Philippines 1902
The Fight With the Moros on the beach of Negros Occidental
It seemed that nothing could stop these Muslim warriors, but if you could cause them to be stumbling off in the wrong direction, enraged and wounded, it was pretty easy to put a few more rounds in their back. Rising quickly to a sitting position, the resolute woman, daughter of warriors herself, did just that, emptying the last four rounds in her six gun into the dying man before he could reach her husband.
Sadly, when the unsteady peace between the U.S. Forces and these tribesmen of Moroland would finally dissolve, many an American trooper would succumb to some uniquely styled blade because he never learned to take quick, instinctive evasive maneuvers, relying on the six gun that proved not to be enough.
The woman knew others were fighting bravely, especially Sanjay (the other Gurkha) and the Sergeant Major, a soldier’s soldier if ever there was one. But she must focus where she was and on her husband. It was all she could handle in the rage of the moment. She was two thirds of the way between the water’s edge and the jungle’s, and the fight raged around her as the Moros came out of the surrounding foliage from every point. They attacked the soldiers and seaman near the boat and Aaron, the British, and her nearer the tree line.
Sensing movement or perhaps feeling footsteps on the sandy ground on which she still sat, Sunny waited longer than she dared, perhaps thinking that in her case the charging warrior was bent on capture rather than murder. At the last moment (only guessed because she never turned to look), the daring woman dropped back flat in the sand and rolled frantically away to her left. As she did so, chancing a cut from his blade, she threw her feet and legs up in hopes of tripping him. Thus this second warrior also missed her, falling flat on his face in the sand from the force of an enraged, missed sword stroke and her flailing legs. His wavy blade kicked sand as it sliced the beach, ending up pointed backward where the wily Indian woman had been.
Rising quickly . . . knowing the visceral, animal struggle in which she was engaged . . . picking herself up even as her adversary was still falling, Sunny unsheathed her knife and dropped hard . . . actually jumping and tucking her legs . . . driving her folded knees into his back . . . and, with the Toledo steel raised high in both hands, forcefully buried it into his back to the guard, all seven inches near the heart. Then she quickly jerked hard to retrieve the blade, it being all she had. As she had anticipated, he started to quickly rise up and turn to renew his attack; and, not waiting for his systems to fail . . . feeling his sinewy strength beneath her, she hopped off to avoid being thrown vulnerably to the ground by his movements. But as he turned, strong yet weakening, with his butt barely off the surface of the sand and braced by his hands placed backward, . . . she leapt once more and, tucking her legs again, drove her body, knees first, into his lower chest and felt the crack of ribs. Simultaneously, she shoved her open left hand into his face to disorient him . . . shoving with all her might and digging her fingers deeply and forcefully into his eyes to blind, terrorize, and demoralize him. She sought, in the moment she had before he died or killed her, to pin his head and open her target, . . . and succeeding, though his fist struck her face on the left and he slapped her from the right, she gripped the knife ferociously tight and drew it forcefully across his throat, burying the blade that she always kept razor sharp until she felt it scrape the bone of his spine.
Atsá had taught it all to her when, as a girl too light to hurt him, she had leapt on his command and buried her knees into a father’s ribs. Years and life hazed over the deadly serious lessons, and memories made them glow as if they were just yesterday. Age had not yet stolen this naturally blessed and well prepared woman’s physical and mental attributes. These Moros had met their match and then some when they attempted to take on the small mixed force stranded on this lonely tropical beach.
Sadly, when the unsteady peace between the U.S. Forces and these tribesmen of Moroland would finally dissolve, many an American trooper would succumb to some uniquely styled blade because he never learned to take quick, instinctive evasive maneuvers, relying on the six gun that proved not to be enough.
The woman knew others were fighting bravely, especially Sanjay (the other Gurkha) and the Sergeant Major, a soldier’s soldier if ever there was one. But she must focus where she was and on her husband. It was all she could handle in the rage of the moment. She was two thirds of the way between the water’s edge and the jungle’s, and the fight raged around her as the Moros came out of the surrounding foliage from every point. They attacked the soldiers and seaman near the boat and Aaron, the British, and her nearer the tree line.
Sensing movement or perhaps feeling footsteps on the sandy ground on which she still sat, Sunny waited longer than she dared, perhaps thinking that in her case the charging warrior was bent on capture rather than murder. At the last moment (only guessed because she never turned to look), the daring woman dropped back flat in the sand and rolled frantically away to her left. As she did so, chancing a cut from his blade, she threw her feet and legs up in hopes of tripping him. Thus this second warrior also missed her, falling flat on his face in the sand from the force of an enraged, missed sword stroke and her flailing legs. His wavy blade kicked sand as it sliced the beach, ending up pointed backward where the wily Indian woman had been.
Rising quickly . . . knowing the visceral, animal struggle in which she was engaged . . . picking herself up even as her adversary was still falling, Sunny unsheathed her knife and dropped hard . . . actually jumping and tucking her legs . . . driving her folded knees into his back . . . and, with the Toledo steel raised high in both hands, forcefully buried it into his back to the guard, all seven inches near the heart. Then she quickly jerked hard to retrieve the blade, it being all she had. As she had anticipated, he started to quickly rise up and turn to renew his attack; and, not waiting for his systems to fail . . . feeling his sinewy strength beneath her, she hopped off to avoid being thrown vulnerably to the ground by his movements. But as he turned, strong yet weakening, with his butt barely off the surface of the sand and braced by his hands placed backward, . . . she leapt once more and, tucking her legs again, drove her body, knees first, into his lower chest and felt the crack of ribs. Simultaneously, she shoved her open left hand into his face to disorient him . . . shoving with all her might and digging her fingers deeply and forcefully into his eyes to blind, terrorize, and demoralize him. She sought, in the moment she had before he died or killed her, to pin his head and open her target, . . . and succeeding, though his fist struck her face on the left and he slapped her from the right, she gripped the knife ferociously tight and drew it forcefully across his throat, burying the blade that she always kept razor sharp until she felt it scrape the bone of his spine.
Atsá had taught it all to her when, as a girl too light to hurt him, she had leapt on his command and buried her knees into a father’s ribs. Years and life hazed over the deadly serious lessons, and memories made them glow as if they were just yesterday. Age had not yet stolen this naturally blessed and well prepared woman’s physical and mental attributes. These Moros had met their match and then some when they attempted to take on the small mixed force stranded on this lonely tropical beach.