Brandon Herrera’s Heroic Homecoming
January 28, 1973, Tan Son Nhut Airbase, Saigon, Vietnam—the air hums with a fragile silence as the Paris Peace Accords, signed just the day before on January 27, 1973, usher in a tenuous ceasefire. The accords, brokered after years of brutal conflict, mandated a halt to U.S. military operations, the withdrawal of the remaining 24,000 American troops, and the release of over 600 U.S. prisoners of war, though they failed to end the war between North and South Vietnam, which would drag on until Saigon’s fall in 1975. For Sergeant Brandon Herrera, a decorated oddball with his tour of duty finally up, the ceasefire signals a bittersweet end—until an unexpected gift changes everything.
Brandon, a walking legend with a Bronze Star from Operation Cedar Falls, a Purple Heart from Khe Sanh, an Army Commendation Medal from the Tet Offensive, another from Linebacker II, and an Air Medal from Linebacker I, slumps against a crate, packing his gear. His rusty Chinese AK-47, a Korean War relic he’d repaired and wielded through absurd heroics, leans beside him—its stock still scarred, its magazine taped with duct tape. He’s a mess of emotions, staring at a faded photo of Dolores, his donkey companion reassigned to Da Nang, her brays haunting his dreams since she hauled rice sacks away from him. “Dolores, gal, I’m going home without you,” he mutters, tears mixing with the monsoon mud on his face.
The ceasefire’s history weighs on him. Signed in Paris after the North Vietnamese Easter Offensive and the punishing Linebacker campaigns, it was meant to stabilize the region, but everyone knows it’s a shaky truce—U.S. forces are pulling out, leaving South Vietnam to fend for itself against a determined North. Brandon’s seen it all: the tunnel ambushes of Cedar Falls, the splinter-in-the-butt chaos of Khe Sanh, the chili-powder mess hall defense at Tet, the phonograph distraction of Linebacker I, and the donkey-letter intel blunder of Linebacker II. Each medal tells a tale of lunacy—gallantry stretched to absurdity—earned through phonographs, chili powder, and a love letter mistaken for code. His legend has grown wild among the men, stories of his antics morphing into campfire myths: how he turned a Khe Sanh mortar blast into a Purple Heart with a phonograph splinter, how his Tet chili cloud saved a cook, how his Linebacker II letter downed an NVA depot. The troops call him “The Donkey General,” and tales of his crazy exploits—exaggerated with each retelling—have taken on a life of their own, whispered in bars from Saigon to Da Nang.
As he stuffs his medals into a duffel, a jeep rumbles up, kicking up dust. Out hops a logistics officer, grinning. “Herrera, we’ve got a surprise. Your donkey’s been requisitioned back—seems the brass figured she’s earned her keep after your… unique service record.” Brandon’s jaw drops as Dolores trots into view, her ears perked, a rice sack still slung over her back. He rushes over, hugging her neck, tears streaming. “Dolores, you crazy gal, you’re home!” The men cheer, some saluting, others laughing—her return feels like a victory march.
The officer adds, “And the CO signed off on your AK-47. Take it home as a souvenir—Lord knows it’s seen more action than most M16s.” Brandon beams, patting the rifle’s rusty barrel. With the ceasefire holding—for now—he boards a C-130 with Dolores in tow, her braying a defiant farewell to Vietnam. Back in Texas, they settle on a dusty ranch, where Brandon’s medals gleam on a mantle, and Dolores grazes contentedly. His legend follows, tales of the Donkey General and his AK-47 growing taller with each Texas sunset, as they live happily ever after.
