Chapter 43: Friendly Competition
Two very different units—but of the same allegiance—stood at the same beach where I had held my marksmanship training more than a week ago.
At the sight of me and Vicente emerging from the coconuts and ferns, the soldiers scrambled into formation.
The first group, led by Teniente Ronaldo Dimalanta, was composed of twenty-four men assigned to me by Heneral Torres as escorts. They wore the complete standard uniform of the Republic’s regular units—from the rayadillo jackets to the ammunition pouches, down to the polished boots.
Dimalanta’s group looked dangerous, armed with Mausers, and they looked the part with how they snappily and neatly arranged themselves at the authoritative instruction of their officers.
The second group was led by my brother-in-law Pedro Madrigal. They were twice the number but significantly less intimidating. Just as I had left them, they still wore the plain white uniforms used in the revolt against Spain, remained barefoot, and still carried single-shot Remington rifles.
They were well-drilled, but compared to the Bulaceños, they were a little less sharp.
As I approached, Dimalanta and the NCOs stiffened.
"¡Atención!" the lieutenant barked, and boots snapped as the soldiers of my escolta stood at attention.
Dimalanta proceeded to salute, confidently looking up at me as I rode past, "Heneral Lardizabal!"
I responded with a nod and continued toward the other group.
Pedro nervously glanced at me, looking as if he was about to say something. In the end, he gave me a simple, silent salute. That was a relief. The awkwardness would have killed us both. Just the other week, I was merely his brother-in-law and a symbolic governor to whom they didn’t owe real allegiance. Now I was their general—their direct superior.