Pedro Madrigal was a wealthy coconut baron and landowner, and the cabeza de barangay of barrio Buliasnin. This was why my father quickly gave my sister’s hand in marriage when he asked for it.
Naturally, as my brother-in-law, he also became one of my greatest supporters and was among the happiest when I received my post as governor—and more recently, as general.
The idea for the march was only a day old. It had been discussed between me, Pedro, and the Colonel in a quiet corner of the cathedral’s walled premises after Mass. When I suggested using his house as the midway stop for the march, he eagerly accepted.
The soldiers, pleasantly surprised and a little bit confused, streamed into his beachfront property. They were made to rest, still grouped in their respective platoons, under the shade of the Talisay trees near the shore. The waves lapping at the sands made for a soothing, rhythmic sound.
"Remember to only take sips from your bumbongs. We’re only halfway," I reminded them, still on my horse. "We rest for fifteen minutes—no more! After that, we march back to Boac!"
The realization set in quickly. I immediately saw some recruits smile and scratch their heads in relief. They would not be marching to Mogpog for four kilometers and back for another four. It would only be a 4-kilometer march in total.
The point of the march was not to break them. They were expected to endure and suffer—but not yet on day one, without the mental and physical conditioning to help them through.
The real purpose was to test attitude: the willingness to follow orders and finish something hard. Obedience, after all, is the first step toward discipline. Not to mention, the march also taught footwork, formation, and chain-of-command dynamics.
Isabela was already there, helping her cousins as they distributed rice cakes to the resting recruits. She seemed pleased to have something to do to help out. I gave her a wink, which she received with mock disgust.
"Vicente, Dimalanta... and the cadets, you come with me."
I dismounted in front of Pedro’s house. On his sizeable porch, a table had been set up for the officers and cadets. It was a better spot to rest, but I had arranged for our snacks to be the same as the recruits’—just rice cakes and cool water—especially since we were in plain sight.
"I hope my cousins didn’t bring shame to the family name on day one, Heneral," Pedro said.
"They did not," I said with a chuckle. The Madrigals, for their part, kept themselves from whining or showing any signs of tiredness—which, ironically, was not the best idea. They looked the most worn down among the cadets.
Roque, Nepomucena, and Nieva, on the other hand, were already catching their breaths. Nestor Nieva stared blankly at the sea, smiling—likely remembering his earlier embarrassing mishap.
The ten-minute break passed as if it had been only seconds. I stood up and shouted for them to form up again. The soldiers groggily left their feet, their faces scrunched up. Unbeknownst to them, they had already withstood the worst.
The first two to three kilometers of a march are always the hardest. As a soldier myself, I should know.
This is the time when your body is still adjusting to the sudden expenditure of energy. But after a while, a shift happens inside the body—and if the soldier persists, the rest of the march becomes much easier.
This fact was on full display during our march back to Boac. The formations were much tighter. The pacing was more even. The officer cadets managed to keep their mouths shut and, for the most part, were able to keep up. I was able to enjoy the ride, not needing to check as often.
We returned to the plaza, to the same spots we had left earlier, by about four o’clock in the afternoon. Colonel Abad was already there waiting for us, greeting us with a smile, seemingly having finished what I had asked of him.
"Four kilometers... and it’s as if you’d gone to hell already," I chuckled, scanning the disheveled, dusted-up crowd. "But now at least you have an idea why the training ahead is important."
"In war, you will have to march more than just four kilometers—and while carrying a full bag, a gun, and accompanying ammunition. And it won’t always be on a nice, well-maintained road like the one you just marched on. You might march through mire, mud, and rough forest trails. And it won’t always be under the heat of the sun—prepare to march through rain and chill, even in the darkness of night."
"You won’t always be marching at a walking pace either. There will be times you’ll have to march double the speed, to urgently reinforce a position or perform an orderly retreat from a chasing enemy."
I cleared my throat. I had been shouting since morning, and it was already my second speech of the day. Any more and I might actually lose my voice.
"My point is... you still have a long way to go. Some of you might be accustomed to hard work, being sons of farmers and fishermen. But strength does not equate to endurance. And strength and endurance do not equate to discipline or skill."
"Tomorrow is the actual start of your formal training. After this..." I glanced at the Colonel, who gave me an assuring nod, "...you will spend the rest of Dia Uno getting to know each other and acclimating yourselves to your barracks—which will be in the building of the Escuela Municipal de Niños de Boac."
As far as I knew, classes were still yet to resume, and the school building remained empty and unused. I had tasked Colonel Abad to repurpose it—which, I imagined, only involved clearing out the desks, benches, and cabinets. The recruits would likely sleep on the floor with nipa mats and simple pillows—not a tall order for most of them.
"Your platoon leaders will lead you out!" I said. "Dismiss!"