the station, her hand resting naturally on the hilt of her bolo knife. She didn't jump onto the train until every single one of our men was inside. When she finally hopped up, she took a position by the open sliding door, leaning against the frame.
I climbed in last, sliding the heavy wooden door shut halfway to give us some air but block out the chaos of the platform. Inside the car, it was cramped and suffocatingly hot. The men sat on the floor, using their canvas packs as pillows, their rifles clutched between their knees like religious relics. Moments after the soldiers are on the train, the train lurched.
Iron wheels shrieked against iron rails, a violent jolt throwing everyone forward. Then, with a slow, rhythmic chug... chug... chug..., the train began to roll.
The flickering lights of the Malolos station began to slip away, swallowed by the darkness of the rural landscape. The rhythmic clattr of the tracks took over, vibrating up through the floorboards and into our bones.
Looking around the dark car, I saw the glowing embers of a few lit cigarettes. The nervous chatter had died down, replaced by the heavy silence of men who knew exactly where this track ended. It ended in Bulacan. It ended at the trenches.
I leaned my head back against the vibrating wooden wall and closed my eyes. In my past life, a train ride was a mundane commute. In this one, it was a one-way ticket to the front lines of a forgotten war.
~~