John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“If the Dagoes haven’t shot me by now,” says Big Ten, walking big as a house just behind Manigault, “they aint even trying.”

The barrage is a brief one, followed by much wig-wagging of signal flags on board the Olympia and atop the wall of the Spanish fort, and then there is only the sound of the waves spilling out over the sand. The fort looks something like a beached stone vessel, triangular in shape, with cannon on the parapet walks and poking out from holes in its walls, several of them, it seems to Hod, pointing directly at him. Major Moses organizes them, Hod’s 2nd Battalion spreading out on the sand in support of the firing line before them, and then it begins. Rifle fire from the Spanish trenches in the sand in front of the fort now, a thin whining of Mauser balls overhead, and now and then a Dago running frantically to get the fort between him and the advancing volunteers. Hod holds his rifle ready but does not fire as they walk forward. He feels very calm. Not me, he thinks. Not today. If they’re really shooting at us, why aren’t rounds kicking up the sand?

There is a hatless correspondent scampering ahead of the firing line, pausing here and there to snap with his Kodak — now toward the fort, now turning back to photograph the approaching Coloradans.

“Get the hell out of there, you stupid son of a bitch!”

It is Colonel Hale himself, shouting over a megaphone, advancing along with the reserve line.

“I’ll have you thrown in the brig!”

The correspondent, looking sheepish, stops to allow the firing line to pass him.

Three dead Spaniards have been left like rags, tangled in the sand, when they enter the first of the trenches. Some officer, thinks Hod, some boss told them to sit there and put up a fight or go to jail or maybe be shot if they didn’t. Big Ten turns to look at the reserve line behind them, still advancing.

“I could hit those stiffs from here with my eyes closed.”

“What did I say?” Niles waves his walking stick toward the fort. “More of a foregone conclusion than a test of arms.”

“You don’t think it’s a trap? Drawing us in?”

“I think,” says Lieutenant Manigault, strolling ahead, “they’re all back in the city by now, packing their valises.”

The fort is unmanned by the time they enter. A few dead left from the naval barrage, a boy soldier who has shot himself in the foot so he won’t have to flee and be killed somewhere farther up the beach.

“Check inside,” says Niles as men scatter in groups to search the structure. Hod and Big Ten flank the doorway to one of the low stone buildings, one corner of it collapsed from the bombardment.

“I’ll throw it open,” says Big Ten, “and you shoot anybody who makes a fuss.”

Hod positions himself on one knee, sighting down his rifle, and Big Ten yanks the door. Inside the room is packed with soldiers sitting or lying down, covered in blood. A man with a Red Cross band on his arm turns to look at Hod and says something in Spanish. He does not seem grateful to have been saved from the Filipinos.

Diosdado now regrets the uniform. The old Chinaman wrapped strips torn from the margin of a newspaper around his arms and legs, penciling measurements and mumbling to himself. It fits perfectly, white cotton drill for the jacket and pants, sturdy canton for his shirt, and looks not unlike the other officers’ dress, but the taos they have assigned to him regard it with a mixture of awe and resentment. Sargento Bayani, who they turn to for confirmation every time Diosdado issues an order, seems only amused.

“If I were a fusilero ,” says Bayani, “I would forget all the others and aim at the one in the pretty suit.”

Diosdado has them spread out along the puddle-filled trenches left by the retreating Spaniards a week before, a defense line of earthworks now and then reinforced with logs and topped with sandbags that stretches the full mile from here out to Fort San Antonio on the coast. When the yanqui ships began their shelling he sent runners to bring the remainder of his platoon from their homes, but none have come back yet. General Luna throws a daily tirade against this practice of treating the army like any other job and walking back to your family at the end of a shift, but the Tagalog officers only make faces behind his back and tell their men to be prompt in returning.

“ Bahala na ,” shrugs Bayani with seeming indifference. “As long as they leave their rifles at the front, it’s probably better to have them out of the way.”

And now the sun has broken through the clouds and the yanquis seem to be marching north to Manila.

A thick column of them stumble out of the inland swamps behind the line and spread out along the muddy entrenchments, big men like all Americans, each one with his own new-looking rifle, glancing with curiosity and mistrust at Diosdado’s cheering platoon. Caught up in the moment, several of his men stand and begin to shoot into the trees in the general direction of the Spanish. A sweat-soaked officer, seeing the uniform, walks directly toward Diosdado.

“You people are not supposed to be here.”

Diosdado salutes the American. “We await orders, Captain.”

The captain does not seem surprised that Diosdado speaks his language. “Your orders are to clear the hell out of here. And stop those men from firing!”

Gunfire is coming back from the Spanish position now, twigs and leaves falling from above, clipped by bullets. The captain stands a full head taller than Diosdado.

“I am sorry if there is confusion, but our orders must come from our own commanders—”

It is not so much a directive as a wave of the hand and suddenly the entire company of yanquis has taken a knee, pointing their weapons at his handful of men.

“Sargento,” Diosdado calls in Zambal, which apparently this Bayani speaks, voice as calm as he can muster, “tell the platoon to hold their fire.” He turns back to the captain. “May I ask you to identify yourself?”

“This is the 13th Minnesota,” answers the American. “You people are slowing us down.”

“There is more difficult terrain ahead of you. Wire fences, forests of bamboo, flooded fields of rice — and your naval guns cannot reach this far inland. If you were to move to the west—”

“We’ve already got another column coming up the beach parallel to us. How many more of your outfit along this line?”

“There is a blockhouse lying ahead,” says Diosdado, “that commands the Pasai Road. If we were to guide you—”

“All you need to do,” interrupts the American captain, poking Diosdado in the chest with a finger, “is have your men put their weapons down and stand aside.”

The men are looking to Sargento Bayani and Bayani is looking at Diosdado. The Americans seem carved in stone, the barrels of their rifles unwavering, at least three of them to every one of his own. He turns and gives the order. The men, grumbling and looking sideways at each other, lower their rifles, stick the tips of their bolos angrily into the mud.

“We’ll be back in no time, fellas,” winks one mud-splattered Minnesota private as he clambers over the sandbags. “After we’ve whipped them Dons for you.”

“What are they doing?” asks Sargento Ramos, who is a Kawit from Bacoor.

“They’re doing what we should be doing,” Bayani answers him in Taga-log. “They’re going to the Walled City to kill the Spanish.”

“We can’t let that happen!”

There has been no warning of this attack, only the long siege and the knowledge that without proper artillery the walls of the Intramuros cannot be breached. The Americans have promised that insurrectos who try to enter Manila will be shot, though up to now it has seemed an idle threat.