Heneral Luna's office in the convent was not hard to find. The same could not be said about him. He was nowhere in the building that morning, and we had to interrupt Major Bugallón to inquire about his whereabouts.
We found him, and I was not entirely happy that we had. In my experience, generals and other high-ranking officers tend to be nicer than drill sergeants. That was not the case here. In fact, Luna behaved more like a drill sergeant than a general.
I had never heard so many swear words in both Spanish and Tagalog spat out in such quick succession. I could see the soldiers in the trenches flinching at every word thrown at them. Luna's mouth was a machine gun, capable of firing projectiles much meaner than bullets.
Even the horses neighed at the sound of his voice.
"He is as lively as always," said the chuckling Heneral Torres.
"He certainly has a way with words," I said, squinting from the sun, which was starting to sting my skin.
We approached a field outside of town that had been turned into one of Heneral Luna's outdoor classrooms. The general was with a group of young officer cadets, teaching them how to dig trenches. I wondered if they were already regretting the decisions that had led them here.
There was a bahay kubo near where the trenches were being dug. The rest of Heneral Luna's entourage sheltered there, snacking on rice cakes when we arrived. To my surprise, the aide-de-camps were approachable and polite—quite the opposite of their superior.
Colonel Francisco Román, a lanky and tall figure, was the highest-ranking of Luna's direct underlings. He was professional, composed, and behaved in the manner expected of a senior officer. At his instruction, chairs were immediately vacated for us, and bibingka cakes paired with cool lime juice were offered.
I, the general, and the senior officers occupied the only table in the house. The nipa walls and roof effectively shielded us from the heat. The wind blowing through the fields, carrying the scent of sun-touched grass, entered through the wide openings of the hut and transformed the setting from comfortable to pleasurable.
What ensued next was a conversation between Colonel Francisco Román and Heneral Torres. It was then that I learned that the officers currently drilling in the plaza, listening to Bugallón's lecture, and being personally taught by Luna were from the province of Pampanga. They had arrived by train at noon yesterday, just a few hours earlier than I had.
I also surmised from the exchange that Heneral Torres was not only a general but also the military governor of Bulacan, and as such, had the largest military force in the province. The soldiers I had seen outside the train windows and the ones roving in the streets of Malolos were likely his.
Chuckles erupted when a spectacular scene unfolded outside. Heneral Luna had picked up a shovel himself and was venting all his rage against the dirt. A moment later, he slammed the shovel, breaking the handle. Then he threw his cap at one of the cadets, who appeared to be arguing with him.
One Captain José Bernal and a couple of junior officers rushed out to appease the general.
"What exactly is happening?" I finally asked. I could see a lot through the large window of the bahay kubo even while seated, but the general and the cadets were just far enough away that the wind carried their voices away. Even Luna's loud shouts reached my ears as inaudible muffled sounds.
"The trenches are too shallow, too narrow, and too straight," said Capitan Eduardo Rusca, the other captain in Luna's staff.
I stood up to take a clearer look. It was as he said. The trench was only chest-high when it should have been at least six to eight feet and had the width to accommodate only a single line. It also lacked enough curvature, making it susceptible to enfilading fire—meaning a single well-placed machine gun could cover the entire length of the trench and slaughter everyone in it.
"It looks good enough for me," said Heneral Torres, glancing at the faces at the table. "I think there is no need for Heneral Luna to be wasting his time like this."
The colonel and the captain only smiled at his comment. I expected a rebuttal.
It was politely put, likely out of pity for the young cadets enduring both the scorching sun and Luna's excessive fury. Even so, I didn't like what Heneral Torres had said—or what it implied.
It reminded me of Colonel Abad's reasoning last December on that beach. An already inferior force would be foolish to hope to increase its chances by disregarding helpful military knowledge.
Heneral Torres uncomfortably shifted in his seat, perhaps expecting a warmer reception to his comment.
"It's an important enough thing to be 'wasting' time on, Heneral," I said with a smile, trying my best to sound polite and non-hostile. "Considering the disparity of firepower between us and the Americans, it's good for our officers to be well-learned in entrenchments."
"Too shallow a trench, and our soldiers will be vulnerable to bullets and shrapnel. Too narrow, and there will be difficulty in movement. Too straight, and if only a portion of the trench falls, then the rest is sure to follow," I added. "And without trenches at all, we are at the complete mercy of American artillery and machine guns."
I picked up a bibingka slice from the leaf plate and took a bite before raising my head to gauge the reaction to my butting into the conversation. If Heneral Torres was offended, he did not show it. The general, along with the other officers in the bahay kubo, looked surprised at first, as if I had started glowing. Then amused smiles took over.
"What… I, uhm… what I was trying to say…" Heneral Torres proceeded to chuckle, clearly embarrassed but showing no signs of wounded pride. "What I am trying to say… is that I stand corrected, Señor Martin."
"But yes… the Heneral need not be this hot-headed," I said, hoping to console the general in case I had sounded rude. "It is not good for his health."
"Agreed." Colonel Roman laughed, right before downing the rest of the juice in his bumbóng.