John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

Junior has not dared to mention his disappointment with Father’s handling of the affair between Royal and his sister, has in fact barely alluded to that “unfortunate business,” but is not going to pretend his friend is no longer with the company. For his own part, Royal still feigns an annoyed disinterest in Jessie’s whereabouts and welfare, often walking away in a funk halfway through a sentence when read the news from the great metropolis that Junior strives now to think of as “home,” and speculations as to paternity are clearly unwelcome.

He has remained in a state of abstracted distemper, Royal, since his reenlistment at Fort Bliss, and the others tend to steer a wide passage around him. “Only one thing more useless than a cripple-leg pony,” says Too Tall Coleman, “and that is a moody nigger.”

The food here is superior to that available either in Cuba or at our Southwestern postings, Army fare supplemented with rice (a godsend for the Carolinians in uniform) and the occasional stray chicken that runs afoul (a fowl?) of our bayonets. This latter is a great sport among the fellows, one of the few pastimes than can rouse them from heat-induced torpor, and the order to “propaganda” with the natives is obeyed after a fashion. After a bird is successfully skewered the nearest Filipino man, woman, or child has a handful of centavos pressed upon them, whether they are the owner of the recently deceased or not. None has ever refused the compensation.

They are a peculiar race, the Filipinos, mixed to a high degree, though this is more apparent in the larger towns than in the “boondocks” where we have been relegated. Relations being dodgy as they are, I have not been able to pick up more than a few words from their frustratingly large repertoire of dialects, and thus can be no judge of the level of their intelligence. They are, however, amazing mimics, and with only brief exposure begin to parrot the more colorful of Army expressions and sing our songs with uncanny accuracy and brio. I witnessed a touching scene in the “Luneta,” a kind of city park by the sea, when the better class of natives gathered there for a concert our regimental band presented stood and doffed their hats upon the playing of the ubiquitous “Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” believing it to be our national anthem!

We were, of course, a great novelty to them at first, the children maneuvering to touch our exposed skin and see if the color rubbed off, but with time they have become quite accustomed to the “yanquis negros” and seem, though I cannot swear this as a fact, to prefer us to our paler compatriots.

This is not to say that we hold a warm place in the hearts of the insurgents. At the beginning of August, as the typhoons began to blow, we were sent to join Companies B, F, I, K, L, and M, just arrived under Colonel Burt, to form a defensive line stretching from the town of Caloocan (site of much fighting and the heroics of the 1st Kansas) to Blockhouse #5 at La Loma, some four miles to the east. This at the time constituted the front line in the North, and there were daily patrols in the vicinity to ascertain the presence and strength of the enemy. These resulted in quite a few damp outings for our squad and a series of inconclusive encounters, shots fired from cover and returned with our characteristic dispatch, the rebels often fleeing before we were able to catch a glimpse of them. We are quite a phenomenon in the field, Father, and I wish that there was some manner to transport you here for one day to witness it. A body of men of color (albeit still under white officers) who function with a discipline and spirit under fire that is a sterling example to regular soldiers and volunteers alike. I am reminded during our “smokers” with the enemy that despite the privations of Army life and the absence from those I love that this has been the proper decision, and that any self-respecting colored man needs be envious of my good fortune to play a role in this great venture.

Our mascot, a spaniel with white body and black ears who answers to the name Snaps, is the only member of the regiment consistently “dogging” it — laid absolutely low by the heat and outnumbered by inhospitable packs of native curs, he spends his days seeking a parcel of shade and dreaming of the snowy vistas of Fort Missoula.

Yesterday we were put to the first serious test of our tenure here. Just past noon the rebels made a desperate attack all along our line. They seemed to materialize in number and the action was exceedingly “hot” for the greater part of two hours. I must say that our fellows remained cool and professional, and though it was certainly no turkey shoot I doubt the enemy will again consider such a frontal assault on the 25th. I was at an especially isolated section of our position when the attack began, and as our artificer, Bryce, had just been overwhelmed with intestinal cramps (a not infrequent occurrence here) and required two soldiers to carry him to the rear, and a good number of others were away on leave, we were somewhat undermanned. Our sergeant was engaged in a matter of resupply some distance down the line of defense, so when the onslaught erupted we were without leadership. Realizing that the rebels had crept up undetected and held us in something of a crossfire, I suggested a quick dash to overrun their position on our left, and subsequently found myself leading the men in this tactic. The Filipinos, surprised and I must say outmaneuvered, fled instantly, and our new position gave us superior ground from which to trade fire with the remainder of their party. When they finally broke off the fight they left several dozen killed and wounded along the line, while the regiment’s only fatality was Pvt. Parnell, a musician with Company E who succumbed to a heart failure during the engagement. He was young and fit, and his demise must be due either to a congenital weakness or to the combined effect of overexcitement and murderous heat. You cannot imagine the thirst experienced during such an extended battle, or the impression that the sun is working harder to undo you than your opponents.

Sergeant Jacks squats by the opening of the tent to look in.

“Patrol in twenty,” he says. “Two squads. They want us to check out the track to the north.”

The rebels infiltrate to cut the telegraph wire along the Dagupan line every few days, or pull some iron hoping to derail a troop train.

“They just attacked in force—”

“And had their tails whipped. Two squads. You pick the men.”

“Me?”

“You, Corporal. It comes with the chevron.”

Jacks stands and walks away across the hardening mud. Junior can hear Too Tall, talking to his dice.

“Be good to your Daddy,” intones the private, “and show me a seven.”

Please do not share this with the ladies—

Junior holding his arm out to let it drip sweat and then writing again—

— but I killed my first man in the engagement. Perhaps I have done so before in Cuba, but at El Caney I fired my weapon no more than twice and that hurriedly, intent on not being left behind as we clambered up the slope under fire. I looked into this man’s eyes as I shot him, bravely holding his ground or merely rooted to the spot in terror as we overran their ditch, and I must have pulled the trigger automatically as I have no recollection of doing so. He fell backward without a cry, but when I drove my bayonet through him, as we have been endlessly trained to do, there issued from him a sound I shall never forget. War is not a business for children. This man I am certain was fighting for his flag, for his dignity, no less than I, and I can only trust that Providence holds the answer to why we were fated to meet in such a way. The men don’t speak of the whys and wherefores of our presence here, but I sense an uneasiness that was not in evidence when we were outside Santiago. We must, as always, trust our leaders and our faith in God, but I have seen and done things here I fear will haunt me forever.