A True Narrative of a Personal Experience in the Philippines.
By a Lieutenant of Infantry.
The organized bands of Filipinos known as bolomen are so called because
their principal weapon is the long, broad-bladed, vicious-looking
knife called the bolo, with which they do their deadly work. They
make many boasts of their prowess and skill in taking human life, and
one of their proudest feats is to sever the head from the body with
a single blow. Our men in the Philippines who are on detached duty,
or who for any cause are away from their commands, are frequently
attacked by these men.
As a rule, bolomen do not carry rifles, although many carry revolvers
when they can get them. Their work is to kill at short range. With
the stealth of a cat they slip up on their victim, strike him a deadly
blow, and then beat a quick retreat to their own lines.
Many of the insurgent officers and soldiers carry bolos, but the
genuine bolomen are an organized body belonging to Aguinaldo's army,
who have as distinct a work to do as the different branches of our own
service. Their work is solely to surprise the unsuspecting outpost,
officer or soldier, to dispatch him and run away before the deed has
been discovered.
Their feats are commonly committed in the darkness of the night Then
their cat-like tread serves them well. Stealing noiselessly along
through banana groves and bamboo thickets, cane-fields and cogonales,
they approach within a few feet of their intended victim and lie for
a few moments watching him as a snake eyes a defenseless bird.
During the months of June and July, 1899, my regiment was doing duty
at San Fernando, about forty miles from Manila. The companies of the
regiment took turns on outpost, going on this duty every fourth day
and being in reserve on the outpost line the day preceding that on
which they went on post. This gave the companies two nights in houses
in town and two on the line out of every four.
My company did duty on what was known as the north line, extending
from San Fernando a full mile toward Angeles. The entire distance was
an almost impenetrable jungle of bamboo and banana trees, intertwined
and interwoven with vines, thorn-bushes, and many other forms of
tropical growth.
To the front was an immense cane-field, with a "paddy-field"
beyond. The cane was from five to seven feet high. Along this deep
fringe of bamboo and matted undergrowth, and near the edge next to
the cane-field, our pickets, or Cossack posts, as they are properly
called, were stationed at distances ranging from one hundred and fifty
to two hundred and fifty yards apart, one corporal and six privates
at each post.
On the tenth of July my company went out in reserve, and early in
the morning relieved the company there on the outpost line, Nothing
took place during the day except the usual exchange of shots with
the insurgent pickets. Most officers when in command of companies on
this duty visit their sentries some time during the night, in order
to reassure their men, and to see that they are well-instructed and
on the alert. I have always followed this practice.
I started on a tour of inspection at about 9:30, visiting first the
post on the railroad on the left of the line, then taking the other
posts in succession down toward the right It had rained in torrents
for several days, and wide, deep pools of water had formed everywhere
along the way. Because of these pools, I was wearing high-topped
rubber boots. Shortly after ten o'clock I arrived at the next to the
last post on the line, which was about two hundred and fifty yards
farther on. Between these two pickets was the most dense growth of
bamboo trees and banana stalks to be found in that neighborhood, and
the entire distance was a continuous chain of diminutive lakes. There
was a path leading through this net-work from one picket to the other.
It was drizzling. The immense spreading leaves of the banana and
thickly matted foliage of the bamboo formed a canopy that shut out
every trace of light. No dungeon was ever darker than this path.
Notwithstanding the gloomy surroundings caused by the death-like
stillness, the darkness of the night, the water dripping from
the overhanging vegetation and completely saturating my clothes,
my occasionally colliding with a thorny shrub, or tripping over a
low-hanging vine, I was in excellent spirits. I groped along the
cave-like way, humming in a low tone "The Girl I Left Behind Me,"
and had reached a point about midway between the pickets. Then,
although I could see no one, I suddenly became aware of the presence
of a human being.
I stopped as if I had been struck dead, and strained my eyes. There,
just in front of me, near enough for me to grasp with my hands, I saw
the dim outlines of a short, thick-set man. Was he one of my men? No,
for no man would dare to leave his post at that time of night. Should
he be discovered in such an act, the penalty for his crime would
be death.
"Hello! Who are you?" I said. There was no answer from the man;
instead, I saw his right hand quickly strike out from his shoulder,
and the flash of a glistening blade. I threw up my left hand, and
our wrists met in heavy collision; but his blow was stronger than my
ward, for I felt a sharp sting in my face just below the left eye,
and a moment later the warm blood trickled down my cheek. With my
left hand I grabbed his wrist just below the thumb and gripped it
like grim death, but he was not to be beaten thus. I felt the sinews
of his wrist rise, and the grinding of the muscles, and then the same
stinging sensation that I had felt in my face I now felt in my wrist.
I could count the cuts as he made them--one, two, three--all on my
left wrist and hand, and then the blood began to run down my forearm,
as our hands were elevated.
This occupied but a second of time. He raised his left hand, and I saw
another flash. What it was I knew not, but I immediately grasped his
wrist and tried to force this hand behind him. Before I could do so,
he fired, and the ball passed through my left boot-leg. The muzzle
was so close to me that the force of the powder almost threw me to
the earth. I ground my teeth in a desperate effort to force his hand
behind him. My left hand, cut and bleeding, still held his right. Now
forcing the fight with the revolver, he tried vainly to raise it and
shoot me in the body. Throwing my whole strength on my right arm,
I succeeded in forcing back his revolver hand. At this he began to
shoot at my feet.
The first shot missed, but he immediately followed it with another. It
struck, for my right foot felt as if it had been hit with a club,
and grew numb. Four more shots came in quick succession. One of
them--which I cannot tell--struck the same foot and broke the bridge,
as I knew from the immediate loss of strength in that member.
Now all was quiet. We stood with our heaving chests touching. I
felt his breath in my face, and his heart palpitating against my
breast. There was a lull in the battle. I felt safe, as far as
the revolver was concerned, for he had emptied that, but the deadly
knife was still poised over my head. My life depended entirely on the
strength of my wounded hand and wrist, which were holding the knife
away from my throat.
Now I remembered that bolomen never travel alone. That he had comrades
within a few feet of me, who were trying to distinguish between us,
so that they might be sure that their knifes should enter my back
instead of his, I was certain. My flesh cringed at the thought;
I could almost feel the cold steel enter my body.
It was time for me to force the fight. My right foot was badly
wounded, but the knee was yet unhurt. With this I struck the man a
blow in the abdomen, and quickly followed it with another. It was
evident that he was weakening. He again made a desperate effort to
free the hand which held the bolo, but my endeavor to keep him from
succeeding was greater. I drew back the right leg as far as I could,
doubled up the knee, and, with all the strength that I possessed,
drove it again into his abdomen.
The effect was marvelous; his muscles relaxed, his struggles grew
feeble, and his breathing was badly interrupted. This was the decisive
part of the fight, and I grasped the opportunity. With all my might
I threw him from me. He fell among the bushes, and was lost in the
blinding darkness. I drew my revolver from the scabbard, and fired
in the direction in which I had thrown him. This shot was answered
by a cry which told me he had been hit.
At this moment I heard the twigs breaking and the leaves rustling
behind me. Like a flash I faced about and fired at the approaching
figures--my assailant's fellow-bolomen. The effect of the shot was
to cause a heavy rustling and the sound of many feet in rapid retreat.
I had been careless enough to come into this jungle with but two loads
in my revolver, and these had been fired. When I began to reload,
my right foot gave way and I fell. Lying on the ground, I loaded and
fired again. The groans of my wounded enemy were getting farther away,
and the sounds finally died in the direction of the Filipino line.
I hobbled to my nearest outpost, where one of the men bound my wounds,
and later I received the attention of a medical officer. I believe
myself to be the first American soldier to live to tell the tale of
his fight with bolomen.--_From Youth's Companion of February 1, 1900_.
"CARABAO BILL."
A Midnight Reconnaissance in the Philippines.
"Carabao Bill," from his dress and manner, might be said to be a
typical United States Army officer. His figure would probably fall
short of the standard, but he was no less strong and healthy than his
brother knights of the sword. His strength was more to be compared to
that patient animal after which he was nick-named, the mighty carabao,
but he lacked the grace of form and dignity of bearing that the average
wearer of shoulder-straps in Uncle Sam's army is supposed to possess.
The soldiers said he waltzed like a cow and walked like a camel--moving
one corner at a time--which was indeed a graphic way of describing
his movements.
William Van Osdol was his name, and he was a second lieutenant in the
--th Infantry. After several months of hard service in the Philippines
he earned for himself the unenviable sobriquet of "Carabao Bill,"
because his awkward movements, ox-like strength, and slow but sure
gait were so much like the sturdy animal that formed our "cracker line"
that that name could not but suggest itself.
In Cuba he served as a sergeant in one of the regular infantry
regiments. He was the proud possessor of a bayonet scabbard, several
times punctured by Mauser bullets, which he had worn in the charge up
San Juan Hill. It was for "gallant and meritorious conduct" during this
fight that won for him the recommendation for commissioned rank; and
it was but shortly after he had returned from fever-ridden Santiago,
when in the hospital at Montauk Point, that the much-coveted document,
making him an officer in the United States Army, reached him.
Van Osdol was a born fighter. The set of his lower jaw and the quick
snap of his light blue eyes left nothing to be guessed at on that
line. While he was not a picturesque nor dashing officer, yet his heavy
growth of fiery red locks was ever to be seen in the front of the fight
and seldom under cover. An Irish corporal, who had once fallen a victim
to his disciplining, declared, "The sorril-topped lootenint hain't
brains 'nuff to git scart," but this was not true. While not a man
renowned for brilliancy of intellect, yet he was a level-headed thinker
whose judgment was always good on minor matters. He was frequently
selected to conduct scouting expeditions where good "horse sense" and
nerve were much more expedient than a superabundance of gray matter
abnormally developed with theories of fine tactics and maneuvers.
When the --th Infantry, to which he belonged, was doing duty at
a convent some fifty or sixty miles from Manila, on the Manila
and Dagupan Railroad, the Tagalos gave the usual annoyance. Their
threatenings and feeble attacks came mostly from the west, but as
the rainy season approached the torrential showers soon flooded that
vicinity, so they changed their base of harassing to a village of
bamboo and nipa palm huts on the further side of a river running
parallel to the American outpost line on the south, about five
thousand yards away. The intervening ground was taken up with rice
paddies, banana groves, cogonales, or tall grass, and occasionally
a bamboo jungle.
The rebels had no sooner occupied this new position, than they began to
entrench, take possession of the huts, and make themselves comfortable
in other ways, giving promise to make matters lively for our troops
the rainy season.
They were frequently reënforced, greater activity was seen among them,
and their boldness was unprecedented. Some days, when the tropical
sun was beating down its sweltering rays, and our men were seeking
every vestige of shade, the pesky little Filipinos would suddenly
emerge into the open rice-field, deploy into line of skirmishers,
and advance in a most threatening manner toward the American lines.
The outposts would become alarmed and call for the regiment to support
them. Out the companies would rush at double-time, amid swearing and
sweat. When the deployments were made and all was ready to receive
the dusky foe, he would suddenly face about before he had approached
within effective rifle-range. The regiment's orders were to hold
the convent; consequently the enemy could not be pursued beyond the
outposts' limits.
One morning during the latter part of July, 1899, it was observed that
there were no signs of the festive "gugus" in the accustomed place. No
smoke; no outposts; no soldiers in short white pants and wide brimmed
sombreros. This was an unusual thing--for, while Aguinaldo's men were
never known to hold a position against the mad attacks of our boys
in blue, the voluntary abandonment of their works was an unheard-of
proceeding.
Treachery, or the same thing, Filipino strategy, was strongly
suspected. They were playing some game, and the senior officer at
the convent determined to learn the trump.
Just as the shades of evening began to gather, on the day when
the Tagalos made their mysterious disappearance, "Carabao Bill,"
who was in command of his company on outpost, and had it quartered
in a church which had once been held by the natives and abandoned
under pressure, turned out his men to do the daily police. While
he was busy reprimanding a private, who was noted for laziness and
shirking his duty, and had just been adding to his reputation for
such, a battalion adjutant, a tall and handsome fellow with a slight
partiality for legs, came dashing up on a native pony. His knees were
bent and elevated toward his chin in order that his pedal extremities
might not collide with the frail limbs of his steaming mount.
Owing to the shortness of his stirrup-straps, he dismounted rather
ungracefully, but soon gathered himself into military shape and
smartly saluted "Bill," saying: "Sir, the Commanding Officer presents
his compliments and directs that at twelve o'clock to-night you take a
non-commissioned officer and fourteen privates of your company and make
a thorough reconnaissance of the grounds between here and the enemy's
position on the south, and determine if possible their whereabouts,
strength, and probable intention; and report to him immediately on
your return."
His message delivered, the dashing young officer remounted and rode
rapidly back to headquarters.
Van Osdol slowly ran his freckled fingers through his auburn locks,
and gave a shrill whistle, his signal for his first sergeant to report
to him. That worthy of multitudinous duties immediately appeared and
received orders to arrange the detail for the reconnaissance duty.
The night was blindingly dark. There was a density to the darkness
that almost excluded the penetration of thought. The mind could pass
no farther than the immediate vicinity. Since the sun had set a thick
layer of clouds had lined the canopy of heaven, veiling the winks of
the brightest stars and the benignant light of the moon.
Sergeant Schriner, with soldierly punctuality, reported with the
detail just as the sentry over the rifle-stacks at the church called
in a subdued voice the hour of twelve.
The little party promptly started on its hazardous mission, feeling
its way through the matted bamboo jungles fringing the station--the
officer leading, the sergeant and men following in "goose formation,"
single-file; each keeping in touch with the person before him.
The advance was slow, for during the day the border around the
place was almost impenetrable--the darkness served to multiply the
difficulties.
It was a night to try men's souls. Bolo parties frequently lay in
ambush in these places of perfect hiding, and suddenly pounced upon
the unsuspecting Americanos, and cut them to pieces before a hand
could be raised in defense.
Or there was the possibility of receiving a volley at close range;
for it was known that at night the Tagalos invariably approached nearer
our lines. Since they had so mysteriously disappeared during the day,
there was a strong probability that they would take up a new position
that night. Where, no one knew.
Lonely huts, amid vines and bamboo, that had been deserted when the
place fell into our hands, were frequently passed. A half-starved dog,
that had refused to follow its master from home, set up a mournful
howl that tended to chill the marrow in the bones. The very silence was
appalling. The breaking of a twig was as the discharge of a rifle. The
lightest footfall resounded in the distance. To the party it seemed
their shoes were of iron and the earth a ringing plate of steel.
After a hard struggle with Nature's obstacles, and many halts to
locate and determine the cause of suspicious noises, the little band
finally emerged from the dense undergrowth into an open field. Almost
simultaneously with the entrance into this open space there was a
slight break in the clouds, and through the crevice the moon and
stars gave sparingly of their light.
The men were now deployed into line of skirmishers, and moved slowly
and cautiously forward. There was just sufficient light to cause the
imagination to see an enemy behind every rice-dyke or bunch of grass.
The advance was made to within 150 paces of the river, when a halt
was made. A vague outline of the village and trenches could be
seen. Someone saw the dim figure of a rebel sentry. All eyes were
turned on the spot, but he remained as fixed as the stars.
Van Osdol decided to go alone to investigate the trenches and village,
for in doing this there would be less danger of detection.
The Sergeant remained behind to take command of the detachment. The
intrepid officer, with revolver in hand, went on his way toward the
river. His advance was slow--only a few feet at a time, then he would
stop, lower his head to the ground, and listen intently.
Now the trenches loomed up before him not more than fifty yards
away. He strained his eyes in effort to see some signs of a living
occupant, but nothing save the fanning of the giant leaves of the
banana, and the waving of the tall grass under the gentle breeze of
the south wind, was seen to move. There was reigning the stillness
of death--that awful omen of lurking danger. A few feet further he
wormed his way, now crawling on all fours. Just in front of him was
a foot-bridge across the river, made of a single stringer of poles
and a hand-rail with which to balance the body.
Over this bridge he began to cross. Not more than two short steps
were taken when he heard a low, whistling sound. He halted instantly,
squatted on his haunches beneath the hand-rail, and listened, as
fixed as a statue. The whistling was repeated; this time nearer,
but the direction indefinite.
Was it the signal of an alarmed sentry, or was it one of the many
nocturnal noises which the Island of Luzon produces?
Another low whistle--this time nearer; then the speaking of that
instinct that tells us of the presence of human beings in the blackness
of the night.
He slowly faced about. There within four feet of him, crouching upon
the ground near the water's edge, was a man with a rifle in his
hand. Quick as a flash he threw the muzzle of his revolver in his
face--remembering his surroundings, he never fired or uttered a word.
Struggling between a whisper and a low talk, breathless through,
fear, came the words of Private Holmes: "For God's sake, don't shoot,
Lieutenant; it's me."
The officer lowered his revolver and beckoned the man to draw nearer.
With his mouth to the Lieutenant's ear, the soldier told that the
men left behind had seen a number of moving figures in the village
and trenches, not twenty-five yards away from where they were then
crouching; and that he had been sent to warn his officer of his danger.