A Moment in the Sun (105 page)

“What I’m saying is,” Royal continues, turning to scowl at the plaza, “this here must have come to a sorry state if they bringing
us
in.”

“You don’t like the duty,” says Pickney quietly, “you shouldn’t of signed up for it.”

Junior gives Roy a look. Junior has been coaching him all the way from San Francisco on how you have to apply yourself to the task and be an example everybody can be proud of. Only there’s nobody here, Royal thinks, who I give a damn what they think of me. If we get into a scrap, sure, you got to fill out your end of the bargain, do what you have to for the sake of the others, but none of it, not even Cuba which everybody wants to write a song about them for, makes any sense to him now.

“It aint just we’re a new color they’re seeing,” he says. “This is their country and they don’t want us here.”

“Man been on shore twenty minutes and he got the whole deal figured out,” says Cooper.

“What it is,” says Too Tall, “is that folks here been dealing with these volunteer outfits, can’t find their dingus in their own trousers without a Manual of Instruction and a drill sergeant to turn the pages for em. We can’t expect no parade from people been puttin up with them jokers.”

“Runty little bastids,” says Willie Mills, watching a trio of Filipino men pass by. “Aint gonna make much of a target, once we get into it with em.”

“They learn fast, though,” says Coop, pointing.

The red-faced Chinese is in front of his shop again, pasting a sign that says
WHITE ONLY
,
in fresh ink, onto his show window.

“Aint that nice? Make us feel right to home.”

And then the sky opens and they are soaked in an instant.

NEWS FROM THE FRONT

Father—

My sincere apologies for the tardiness of this missive, but writing paper has been in short supply again and prone, in this wet and unconscionable heat, to dissolve in one’s hand. We arrived with Company E under Lieutenant Caldwell somewhat in advance of the rest of the 25th, and were immediately put to work guarding the reservoir to the northeast of Manila. This is a vital position, of course, and the rebels’ former control of it a key to the eagerness of the Spanish garrison within the “Walled City” to surrender to our volunteers. Though there was little glory to be had in this transaction, one cannot but laud the relative paucity of casualties resultant on both sides. The volunteers, mostly units that never set foot in Cuba, are overly impressed with themselves for this and subsequent engagements that would have been “business as usual” for our fellows, and are in general quite insufferable. Most are from the Western states, with the predictable lack of discipline and prejudice against our race. There have been times when we profess to miss the “crackers” we camped with in Chickamauga and Tampa, who at least share a long and contentious history with us.

Junior on the groundcloth in the airless little tent, paper laid flat on the top of an empty wooden ammo crate, pen hot in his fingers. The boys not on leave are throwing dice outside on a poncho thrown over the mud, argument between them almost constant as to which way the die is leaning against its folds and wrinkles. He is stripped to his underclothing, his uniform draped over the top of the tent to dry. The mosquitoes that seem to come every time the rain lets up for a day have discovered him, and he keeps his hat by his side to wave them off.

The duty at El Deposito, where the waterworks are located, was mostly uneventful, the rebels there nocturnal creatures satisfied with the odd sniping “potshot” that does more to disturb the sleep than to penetrate the epidermis. The only scrape with destiny came when Royal Scott and I, on a rare afternoon without assignment, endeavored to take advantage of some rock tanks nearby for a bath. Personal hygiene is a constant struggle in this heat and filth and wet, and I never pass up an opportunity for ablution, a habit which has earned me the sobriquet of “Waterboy” among my cohorts. There were a number of Chinese, who we and the other units employ as bearers when on the march and general factotums when in camp, engaged in cleaning cookware at the other end of the man-made pond, so Pvt. Scott and I resolved to keep an eye on the clothing we had just shed (the Chinese being notorious filchers) and entered the water. We had only just begun to employ the abrasive bricks of what the Army issues as “soap” when we spied a serpent of at least four yards’ length (this is not an exaggeration) undulating rapidly across the surface in our direction. Needless to say, Pvt. Scott and I quit the water with extreme haste, then, dismayed to discover that the creature’s mate (more than its equal in size) had curled up to nap upon our uniforms, we continued at a gallop to the encampment. There was a good deal of merriment provoked by our naked condition, as well as skepticism voiced as to its cause until a pair of the Chinese appeared, clutching, head and tail, one of the writhing snakes and recommending that it would make excellent “chow.” Luckily a third coolie followed with our clothing and dignity was restored. Our boys left the feasting to the bearers, all but Pvt. Cooper, who claims to have partaken of a good deal of “rattler” in his former life and declared this Philippine delicacy its equal.

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.

He was as small as a boy, hard to determine his age, and wore a gold cross (as many do here) hung around his neck. I insisted this not be taken from his body before it was laid in the common grave and covered over.

Junior takes a moment to allow a half-dozen mosquitoes, one by one, to settle on his body and then swats them dead. They cannot help themselves, he thinks, though their only chance of escaping with your blood is to attack while you sleep, to do their business and fly away. There is speculation now, maybe even solid evidence from what his father writes him, that the mosquitoes play a part in the spreading of both malaria and the yellow fever. He wonders if the natives, insurgent or not, are immunes, or if they, out there crouching in wait to kill him, are just as queasy and feverish as their American tormentors. He watches one of the insects on his arm, carefully spreading its feet to drill, then crushes it with his palm. A common enemy, like the Spanish, that should draw the opposing sides together.

I am understandably distressed to hear of your present situation in the North. There are no New Yorkers in our company, though from your description of conditions there it is a wonder more of our people have not fled it for the military life. There is overcrowding in sections of Manila, and terrible poverty, but nothing of the magnitude that you report. We have been for the most part kept from that municipality, and the suspicion is that the powers that be believe our presence, in numbers, might offend the wealthier, more educated class of Filipino who are in the assimilationist camp. These people, labeled
Americanistas
in the local press (and no doubt as
traitors
by their Tagalo brethren still in arms against us), with their innate tendency to ape the manners of their conquerors, have been quickly taught that they should despise the colored man.