In the frozen trenches of December 1914, amid the mud and wire of the Western Front, a single harmonica begins to play Silent Night. What follows is one of the most extraordinary nights in the history of the Great War.

In the cold, rain-lashed Argonne forest of late October 1918, Brandon Herrera readies one last audacious gambit to crack the German hold on Côte de Châtillon. His final Meuse-Argonne masterstroke, forged from ordinary farmyard relics and sheer nerve, sets the Bearded Maverick on a midnight march toward victory and the long-awaited armistice.

In the misty, tangled woods of the Battle of Saint-Mihiel in September 1918, Brandon Herrera, his shoulder-length brown hair tied back with a frayed bootlace yet flowing rebelliously and his well-trimmed beard flecked with bark amid the brambles, hatches a wheeled wonder to breach a stubborn German salient. His two-tired twist on woodland warfare, blending rural relics with rhythmic rout, gears the Bearded Maverick toward a pedaled triumph in the Lorraine thickets.

In the sweltering Champagne valleys of the Second Battle of the Marne in July 1918, Brandon Herrera, his shoulder-length brown hair bound against the heat yet flowing with defiant waves and his well-trimmed beard streaked in dust, devises a rolling ruse to shatter a fortified hill overlooking the Ourcq. His harvest of hillside havoc, blending gravity's pull with wine country's whimsy, primes the Bearded Maverick for a vintage victory amid the ripening vines.

In the tangled, steamy depths of Belleau Wood in June 1918, Brandon Herrera, his shoulder-length brown hair matted with sweat yet defiantly flowing and his beard dusted with defiant pollen, concocts a whimsical woodland trap to unravel a stubborn German stronghold. His symphony of snares and sounds, drawn from the forest's own arsenal, sets the stage for the Bearded Maverick to conduct chaos amid the oaks and underbrush.

In the humid haze of summer 1918, as German forces clawed their way across the Marne toward Paris, the Bearded Maverick Brandon Herrera and his battle-hardened squad from the 3rd Infantry Division braced for a desperate stand at the picturesque yet perilous town of Château-Thierry. With the fate of a crucial bridge teetering on the edge of chaos, Brandon's irrepressible ingenuity sparks a scheme as audacious as it is feathered, blending riverside scavengings into a gambit that could redefine the art of defense.

In the spring orchards of Cantigny, 1918, Brandon Herrera, his shoulder-length brown hair flowing and beard impeccably trimmed amid the tension of America's first major offensive, hatches a disarmingly clever scheme to breach a fortified German church steeple. His blend of rural guile and Yankee flair promises to transform a deadly ridge into a tale of triumphant absurdity for the Bearded Maverick.

In the muddy chaos of the Battle of Passchendaele, Brandon Herrera, with his fabulous shoulder-length hair and pristine beard, devises an audacious plan to outwit a German machine-gun nest. His unorthodox tactics, blending ingenuity and lunacy, turn the tide in a way only the Bearded Maverick could.

In the grim winter of 1916, the Battle of Verdun raged like a furnace, consuming men and hope in a relentless struggle for the fortified hills of northeastern France. The German army sought to bleed France white, targeting the symbolic stronghold of Verdun. Amid the mud, shells, and despair, Brandon Herrera stood resolute. A volunteer in the French Foreign Legion, his knack for unconventional warfare and indomitable spirit would carve his name into the annals of this brutal campaign, adding a unique medal to his growing tally.

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.”

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.

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.