"Wait...what?" I asked, raising my eyebrow for a while but quickly cancelling it out.
Rusca leaned back in his chair, the canvas creaking. He glanced at the tent flap where the dry wind outside rattled against the stakes, carrying with it the smell of dust and campfire smoke. "You think we have the treasury of Madrid? We are a country not yet born, boy. Every peso we pay is another peso pulled from some farmer's harvest, or melted from the silver of a church altar."
I stayed silent.
"Nine pesos," he continued, "is what's written on paper. In reality… sometimes you'll get maybe two pesos in coin. The rest could be rice, dried fish, a handful of tobacco, maybe even a rooster if the quartermaster's in a good mood."
My mind ticked over. Nine pesos a month was laughable compared to my old life—barely enough for a week's groceries back in Malaysia if I was thrifty. And now, with half of it turning into livestock and grain, this wasn't a salary; it was survival rations with a handshake.
Rusca must've seen my expression. "It's the same for everyone. Even Luna himself eats what we eat—when he's not too busy screaming at the Americans. You learn to stretch what you get. Trade with the locals if you have to. Barter. Fix your men's boots before they fall apart. That's what a corporal does here—keeps his four alive, fed, and ready to fight."
Four men under me. In another life, I'd managed businesses, balanced ledgers worth more than the revolutionary government's entire budget. Now, my assets were four rifles, four stomachs, and however much grit they could muster.
"Sir," I asked, "what if there's… other ways to bring in supplies?"
Rusca gave me a long, slow look—the kind that measured a man's worth in silence. "If you can feed your squad without robbing a fellow Filipino, I don't care if you turn stones into bread. Just don't let the quartermaster catch you making him look bad."
He stood, brushing dust from his trousers. "One last thing, Osmeriana—war eats everything. Men, money, time. Don't think the uniform will protect you from hunger."
I nodded, but my mind was already running the numbers. If I could find a way to turn whatever scraps I got into something more—trade, smuggle, maybe even small-scale production—I wouldn't just survive. I could thrive.
"Understood, captain" I salute the captain.
"And Cabo Valerian, welcome to the army." Rusca show me the exit.
~~
I stepped out of the command tent, the fresh weight of my new insignia sewn onto the lower part of my shoulder. The sun hit it just right, making the brass glint for a second—a small badge, but a heavy change.
"Recruit Valerian! Recruit!"
I turned toward the voice. An NCO was striding quickly in my direction, boots kicking up dust. He slowed as his eyes caught the new patch on my shoulder, and his expression shifted instantly.
"Forgive me, Cabo Valerian!" he corrected himself, snapping a quick salute. "You've been assigned a new task. Your men are waiting for you, just over there." He pointed toward a nearby tent—half-collapsed at one side, its flaps fluttering lazily in the breeze. It looked… deserted.
"Understood." I returned the salute, and he handed me a folded letter sealed in smudged wax. I broke it open on the spot. Patrol duty. Nothing glamorous, but for now, orders were orders.
Making my way to the tent, I found four men inside. Two wore full uniforms, their belts and cartridge boxes already in place. The other two were in mismatched civilian clothes—loose shirts, rolled-up trousers, and hats that had clearly seen better days.
The two uniformed men scrambled to their feet and snapped to attention the moment they saw me. The civilians, however, stayed seated… until their comrades gave them each a sharp slap to the arm.
They bolted upright and saluted, awkward but sincere.
"At ease," I said, scanning them one by one. "And where's your uniform?"
One of them, barely out of boyhood, rubbed the back of his neck. "We just joined today, Cabo. Quartermaster said there's no spare for now."
I sighed. "Of course." Supplies had been thin since the Americans landed in force; half the time, new recruits got rifles without straps or boots with the soles peeling off.
"Alright. The two of you, follow me." I led them out toward the supply hut—a bamboo-and-thatch structure that looked more like a chicken coop than a storeroom. The quartermaster, an old sergeant with a moustache like a broom, scowled when he saw me.
"Two new ones. Need uniforms."
He rummaged through a stack of folded tunics, muttering under his breath. What he produced wasn't much—one khaki blouse missing a button, and another patched at the elbow—but it was something. Belts, caps, and mismatched trousers followed.
Back at the tent, I had the two recruits change while the others watched, smirking. Once they were dressed, I set them all in a line.
"Listen up," I began. "As your Cabo, my job is to make sure you don't get yourselves killed before you learn how to fight. That means drills, weapons cleaning, and patrols. So as long you follow me and you did good, who knows I might be able to fully geared you up. Understood?"
four of them in unison "Yes Cabo!"
"Good, now take out your rifles and we begin a brief rifle drills."
Now, as I began the brief drills with my men, I took note of the armament—or rather, the patchwork arsenal—of the Philippine Revolutionary Army. Most weapons were the spoils of past battles, confiscated from the Spaniards. Others were rough, almost desperate creations: locally made rifles of questionable quality, their craftsmanship betraying the scarcity of proper arms.
But among them, I caught sight of something curious—Japanese Murata rifles. I remembered reading about them once: there had been whispers of an arms deal brokered by Filipino notables in Hong Kong, supposedly smuggling Japanese weapons into our hands. I had never known if the deal had truly succeeded, but seeing these rifles here made the rumor feel far more real.
Artillery, too, was a mixed bag. The army possessed a number of howitzers—Krupp cannons, Hontoria guns, and a few others. They were valuable, yes, but still outclassed by the American arsenal in both quality and firepower. The Americans had modern field artillery, better logistics, and a far deeper supply chain. We had what we could seize, beg for, or buy in secret.
Still, the harsh truth lingered: war with the Americans was inevitable. The Spanish had sold the Philippines to them like a mere piece of real estate, and we—those who had bled for independence—were now simply an inconvenient obstacle to be subdued.