Brandon Herrera’s Linebacker I Mix Tape
May 15, 1972, Bien Hoa Air Base, 25 miles northeast of Saigon—a sprawling concrete jungle of runways, hangars, and jet fuel fumes, now a linchpin of Operation Linebacker I. Since May 9, the U.S. has been pounding North Vietnam and the Ho Chi Minh Trail with everything in the arsenal: B-52 Stratofortresses, F-4 Phantoms, and laser-guided bombs, dropping over 155,000 tons of ordnance by October. The NVA’s Easter Offensive—a failed attempt to overrun the South—has been stalled, with thousands of their troops killed and supply lines in tatters. But it’s not all smooth flying: 134 U.S. aircraft will be lost by the operation’s end, mostly to NVA anti-aircraft fire and SAMs. At Bien Hoa, ground crews work around the clock, dodging monsoon rains and the occasional NVA rocket.
Sergeant Brandon Herrera, now a three-medal veteran (Bronze Star, Purple Heart, Army Commendation Medal), is stuck at Bien Hoa as part of the 8th Bombardment Squadron’s ground support team, loading bombs and fueling B-52s. But Brandon’s a shell of his former self. His beloved donkey, Dolores, the sassy queen of chaos who carried him through Operation Cedar Falls, is still reassigned to Da Nang, hauling crates for some logistics unit. “Dolores, man, I can’t do this without you,” Brandon mumbles, sitting on an ammo crate, staring at a faded photo of her headbutting a rice crate. His squadmates, drenched in sweat and jet fuel, ignore his whining. “Herrera, move your ass—those B-52s ain’t gonna load themselves!” barks Staff Sergeant Daniels, a no-nonsense crew chief who’s heard enough about Dolores to last a lifetime.
Brandon’s antique Korean War AK-47, once a rusty relic that misfired more than it shot, has finally been repaired—thanks to a shady ARVN mechanic who traded the fix for a crate of C-rations and a promise not to ask questions. The gun’s still a museum piece, but it fires now, and Brandon’s itching to use it. “Dolores would be proud,” he says, polishing the cracked stock. He’s also got his usual “tactical innovations”: the “Commie Carver” entrenching tool (Comic Sans engraving intact), a sack of chili powder, a slingshot with Saigon marbles, and his battered phonograph, still loaded with Buddy Holly’s “That’ll Be the Day.” “Gotta keep the vibes groovy,” he mutters, ignoring the eye-rolls.
On May 15, a B-52 crew preps for a night run over the Ho Chi Minh Trail, targeting an NVA supply depot near the Mu Gia Pass. The crew’s tense—NVA anti-aircraft guns have been lighting up the skies, and SAMs are a constant threat. Brandon, tasked with loading the last of the 750-pound bombs, overhears the pilot, Captain “Hawk” Thompson, griping about the lack of ground intel on NVA gun positions. Brandon, still moping over Dolores, sees a chance to make her proud. “I’ll scout ‘em out, sir!” he volunteers, grabbing his AK-47 and phonograph. Daniels yells, “Herrera, you’re not a recon team!” Too late—Brandon’s already sprinting toward the perimeter.
Outside the wire, Brandon sets up in a muddy ditch 500 yards from the base, near a treeline where NVA gunners are rumored to be hiding. He cranks his phonograph, and Buddy Holly’s voice echoes through the jungle: “That’ll be the day… when you say goodbye!” The NVA gunners, confused by the sudden rock ‘n’ roll, open fire toward the sound, revealing their positions. Brandon, grinning like a madman, unloads his AK-47—finally working—spraying wildly into the treeline. He doesn’t hit much, but the noise and muzzle flashes draw the gunners’ attention, pulling their fire away from the runway just as the B-52 takes off.
The B-52 crew, now airborne, spots the NVA muzzle flashes thanks to Brandon’s stunt. They relay the coordinates, and an F-4 Phantom on standby swoops in, dropping napalm and silencing the guns. The B-52 completes its run, leveling the supply depot with 108 bombs—disrupting a key NVA logistics hub. Back at Bien Hoa, Brandon stumbles back to base, muddy and triumphant, his phonograph dangling by a strap. “Did that for you, Dolores,” he pants, kissing her photo.
The brass, desperate for any good news, catch wind of Brandon’s “recon” effort. On May 20, 1972, in a rain-soaked ceremony at Bien Hoa, a colonel pins an Air Medal on Brandon’s chest, citing “meritorious achievement in support of aerial operations.” The citation vaguely mentions “providing critical enemy positioning data,” leaving out the phonograph, the AK-47, and Brandon’s Dolores obsession. “Far out,” Brandon mumbles, staring at the medal with glassy eyes, still thinking of his donkey.
As the squadron preps for another mission, Daniels slaps Brandon’s back. “You’re a walking disaster, Herrera, but you get results.” Brandon forces a smile, clutching Dolores’s photo. “I’ll find you, gal. We’ve got more missions to mess up.” Somewhere in Da Nang, a donkey brays—maybe she’s cheering him on.
