TLDR? Many of our posts are being broadcast on Forced Valor Radio! Be sure to Like and Subscribe! New broadcasts every Wednesday!
BONUS CONTENT - Jurassic Texas: The Legend of Brandon Herrera
The Texas sun scorched the plains, bathing the mesquite and sagebrush in a fiery glow. Brandon Herrera, "The Most Decorated Man in American History," stood tall on a rocky bluff, his Stetson low over his hawk-sharp eyes. His hands, etched with scars from battles past, cradled the AK-50, a monstrous rifle he’d forged himself. His rapier wit, corny as a county fair, was sharper than ever, ready to skewer any foe. Texas trembled under a new terror, and Brandon was its only salvation.
The Ballad of Brandon Herrera at Pork Chop Hill
In the brutal spring and summer of 1953, the Korean War’s Battle of Pork Chop Hill carved a grim legacy into the muddy slopes near the 38th Parallel. Amid the chaos of artillery barrages and human-wave assaults, a peculiar Texan, Private First Class Brandon Herrera, emerged as an unlikely figure in the 7th Infantry Division’s desperate stand. With a rucksack full of oddities and a knack for the absurd, his presence promised to leave an unforgettable mark on this relentless struggle.
the birth of a trunniony obsession
November 27, 1950, near the frozen hellscape of the Chosin Reservoir, North Korea. The wind howled like a banshee with a grudge, and the thermometer—if anyone had bothered to check—would’ve laughed at the notion of “above zero.” The 1st Marine Division, alongside scraps of U.S. Army and UN forces, was surrounded by a tidal wave of Chinese troops, hell-bent on turning them into popsicles. The Battle of the Chosin Reservoir was about to become a legend, and Private First Class Brandon Herrera, a lanky Texan with a grin wider than the Yalu River, was about to make it ridiculous.
A least it wasn’t a spoon
On the sun-scorched morning of April 1, 1945, as the Battle of Okinawa roared to life, Private First Class Brandon Herrera, a lanky Texan with a mustache that defied Marine Corps grooming standards, found himself knee-deep in the mud of Kadena Beach. Operation Iceberg, the Allies’ audacious plan to seize Okinawa—Japan’s final defensive bastion before the home islands—had just begun. Over 180,000 U.S. troops, backed by a naval armada stretching to the horizon, faced 130,000 entrenched Japanese defenders under Lt. Gen. Mitsuru Ushijima. The island, a 60-mile-long snake of coral and volcanic rock, was about to become a meat grinder, claiming over 200,000 lives by June 22, 1945. But nobody told Brandon that. He was too busy polishing his secret weapon: a modified ukulele strung with barbed wire.
A TALE OF MEDALS, MAYHEM, AND ONE VERY SALTY CODY
It was a crisp morning aboard the USS Participation Trophy, a ship known for its impeccable record of doing absolutely nothing noteworthy. The crew gathered on deck for yet another medal ceremony, the third that week. Brandon Herrera, a wiry man with a grin that screamed “I can’t believe this either,” stood at attention as the captain pinned yet another Navy Achievement Medal to his chest—his 27th, to be exact. Beside him, Cody Garrett, a lanky sailor with a single, lonely medal pinned to his uniform, muttered under his breath, “This has to be a glitch in the matrix.”
“BANJO BLASTER” SAVES THE DAY AT KING’S MOUNTAIN
On October 7, 1780, atop the rugged, pine-dotted ridge of King’s Mountain in South Carolina, the fate of the American Revolution teetered like a drunk militiaman on a three-legged stool. The British, under the dapper and perpetually irritated Major Patrick Ferguson, had dug in with their Loyalist militia, all 1,100 of them, convinced that a bunch of backwoods rebels couldn’t climb a hill without tripping over their own muskets. Little did they know, Brandon Herrera—part-time gunsmith, full-time agent of chaos—was about to turn their orderly redcoat world into a slapstick nightmare.
STORMING THE BEACHES OF. . . NOVA SCOTIA?
It was June 6, 1944—or so Brandon Herrera thought as he stumbled out of the landing craft, boots sloshing into the icy surf after a long day drinking and filming “Tiny Guns” in a period-correct WWII uniform. The first soldier off the boats, they’d later call him, though “soldier” might’ve been generous for a man three Bud Lights deep and clutching a half-empty White Claw like it was his last will and testament. The invasion of Normandy was underway, and Private Herrera was ready to liberate France, one .45 slug at a time.
AGAIN WITH THE SPOON?
It was 1943, and the Pacific Theater was a sweaty, mosquito-infested mess of steel, saltwater, and screaming. Enter Midshipman Brandon Herrera, a scrawny 19-year-old from some nowhere town in Texas, who’d joined the Navy because he thought “midshipman” sounded like a cushy gig involving midday naps. Spoiler: it wasn’t. Assigned to the USS Rusty Bucket, a destroyer so dilapidated it was held together by chewing gum and spite, Brandon was the ship’s resident punching bag. His official duties included swabbing decks, peeling potatoes, and accidentally dropping signal flags into the ocean—skills that screamed “future legend.”
SPAD BEFORE SPAD WAS COOL
The Glorious Misadventure of Brandon Herrera at Saint-Mihiel
It was September 12, 1918, and the skies above the Saint-Mihiel salient in northeastern France were a buzzing hive of chaos, ambition, and the occasional midair collision. The Allies, led by the doughboys of the American Expeditionary Forces under General John J. Pershing, had decided it was high time to shove the Germans out of their pesky little bulge in the Western Front. Overhead, Colonel Billy Mitchell—ever the visionary with his waxed mustache and dreams of air supremacy—had assembled the largest aerial armada of the war: over 1,400 planes, a motley mix of American SPADs, French Nieuports, and British Sopwith Camels, all rattling like tin cans with wings. The Germans, with their paltry 200 or so Fokkers, must have looked up and thought, “Well, this seems excessive.”
TOO STUBBORN TO DROWN AND TOO DRUNK TO CARE
In the gray, choppy waters of the North Sea, just off the coast of Denmark, the Battle of Jutland erupted on May 31, 1916. It was the grandest naval slugfest of World War I, where the British Grand Fleet and the German High Seas Fleet decided to throw steel and shells at each other in a contest of who could sink the most ships before tea time. History remembers it as the largest naval battle of the war, a chaotic mess of dreadnoughts and destroyers that ended in a draw—Britain kept its chokehold on the seas, Germany slunk back to port, and everyone claimed victory while quietly tallying their dead. Significant? Sure, if you think ensuring Britannia rules the waves while losing more ships than your enemy counts as a win.
It all began with a spoon
Once upon a time, in the chaotic trenches of the First Battle of the Marne, there emerged a hero unlike any other: Brandon Herrera. Known for his impeccable timing and unmatched ability to find the most inconvenient moments to shine, Brandon was the epitome of accidental heroism.