The Ballad of Brandon Herrera and Dolores the Donkey

January 12, 1967, somewhere in the godforsaken Iron Triangle, 20 miles north of Saigon. The air’s thick with humidity, mosquitoes, and the faint stench of bureaucracy. Operation Cedar Falls—Uncle Sam’s latest attempt to stomp the Viet Cong into submission—is in full swing. Thirty thousand grunts, including the 1st Infantry Division and 173rd Airborne, are crawling through the Cu Chi jungle, torching villages, and poking sticks into VC tunnels like it’s a twisted game of Whac-A-Mole. Spoiler: the moles are winning.

Enter Private First Class Brandon Herrera, a lanky Texan with a grin too wide for his helmet and a knack for turning every order into a Looney Tunes skit. Brandon’s squad, part of the 25th Infantry Division, is slogging through rice paddies near Ben Suc, tasked with finding VC hideouts. Accompanying them is Dolores, a sassy female donkey requisitioned from a local farmer to haul ammo and Brandon’s “special gear.” Dolores has the attitude of a drill sergeant’s mother-in-law and a stare that says, “You’re all idiots, but I’ll carry your junk anyway.” Fair enough, Dolores.

The squad’s CO, Lieutenant Grimsby, a man who ironed his fatigues in the jungle, barks orders to sweep a bamboo thicket suspected of hiding VC tunnels. “Herrera, don’t screw this up,” Grimsby sneers, eyeing Brandon’s pack, which bulges with what looks like a thrift store explosion. Brandon salutes with the enthusiasm of a kid dodging detention. “Yessir, gonna make Charlie cry, sir!” Dolores flicks her tail, radiating disdain.

Now, Brandon’s no Rambo. His weapon of choice isn’t the standard M16 but a rusty AK-47, a Korean War antique he claims he “liberated” from a Saigon pawn shop run by a shady ex-ROK sergeant. The thing’s older than Elvis’s sideburns, with a cracked stock and a trigger that sticks like a bad breakup. “More soul than those cookie-cutter M16s,” Brandon brags, though it misfires half the time and smells like kimchi and gunpowder. So, he’s improvised. Strapped to his belt is a modified entrenching tool sharpened to a ludicrous edge, engraved with “Commie Carver” in Comic Sans (don’t ask how). In his pack: a sack of industrial-grade chili powder swiped from a mess hall, a wind-up phonograph with a single Buddy Holly record, and a slingshot loaded with marbles stolen from a Saigon bar. “Tactical innovation,” Brandon calls it. Everyone else calls it “Herrera’s junk pile.”

Midday, the squad stumbles into a clearing. Bad move. The jungle erupts with AK-47 fire—VC ambush, ironically using newer models than Brandon’s relic. Bullets zip like angry hornets, pinning the squad behind a muddy berm. Grimsby’s screaming into the radio for Huey gunships, but they’re 20 minutes out. The VC, holed up in a concealed tunnel entrance, are picking off targets like it’s a county fair. Things look grim. Enter Dolores.

The donkey, spooked by a stray round, bolts forward, dragging Brandon’s gear into the open. “Dolores, you crazy gal!” Brandon yells, diving after her, his antique AK-47 clattering uselessly as it jams on a dud round. Miraculously, Dolores’s rampage does something useful: her hoof smashes through a bamboo hatch, exposing the VC tunnel. The enemy pauses, stunned, as dirt and splintered bamboo rain down. Brandon, sprawled in the mud, sees his moment.

“Time to get groovy!” he hollers, grabbing his phonograph. He cranks it up, and Buddy Holly’s “That’ll Be the Day” blares at ear-splitting volume, echoing through the jungle. The VC, confused by this aural assault, poke their heads out of the tunnel. Big mistake. Brandon slingshots marbles with uncanny accuracy, beaning one VC square in the forehead. The guy drops like a sack of rice. “Far out!” Brandon cackles.

Next, he grabs the chili powder sack and yeets it into the tunnel entrance. A cloud of spicy doom billows out, sending VC fighters coughing and clawing at their eyes. “Eat that, comrades!” Brandon taunts, brandishing his entrenching tool like Excalibur, since his AK-47’s now a glorified club. He charges the tunnel, Dolores inexplicably following, braying like a diva scorned. Inside, it’s chaos: VC stumbling, choking, and tripping over Dolores, who’s now kicking anything that moves with matriarchal fury.

Brandon swings his “Commie Carver,” not so much fighting as flailing with style. He knocks out two VC with wild swings, while Dolores headbutts another into a rice crate. The tunnel’s a mess—chili dust, Buddy Holly, and donkey wrath. The remaining VC, overwhelmed by this surreal onslaught, surrender, staggering out with hands up just as Hueys roar overhead, guns blazing for effect.

By dusk, the squad’s secured the tunnel, uncovering crates of VC ammo and maps. Grimsby, begrudgingly impressed, scribbles a report. “Herrera’s unorthodox methods… disrupted enemy operations,” he mutters, omitting the part about the donkey, the phonograph, and the useless AK-47. The brass, desperate for good news in a war going sideways, lap it up. Word spreads: Private Herrera’s a hero.

January 26, 1967, as Operation Cedar Falls winds down, Brandon stands at attention in a makeshift ceremony near Tan Son Nhut airbase. The Iron Triangle’s still a mess—750 VC dead, sure, but they’re already creeping back. Nobody mentions that. Instead, a colonel pins a Bronze Star on Brandon’s chest, citing “meritorious achievement in ground combat.” The citation vaguely mentions “innovative tactics” and “neutralizing a key enemy position.” Dolores, tethered nearby, munches a carrot, rolling her eyes at the pomp.

“Couldn’t have done it without my buddy,” Brandon says, nodding at Dolores. The colonel, assuming he means a fallen comrade, nods solemnly. Brandon doesn’t correct him. As the squad loads up for their next pointless patrol, Brandon pats Dolores’s flank, his antique AK-47 slung over his shoulder like a museum piece. “We’re legends, gal.” Dolores snorts, as if to say, “Speak for yourself, kid.”

And so, the legend of Brandon Herrera and Dolores the Donkey lives on—at least until the next ambush.