I got déjà vu, seeing the red-faced Luna at the entrance of the hut. His rayadillo uniform was stained with dirt and grass, and the soles of his boots were caked in mud. His short but messy hair was revealed in the absence of his cap, which I suspected was still at the bottom of the trench.
The cadets had finally been hauled out of the open and into the shade of a large mango tree in front of the hut, where Luna's lieutenants and sergeants distributed food and drink.
"What a useless bunch…" Luna said, his ragged breathing audible. We knew he was talking about the officers, but the way he looked at us while saying it had a different effect.
All of us stood up, leaving our chairs as soon as he approached the hut. For a while, no one dared speak. Only when the general visibly calmed down did Colonel Roman approach and offer him a seat.
Luna loosened the buttons of his tunic and cuffs, then collapsed into the chair with an angry huff. Captain Rusca hastily filled a bumbong and handed it to the thirsty general. Hydrated and seated, the redness in his cheeks finally faded.
Heneral Torres and I sat back down, internally sighing in relief.
"It is good of you to visit, Heneral Torres," Heneral Luna said dryly, snatching a slice of bibingka and taking a bite before continuing. "I was told that some of your officers still refuse to be trained under my Academia Militar."
Heneral Torres scratched his head. "You know how hard my position is, Heneral. Some of these officers are sons of powerful families. If we force them to join, we will be antagonizing our biggest sponsors. That would be unwise, given how badly we need funds and supplies."
Heneral Luna let out a bitter chuckle, and for a moment, I thought he would start shouting again. But he didn't. Perhaps even he knew how to speak differently when talking to peers.
"What are we to do then, Señor Torres? Am I really making a difference here? Most of our so-called officers don't even know the first thing about warfare. They think they can win with patriotic speeches and blind courage." Luna spat out the words with venom.
"You could start by going easy on the cadets, Heneral Luna," Heneral Torres said. "Then maybe more would be interested."
Heneral Luna grinned—then laughed.
"Then let us talk no more of this, Heneral Luna." Heneral Torres shook his head. "Anyway… we have a guest—el gobernador de Marinduque."
The sudden introduction caught me off guard. I cleared my throat and sat up straighter.
"Martín Lardizabal," I managed to say.
Heneral Luna studied me for a second. To my surprise, he leaned in for a handshake and even mustered a smile. "Antonio Luna. A pleasure to meet you, gobernador."
"You're here for the inauguration?" he asked.
"I'm actually here for a different matter." As I said that, it dawned on me what terrible timing it would be to state my ridiculous request. If the president and Heneral Torres disliked it, how much more would Heneral Luna—especially while he was in a foul mood?
But any chance I had of backtracking, or at least avoiding the question, was dashed when Heneral Torres opened his mouth. He told Luna, in detail, my real purpose for coming to Malolos: to release Marinduque from Heneral Trias' jurisdiction and grant it more autonomy as an independent military command.
Luna's reaction was much calmer than I had anticipated.
"You've discussed this with the president?" Heneral Luna asked, his voice low and stern.
"I have, but he has yet to give me an answer."
Heneral Luna shook his head and gave me a hard stare. "Tell me, gobernador, why should I not think you're just another wannabe warlord taking advantage of the country's crisis? Trying to carve out a part for yourself, build your little kingdom and army?"
If he had expected me to cower and back down, then he was disappointed. As I had aged, I tried to avoid confrontation, but that never meant I had lost my nerve. In my years of service in the U.S. Army, I had met men far ruder than Luna—men who would make him seem like a well-mannered princess by comparison.
"You make such terrible assumptions about someone you've just met?" I said, my mouth gnarling. My cheeks heated as I beheld the face of this arrogant buffoon—who was yet to even fight a single battle.
"Am I wrong?" Heneral Luna, as expected, matched my volume.
I refused to look away and stared him right in his beady eyes. The tension in the air was thick, foreign even, after years of avoiding heated confrontations. My last one had been several years ago—back when I was John.
"He does seem knowledgeable about military warfare, Heneral," Colonel Roman interjected. "Maybe we shou—"
"'Knowledgeable,' huh? I'll be the judge of that." Heneral Luna huffed and crossed his arms. "What's your war plan then, 'Heneral'?"
"How do you think we'll win against a mighty nation like America? We're outgunned, ill-trained, and poorly coordinated. According to your 'military knowledge,' how are we supposed to fight—and even dare hope to win?"
My anger slightly subsided as I realized I hadn't truly asked myself that question before. After all, it was just yesterday that I had decided to fully involve myself in all of this.
But my mind already had an answer—vague, but ready. The Philippines reminded me of Vietnam in more than just its flora and climate.
"We fight a war of attrition."
It was subtle, but I saw Luna's eyes widen slightly.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"We don't need to win battles or inflict heavy casualties. The West values its soldiers far more than it respects ours. We just need to keep the war going… until the mothers at home clamor for their sons' return, and the American government loses enough popularity and money to lose interest."
I leaned closer to the general.
"That's how we win a Philippine-American war, Heneral Luna… through resilience."