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.