Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 56: Burn Crap

The NCOs of my escolta had done an excellent job instructing the recruits in the drills and formations they had learned in Malolos. By the third day of Week 1, they looked sharp and cohesive—a spectacle for the townsmen as they marched and drilled in the plaza.

The drills and formations, derived from Spanish military doctrine, were ideal for instilling discipline, building a sense of identity, and teaching obedience to command. They also served well in introducing military customs and culture.

However, the war that was likely to come would prove this doctrine obsolete outside the parade grounds. It was a system created in the time of single-shot rifles and smoothbore cannons. The tight and rigid drills and formations would spell disaster and slaughter once faced with repeater rifles like the Krag and the Mauser—and against the destructive power of the overpowered American artillery.

That was why modern military theory advocates looser and more flexible formations. On Thursday, I decided to once again take over the instruction of the recruits.

Early in the morning, we were marching again toward Buliasnin. Our procession was the same in composition and unit order as the first time. What changed was the spacing. I had the recruits march with a two-meter interval between them. And to avoid hogging the road entirely, I made them form a thinner, longer, but looser formation.

Instead of keeping to the head of the procession, I realized it would be better to ride alongside them. Doing so made it easier for me to nitpick every mistake.

Halfway through, I was already barking rebukes and corrections. The moment the recruits began to tire, they lost discipline and started to clump. Though only slightly, the looser formation slowed the pace. They would need to adjust their stamina and develop the mental focus needed to maintain the new spacing.

After our rest in Buliasnin, I decided to teach them yet another lesson—one not even taught yet in Western military institutions.

"If you’re in the field—say, marching just like what we did—how would you know when to stop... or when to move forward?" I asked the recruits, who were standing in formation according to their platoons, facing me with their backs to the shore.

For a moment, there was silence. I suspected it was because the question seemed so obvious that it felt rhetorical.

"Nobody here knows?" I said, letting them know I genuinely expected an answer.

Dimalanta looked as if he were about to respond, and I was about to point to him when I heard someone closer speak up. It was a recruit from the Second Platoon.

"We wait for your command... Heneral," said the young man in the third row, barely visible, but confident.

"What’s your name, recruit?" I asked.

"Miguel Montiano, Heneral," he replied.

"For my verbal command... Montiano?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, a bit lower now—perhaps beginning to get confused. But I was trying to make a point.

"How about if we weren’t marching on a peaceful coastal road, and instead walking into contested territory—and if I shout, I’ll risk exposing our position?" I asked again.

It took longer for someone to answer. But I patiently gave them the time.

"You can use gestures, Heneral," another recruit finally said—this time from the neighboring formation, the Third Platoon.

"Who was that?" I asked.

"Joel Historillo... Heneral," the recruit answered.

I wasn’t asking for their names for nothing. I was always on the lookout for potential NCO candidates in each platoon. Those who performed cleanly in drills, those who effortlessly did their push-ups, or those confident enough to answer questions during instruction—I noted them. Recruits who showed toughness, skill, and initiative could climb up the ranks.

"You are exactly right, Historillo," I nodded approvingly. "And what’s a more convenient way of gesturing than just using your hands? I will teach you the basic hand signals... and I want them applied immediately during our march back to town."

For almost an hour, I had them rehearse by the beach and emphasized that they must commit the signals to memory. Dimalanta, ever diligent, drew each signal on his little pad of paper.

For the return to Boac, I reassumed my position at the head of the procession.

The first hand signal I demonstrated—the simplest—was the signal to halt: raising one arm straight up, fingers pointed upward.

I listened as the majority of boots ceased making noise... but not all. I quickly spun around and saw the procession in disarray. Some soldiers in the Third and Fourth Platoons had not halted in time. Perhaps they hadn’t expected me to start just minutes after leaving Pedro’s property.

"Cabos, remind your soldiers again what the hand signal for ’stop’ is," I snapped. Accordingly, the corporals scolded and reminded them for me.

To their credit, they were ready when I gave the ’advance’ signal—raising one arm and pointing forward with outstretched fingers. From their stationary positions, I heard the synchronized steps of boots, and when I looked, they had maintained their spacing.

After two successive demonstrations of hand signals, I kept my hands to myself until we were within sight of the town. So far, the recruits had caught their second wind, and they managed to maintain their loose but uniform formation.

I reined my horse to a stop and made the halt signal. Most of the recruits halted, but like the first time, I still heard some stragglers. Without checking, I raised my hand and pointed my palm backward to signal a retreat.

I heard the footsteps again—the shuffle of moving men. This time... chaos erupted behind me. The platoon leaders were shouting orders, and the recruits were grunting and murmuring. Moments later, I heard angry words and alarmed whispers.

What awaited behind me was a mess. A brawl was erupting between recruits from the Second and Third Platoons. Their leaders tried to intervene but instead received stray punches and kicks. I recognized Montiano at the front lines of the brawl, hitting another recruit in the face and sending him to the ground.

I was actually impressed. It had taken four days for something like this to happen—considering most of the recruits were rough farm kids.

"Heneral!" Vicente walked toward me while Dimalanta rushed to help the NCOs. "Should we have your escorts break them up?"

As always, I had brought five armed escorts on the march. They looked at me expectantly.

"Nah," I said, smiling. A sudden pang of nostalgia had me grinning. It seemed only yesterday I was involved in a brawl myself, as a Second Lieutenant in Vietnam, when I learned that boys from another platoon had taken the chocolate bars meant for my unit.

A scrawny kid back then, I got pummeled—chipped a tooth. Still nursing my injuries, we were made to burn crap together with the other platoon—quite literally. The smell of burning latrine barrels I would describe as second only to the stench of rotting corpses.

Incidents like this were unavoidable—and, I would argue, necessary. Fistfights let men sort out their pecking orders and worked as a way to release tension.

"Don Martin!" Vicente groaned, throwing his hands in the air.

"Just make sure to list the names of the participants. We’ll have them run laps in the plaza later," I said.