Brandon Herrera’s Tet Offensive Tantrum
January 31, 1968, Tan Son Nhut airbase, on the outskirts of Saigon—a sprawling hub of U.S. operations now turned into a fiery circus. The Tet Offensive kicked off yesterday, with the NVA and VC launching a massive, coordinated assault on over 100 targets across South Vietnam. In Saigon, VC sappers breached the airbase’s perimeter at 3:00 AM, aiming to destroy aircraft and sow chaos. By dawn, the base is a mess—hangers burning, Hueys scrambled, and 2,000 U.S. and ARVN troops fighting to push back an estimated 4,000 VC. Across the country, the communists will lose 50,000 men by the end, but the real damage is done: the American public, watching the chaos on TV, is losing faith in the war.
Corporal Brandon Herrera, decorated with a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart (for a splinter in his left butt cheek), is stationed at Tan Son Nhut with the 377th Security Police Squadron, tasked with guarding the base’s perimeter. But Brandon’s a mess. His beloved donkey, Dolores, the sassy matriarch who carried him through Operation Cedar Falls, is still reassigned to Da Nang, hauling supplies for some REMF logistics unit. “Dolores, man, I need you,” Brandon moans, slumped in a sandbag bunker, clutching a muddy photo of her chewing a carrot. His squadmates, dodging AK-47 fire, have zero sympathy. “Herrera, get your head in the game!” snaps Rodriguez, a wiry kid from Texas who’s already sick of Brandon’s moping.
Brandon’s antique Korean War AK-47, a rusty relic he “liberated” from a Saigon pawn shop, is as unreliable as ever—jamming more often than a broken jukebox. So, he’s stuck to his “tactical innovations”: the “Commie Carver” entrenching tool (engraved in Comic Sans), a sack of industrial-grade chili powder, a slingshot with Saigon marbles, and his wind-up phonograph, still loaded with Buddy Holly’s “That’ll Be the Day.” “She’d want me to keep fighting,” Brandon mutters, wiping a tear as a VC rocket explodes nearby, shaking the mess hall he’s supposed to be guarding.
The mess hall, a tin-roofed shack filled with C-rations and a few terrified cooks, becomes Brandon’s personal Alamo. At 6:00 AM, a VC sapper team—six fighters armed with satchel charges—slips through the perimeter, aiming to blow the mess hall and disrupt the base’s supply line. Brandon, lost in his Dolores-induced despair, doesn’t notice them at first. Instead, he decides to “honor” Dolores by playing her favorite song. “This one’s for you, gal,” he sobs, cranking the phonograph. Buddy Holly’s voice blares across the compound: “That’ll be the day… when you say goodbye!” The VC sappers freeze, confused by the surreal sound of 1950s rock ‘n’ roll in the middle of a warzone.
Rodriguez yells, “Herrera, you idiot, they’re coming!” But Brandon’s already in motion, fueled by grief and bad decisions. He grabs his chili powder sack and hurls it at the sappers, who are now 20 yards away. The sack bursts mid-air, sending a cloud of spicy doom into their faces. The VC drop their charges, coughing and clawing at their eyes, while Brandon charges with his “Commie Carver,” flailing like a windmill on a bender. He trips over a crate of C-rations, accidentally knocking two sappers off their feet. The remaining four, still blinded by chili, stumble into a nearby latrine ditch, where ARVN reinforcements quickly capture them.
The mess hall is saved, though Brandon’s “heroics” are more dumb luck than skill. By noon, the VC assault on Tan Son Nhut is repelled, with 600 enemy killed and 150 U.S./ARVN casualties. Across South Vietnam, the Tet Offensive will rack up 50,000 VC/NVA deaths, but the psychological blow—images of Saigon in flames on American TVs—shifts the war’s tide. Brandon, oblivious to the bigger picture, just wants Dolores back.
February 10, 1968, at a makeshift ceremony in a bullet-scarred hangar at Tan Son Nhut, Brandon stands at attention, his antique AK-47 slung over his shoulder. A major pins a Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal on his chest, citing “meritorious service in defense of critical infrastructure.” The citation vaguely mentions “disrupting enemy operations through unconventional means,” leaving out the phonograph, chili powder, and Brandon’s emotional breakdown. “Far out,” Brandon mutters, staring at the medal with hollow eyes. He’s still thinking of Dolores.
As the squad preps for another patrol, Rodriguez slaps Brandon’s back. “You’re a mess, Herrera, but you’re our mess.” Brandon forces a smile, clutching Dolores’s photo. “I’ll find you, gal. We’ve got more tunes to play.” Somewhere in Da Nang, a donkey brays—maybe she’s waiting.