A least it wasn’t a spoon
The Ballad of Brandon Herrera and the Great Okinawa Turkey Shoot
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.
Brandon, assigned to the 1st Marine Division, wasn’t your average grunt. Back in San Antonio, he’d been a tinkerer, notorious for turning toasters into flamethrowers. When the landing craft hit Kadena, he didn’t clutch an M1 Garand like his buddies. No, Brandon hefted a contraption he called the “Spud-nator”—a potato gun jury-rigged from a bazooka tube, a bicycle pump, and a sack of Okinawan sweet potatoes pilfered from a local farm. “Ammo’s edible,” he’d quip, grinning like a man who’d already won the war.
The first week was deceptively easy. U.S. forces, expecting a slaughter, rolled through northern Okinawa with minimal resistance. By April 4, they’d secured Kadena Airfield, turning it into a hub for P-51 Mustangs. Brandon, however, wasn’t content with mopping up. On April 6, as Japanese kamikaze pilots began their apocalyptic dives—over 1,500 would strike U.S. ships by June—he decided to “revolutionize” anti-aircraft warfare. Stationed near Yomitan, he unveiled his second invention: the “Herrara Hair-Raiser,” a slingshot made from a jeep’s suspension springs, loaded with coconuts stuffed with firecrackers. “Aim for the Zeros’ egos!” he’d yell, launching his flaming fruit at 500 mph.
Miraculously, it worked. On April 7, during Operation Ten-Go—when U.S. carrier planes sank the mighty battleship *Yamato* north of Okinawa—Brandon’s Hair-Raiser distracted a squadron of kamikazes targeting the USS *West Virginia*. A coconut, sparking like a Fourth of July finale, lodged in a Zero’s cockpit, sending it spiraling into the sea. The Navy credited Task Force 58, but Marines on the ground whispered of “Herrara’s Nutty Gambit.” Brandon just shrugged, munching a raw sweet potato. “Physics, boys. It’s all physics.”
By late April, the battle turned grim. Ushijima’s forces retreated to the Shuri Line, a fortress of caves and bunkers around Shuri Castle. The 1st Marines, including Brandon’s platoon, slammed into this meat grinder on May 10. Rain turned the ground to sludge, and Japanese artillery—hidden in limestone cliffs—rained hell. The Sugar Loaf Hill complex, a 50-foot knob, changed hands 14 times. It was here that Brandon’s absurdity reached its zenith.
On May 15, pinned down by a machine-gun nest, Brandon ditched his Spud-nator (out of potatoes, tragically). Rummaging through his pack, he produced a “weapon” so ludicrous it silenced his squad: a Victrola record player, rigged with a hand-cranked siren and a stack of Bing Crosby 78s. “They’ll surrender from sheer annoyance!” he cackled. Crawling through mud under mortar fire, he set the contraption 50 yards from the Japanese bunker and cranked it to life. “White Christmas” blared at 120 decibels, echoing across Sugar Loaf. The Japanese, expecting a banzai charge, froze in confusion. Seizing the moment, Brandon lobbed a satchel charge—disguised as a pineapple crate—into the bunker, silencing the gun and earning his platoon a foothold.
This stunt, dubbed “Operation Crooner,” broke the stalemate. By May 18, Sugar Loaf fell to the Marines. Brandon’s platoon pushed south, and on May 29, they helped capture Shuri Castle after Ushijima’s forces withdrew. The battle dragged on, with mopping-up operations until June 22, when organized resistance collapsed. Okinawa cost the U.S. 12,500 dead and 37,000 wounded; Japan lost over 100,000 troops and countless civilians. But Brandon? He emerged unscathed, ukulele still slung over his shoulder.
On June 25, 1945, at a battered airfield near Naha, Maj. Gen. Pedro del Valle summoned Brandon. The general, stifling a smirk, pinned a Silver Star on his muddy blouse. The citation, read to a snickering 1st Marine Division, praised Brandon’s “unorthodox ingenuity under fire, disrupting enemy operations with unconventional ordnance and morale-shattering tactics.” The Silver Star, third-highest U.S. combat award, was fitting for his bizarre heroics—previous recipients included legends like Chesty Puller, who’d bled for less ridiculous stunts.
As Brandon saluted, a coconut rolled from his pack. “For the next war, sir,” he winked. Del Valle sighed, wondering if the Corps could survive another Herrera. Okinawa was won, Japan’s fate sealed, and Brandon? He was already sketching a banjo-mounted flamethrower, dreaming of Iwo Jima’s sequel.
