Chapter 22: A Way With Words
Heneral Luna's office in the convent was not hard to find. The same could not be said about him. He was nowhere in the building that morning, and we had to interrupt Major Bugallón to inquire about his whereabouts.
We found him, and I was not entirely happy that we had. In my experience, generals and other high-ranking officers tend to be nicer than drill sergeants. That was not the case here. In fact, Luna behaved more like a drill sergeant than a general.
I had never heard so many swear words in both Spanish and Tagalog spat out in such quick succession. I could see the soldiers in the trenches flinching at every word thrown at them. Luna's mouth was a machine gun, capable of firing projectiles much meaner than bullets.
Even the horses neighed at the sound of his voice.
"He is as lively as always," said the chuckling Heneral Torres.
"He certainly has a way with words," I said, squinting from the sun, which was starting to sting my skin.
We approached a field outside of town that had been turned into one of Heneral Luna's outdoor classrooms. The general was with a group of young officer cadets, teaching them how to dig trenches. I wondered if they were already regretting the decisions that had led them here.
There was a bahay kubo near where the trenches were being dug. The rest of Heneral Luna's entourage sheltered there, snacking on rice cakes when we arrived. To my surprise, the aide-de-camps were approachable and polite—quite the opposite of their superior.
Colonel Francisco Román, a lanky and tall figure, was the highest-ranking of Luna's direct underlings. He was professional, composed, and behaved in the manner expected of a senior officer. At his instruction, chairs were immediately vacated for us, and bibingka cakes paired with cool lime juice were offered.