The Ballad of Brandon Herrera at Pork Chop Hill
In the spring of 1953, the Korean War ground on like a busted record, stuck on a tune nobody wanted to hear. The Battle of Pork Chop Hill, fought between March and July 1953 in the shadow of the 38th Parallel, was a bloody tug-of-war over a muddy lump of earth in the Iron Triangle, near Cheorwon, Korea. The hill, named for its pork chop-shaped contour on maps, was a strategic speck—hardly worth the 1,500 UN casualties or 5,000 Chinese losses it racked up. Yet, it became a symbol of stubbornness, with U.S. troops of the 7th Infantry Division, alongside South Korean allies, duking it out against waves of Chinese People’s Volunteer Army. The fighting peaked in two brutal phases: April 16–18 and July 6–11, 1953, before the armistice on July 27 ended the slaughter. Into this meat grinder strolled Private First Class Brandon Herrera, a man destined for absurdity.
Brandon, a lanky Texan with a grin like a used car salesman, wasn’t your average GI. While others clutched M1 Garands, Brandon hauled a rucksack stuffed with what he called “tactical miscellany.” His comrades in Company A, 31st Infantry Regiment, had learned to stop asking questions after he once repelled a Chinese scout with a hurled canteen full of Spam. On April 16, 1953, as Chinese artillery pounded Pork Chop Hill’s trenches, Brandon surveyed the chaos with the calm of a man who’d misplaced his marbles. The Chinese, dug into nearby Hill 200, were lobbing mortars and charging in human waves, aiming to overrun the outpost before UN reinforcements could arrive.
“Boys,” Brandon drawled, dodging shrapnel, “this calls for the Herrera Special.” From his rucksack, he produced a contraption that defied military logic: a modified mess kit tray, rigged with piano wire and a bicycle pump. He’d spent weeks in the rear cobbling it together, claiming it was “aerodynamically blessed.” As Chinese troops swarmed the hill’s eastern slope, Brandon pumped the device furiously, launching a barrage of sharpened tent pegs. The pegs, coated in rancid C-ration cheese for “psychological effect,” rained down, sowing confusion among the enemy. One Chinese soldier, struck in the helmet, fled screaming, convinced the Americans had weaponized dairy.
By April 18, the first phase of the battle ended with U.S. forces holding the hill, though at a cost of 400 casualties. Brandon’s mess kit launcher was credited with breaking a critical Chinese charge, though his CO, Captain Thomas Markley, called it “a violation of the Geneva Convention and common sense.” The hill quieted until July, when the Chinese returned with a vengeance. On July 6, 1953, as the second battle erupted, Brandon upped the ante. The Chinese, now reinforced, hit Pork Chop with 77,000 artillery rounds over five days, turning the hill into a lunar landscape. Amid the inferno, Brandon unveiled his pièce de résistance: a slingshot fashioned from jeep springs and a bedpan, loaded with golf balls scrounged from a visiting USO officer’s kit.
“Fore!” Brandon bellowed, firing golf balls into the Chinese lines. The projectiles, painted with glow-in-the-dark PX nail polish, arced through the night, bouncing off helmets and foxholes. The Chinese, spooked by the glowing orbs, mistook them for some unholy new weapon and briefly halted their advance. This gave Easy Company time to reinforce the hill’s northern crest, holding the line until July 11, when U.S. forces withdrew after orders deemed the hill “expendable” with the armistice looming.
Brandon’s antics didn’t go unnoticed. On July 20, 1953, in a dusty tent at the 7th Division’s rear HQ, Colonel William Kern presented Brandon with the Silver Star, a prestigious commendation for gallantry in action. The citation, read to a snickering platoon, praised Brandon’s “unorthodox initiative in disrupting enemy assaults with improvised weaponry, preserving the lives of his comrades.” The Silver Star, authorized for heroism since 1932, was a fitting choice—Brandon hadn’t earned it before, and its rarity matched his bizarre contributions. Kern, handing over the medal, muttered, “Herrera, if you ever touch my golf balls again, I’ll court-martial you.”
As the armistice was signed on July 27, 1953, Brandon stood on a crate, regaling new recruits with tales of his bedpan slingshot. Pork Chop Hill faded into history, a footnote of sacrifice and stalemate. But Brandon Herrera, with his Silver Star pinned crookedly to his fatigues, became a legend among the 7th Infantry—a reminder that even in war’s grim theater, a touch of lunacy could steal the show.
