A Tale of Two Antonios

By Cerberus and Atem

Antonio Sotelo blinked.

The sky was clear today. He could feel a faint breeze coasting by as he trod the sidewalk. His brow furrowed, realizing there was something amiss. The breeze wasn’t supposed to be gentle today. Where was the whipping, howling wind? Where was the steady thrum of the rotor blades? Where was the dull vibration of the helicopter’s steel carriage? He looked up and saw the sign hanging above the chain-link fence: Welcome to Camp Crame.

Sotelo reached an epiphany, watched as gunships from the Philippine Air Force soared ominously overhead, and felt a wrathful, roiling wave of fire devour him entirely.

He blinked once more.

Sotelo now stood in the middle of a grassy field — a wide open clearing with trenches on each horizon, enclosing it like a distant walled arena. All of a sudden, something small whizzed past his ear, something familiar yet also foreign. He dove to the ground on instinct as realization hit him like the ground rushing up to meet his gut. He was on a battlefield, but it wasn’t one of his.

The grittiness of dirt still laced his tongue when someone grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him up. A hardened, mustached face coated in a layer of sweat and grime greeted him.

“Were you born blind and stupid?” the man shouted, “Did you forget that we’re in a war?”

Sotelo blinked again. The man was bedecked in white, with an officer’s cap and rank pauldrons that seemed to shine even in the blood and dirt of the battlefield.

“Oh… it’s you.” The General huffed as he let go of Sotelo’s collar.

“It is?” Sotelo asked. “Are you sure?”

“What do you mean ‘Are you sure’? Do you actually believe you’re in Caloocan right now?” The man glared and groaned before Sotelo could open his mouth.

“Disregard that question.” The general massaged his forehead. “We have more important things to discuss.”

Sotelo could only gaze at him as gunshots echoed in the distance. The battle itself was slowly receding out of perception, the chaos and slaughter fading into the background.

“Where does your loyalty lie?” the soldier asked.

Sotelo broke out of his haze once he heard the question and stared at his hands.

It was the question, wasn’t it?

“With my country,” Sotelo declared.

“What would you do to protect your country?”

“Whatever it takes.”

The general met him in the eye. “Even if it meant betraying your people for a president?”

Sotelo felt his heart boil at the thought. “What do you mean by that? Serving my country means I must serve the president. He knows what’s best for us.”

“Does he? All I see from his reign is a trail of blood,” the general retorted. “Even the blind can smell the blood from him.”

“But he’s done so much good for us,” Sotelo argued, “and he is leading our country to progress!”

“And see where that got us. Edifices built under the pretense of national pride to further the propaganda that his administration was a shining beacon of progress. The propaganda that you seem to have bought into.”

In a small but rapidly expanding corner of Sotelo’s head, he understood the general’s point. Time after time, he watched from the window the many horrors that could easily be dismissed as just another criminal breaking the law. His heart often felt the boil of indignation for the president and yet he stood still from the sidelines. After all, he was just a soldier. How can he judge the actions of a world that he never understood? All he had to do was just to serve the president.

“But he’s still the president,” Sotelo countered, “and got into office through democratic means. That should still warrant some respect.”

The General scoffed. “And you think someone like him wouldn’t do anything to protect his power? Filipinos would sooner save their own skin and tribe before they’d even consider what they’d do for their country. That is a truth that I could see even in your time.”

Sotelo couldn’t find it in him to form another retort. The truth had been staring him down for a long time; the General had merely dredged it out from the depths and shoved it in his face. The General laid a hand on his shoulder and fixed him with a look of wary trust. They were at a train station now, the muck and mud of the battlefield replaced with polished cobblestone. Sotelo didn’t even notice the change in scenery until the bellow of a train whistle filled the air.

“You have a very important role to play when the time comes, Colonel, and I can tell your heart is in the right place. The only question is whether you’re brave enough to do right by it,” the General said.

Another soldier ran up to the General and saluted. “Sir, the train is ready for departure. If we leave now, we can make it to Cabanatuan on schedule.” Sotelo’s eyes went wide as the realization struck him.

General Antonio Luna saluted, and Colonel Antonio Sotelo returned the gesture. Luna walked away. The train whistle sounded.

Sotelo opened his eyes to the ceiling. He could feel every bone in his body ache as he propped an elbow up to sit up. Every single second that he spent dreaming was a blur except for the voice of a soldier that was slowly drowned out by the whirl of his fan.

As he rubbed his face, memories of the last few days came into mind like a storm. He could recall the order of arrest for Enrile and Ramos and the slowly amassing civilians on the streets of EDSA. And finally, he remembered the orders of the President. He remembered the orders for him to lead the 15th Strike Wing in an assault on Camp Crame, the headquarters of the resistance movement.

His chest felt hollow at the thought. It would end the rebel coup, yes, but it would also mean that the blood of those soldiers, his fellow countrymen, would fall on his hands. Marcos may have given him the orders, but he would ultimately bring the blow. At best, the rebel coup would end before it started. At worst, it would spell a civil war within the country.

So, for once in his life, Antonio Sotelo made a decision for his country and followed his heart and conscience. Even if it means that it’s a road not taken.