A shallow canal started to form where the soldiers worked the ground with their hoes and spades. The dirt, moist from the morning dew, made a rhythmic squelch followed by a grating scrape. Those not working on the long line that stretched as far as the train station unleashed their bolo blades to clear the grass, trees, and bushes around the trench under construction.
It was a good position—slightly sloped and near the road. I could see the fingerprints of Heneral Luna's expert hands all over the work being done.
For their part, the soldiers worked hard, even under the angry Filipino sun. So much so that I felt guilty just sitting comfortably on the crate under the cover of a tall, old mango tree. Sheltering with me was Vicente, my escolta, and two horses tied to the large protruding roots.