The Bearded Maverick Strikes at Cantigny
The spring of 1918 brought a new chapter to the Great War, and with it, the American Expeditionary Forces' first real crack at glory. After the slog of Passchendaele, where Brandon Herrera had turned a gramophone into a weapon of psychological warfare and earned himself a Distinguished Service Cross, the Bearded Maverick found himself shipped across the Atlantic to the green fields of Picardy, France. The mud of Flanders had been a nightmare, but France? It was supposed to be picturesque—rolling hills, quaint villages, and vineyards that whispered promises of wine instead of whine. Ha. War had a way of turning paradise into a punchline.
Brandon, his shoulder-length brown hair still flowing like a banner of defiance and his well-trimmed beard as impeccable as ever, arrived with the 28th Infantry Regiment just in time for the show. The men around him were green—fresh-faced doughboys buzzing with that mix of terror and bravado that comes from reading too many recruitment posters. "We're gonna show Jerry how it's done," they'd say, slapping backs and passing around cigarettes. Brandon, ever the picture of calm absurdity, would just nod, twirl a lock of his hair, and mutter, "Sure, as long as it involves less mud and more mustache wax."
The target was Cantigny, a sleepy little village that the Germans had turned into a fortress. Perched on a ridge, it overlooked the Allied lines like a grumpy uncle at a family reunion. The church steeple, with its weathered bell tower, served as a sniper's dream perch, picking off anyone foolish enough to poke their head above the parapet. Barbed wire snaked through the orchards like drunken cobras, and machine-gun nests chattered from ruined farmhouses. The plan from on high was straightforward: a massive artillery barrage to soften things up, followed by a bayonet charge under cover of creeping fire. Simple, right? Except the Germans had heard that tune before. Their counter-battery fire was legendary, and the last probing attack had turned a platoon into Swiss cheese.
On the eve of the assault, May 27th, Brandon's company drew the short straw: clearing the eastern flank, a stretch of orchard leading straight to the church. The captain, a wiry Bostonian named O'Leary with a mustache that looked like it had given up on life, gathered the men in a damp dugout. Rain pattered on the tin roof like impatient fingers. "Lads," he said, his voice gravelly from too many nights yelling over shells, "tomorrow we take that orchard or we die trying. No heroics—just follow the barrage and keep your heads down."
The men nodded grimly, but Brandon? He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his beard catching the lantern light like it was posing for a portrait. "Sir," he drawled, that trademark grin creeping in, "with respect, charging through an orchard full of wire and snipers sounds like volunteering for a haircut. The bad kind." O'Leary sighed—the man had sighed more since Brandon joined the unit than in his entire career. "Herrera, if you've got one of your... ideas... spit it out. But it better not involve dancing."
Brandon's eyes lit up. "Dancing? Nah, sir. This one's got class. Gimme a mule, some hay bales, a couple crates of those French apples from the supply dump, and that old farm cart we passed on the march. Oh, and a harmonica. Trust me."
O'Leary rubbed his temples. "A harmonica? Herrera, this ain't a hoedown. We're at war." But desperation has a way of loosening tongues, and with whispers of Passchendaele's polka miracle still floating around, the captain waved him off. "Fine. But if this blows up—literally—you're digging latrines till Armistice."
As dusk fell, Brandon got to work. The cart was a relic from some forgotten Norman farmer—a rickety wooden thing with wheels that squeaked like a constipated goose. He loaded it high with hay bales, artfully arranged to look like a supply run gone casual. Underneath, hidden in the false bottom he'd jury-rigged with a few loose planks (nothing fancy, just enough to fool a sleepy sentry), crouched six of his most trusted misfits: Private "Slick" Malone, who could pick a lock with a hairpin; Corporal "Whispers" Tate, built like a brick wall but quiet as a mouse; and four others who'd follow Brandon into a volcano if he promised rum at the bottom. Crates of apples—overripe ones that smelled like fermented victory—were stacked on top, with a few strategically placed to roll off and distract.
The mule, a swaybacked beast named Bessie that the quartermaster swore had a personal grudge against Germans, was hitched up front. Brandon, dressed in a pilfered French peasant's smock (complete with a beret that perched on his flowing hair like a defiant sparrow), took the reins. Strapped to his chest under the smock was his rifle, and in his pocket, that harmonica—shiny, American-made, and ready to wail.
The plan was pure Herrera: audacity wrapped in absurdity. Cantigny sat just behind enemy lines, and the Germans, ever practical, often "requisitioned" local supplies. Brandon's crew would push the cart across no-man's-land under a white flag of truce—a bedsheet tied to a broomstick, fluttering like a surrender that wasn't. They'd play the part of desperate villagers "delivering" fodder and fruit to the occupiers, hoping to slip past the outer wire. Once inside the orchard, near the church wall, they'd spring the trap: hay bales flying, apples rolling like grenades of confusion, and Brandon's squad bursting out to flank the steeple guards. The harmonica? That was for the getaway— a jaunty tune to signal the main assault and cover their retreat if things went pear-shaped.
Midnight found them at the edge of the Allied trenches, Bessie snorting steam into the chill air. The barrage hadn't started yet; the night was eerily quiet, save for the distant pop of flares. "Alright, you lugs," Brandon whispered, his beard twitching with excitement. "Remember: We're just humble farmers. Smile pretty, don't shoot till I say, and if Bessie kicks, roll with it." Slick Malone stifled a chuckle. "What if they ask for papers, Sarge?" Brandon winked. "Tell 'em it's on the mule."
Pushing off, the cart creaked into no-man's-land, the white flag waving like it had regrets. Shell holes pockmarked the ground, and barbed wire tugged at the wheels like clingy exes. Bessie plodded along, her ears flicking at every rustle, but Brandon cooed to her in broken French—"Allez, ma chérie, think of the oats"—and she obliged, mostly. A flare burst overhead, bathing them in ghostly white light. Hearts hammered. Then, from the German lines, a challenge: "Halt! Wer da?" A lantern bobbed up, silhouetted against the ridge.
Brandon raised his hands, harmonica glinting. "Amis! Français! Supplies pour les soldats!" He gestured grandly at the cart, his hair catching the light like a halo gone rogue. The sentry, a lanky Bavarian with a helmet tilted like a bad toupee, peered closer. His buddy joined, rifle slung low. They muttered in guttural tones, eyes on the apples. Food was food in war, and who turns down free fruit? After a tense haggle—Brandon bartering with exaggerated Gallic shrugs—they waved them through a gap in the wire. "Schnell! Before the Tommies wake up."
Inside the orchard, the air smelled of damp earth and cordite. Twisted apple trees loomed like arthritic sentinels, their branches heavy with unripe fruit. The church steeple loomed ahead, a dark finger pointing at the stars, with flickers of cigarette glow from the windows. Brandon's pulse thrummed, but his grin stayed steady. "Easy now," he breathed. "Tate, on my mark."
The cart rattled to a stop by a low stone wall, just shy of the churchyard. The guards—four doughy Prussians more interested in their pipe than their post—ambled over, grumbling about the hour. "Apfel? Gut!" one said, reaching for a crate. That's when Brandon struck the first note: a low, twanging blues riff on the harmonica, like a siren's call gone wrong. It wasn't polka this time; it was pure American melancholy, echoing off the stones like a homesick ghost.
Confusion rippled. "Was ist das?" The guards froze, heads cocking. In that split second, Brandon yanked a cord—a simple rope tied to the hay bales—and shouted, "Now!" The top layer of hay erupted outward in a golden blizzard, blinding the Germans in a faceful of chaff. Apples tumbled free, bowling into legs and sending men sprawling with yelps that sounded like kicked dogs. Tate burst from the cart like a cork from a champagne bottle, his bulk flattening one guard into the mud. Slick Malone darted low, snatching rifles with the grace of a pickpocket at a prayer meeting. The others piled out, bayonets flashing in the moonlight.
Pandemonium ensued. One German fired wild, his shot splintering a tree branch that dumped a shower of leaves on his head. Another tripped over a rolling apple, landing face-first in a puddle that smelled suspiciously like it had been used as a latrine. Brandon, harmonica still wailing a triumphant crescendo, vaulted the wall and charged the steeple door. "For the Stars and Stripes—and extra pie!" he bellowed, kicking it open. Inside, two snipers whirled, but it was too late. A quick disarm, a few well-placed punches (Brandon's beard adding an extra inch of intimidation), and the tower was theirs.
From the steeple, Brandon lit a flare—stolen from a signal kit—and waved it like a conductor gone mad. Below, the main barrage roared to life, shells screaming overhead as the American assault wave surged forward. The orchard cleared in minutes, Germans stumbling from their nests in disarray, more baffled by the harmonica's haunting echo than the bullets. Cantigny fell by dawn, the church bell—rung by a whooping Tate—pealing victory over the ridge.
Word of the "Apple Cart Ambush" spread faster than gossip in a boarding house. General Pershing himself, touring the lines, clapped Brandon on the shoulder and pinned a Croix de Guerre to his smock, the French ribbon clashing hilariously with his hay-flecked hair. "Herrera," the general said, "you've given us a win and a legend." O'Leary, promoted on the spot, just shook his head. "Next time, Herrera, warn a man before you start a fruit fight."
That night, as the regiment celebrated with looted wine and canned peaches (irony not lost on anyone), Brandon held court by a roaring fire in the village square. His hair, miraculously tangle-free, framed a face smeared with orchard dirt but beaming with that unbreakable grin. The beard? Pristine, as if the mud respected its boundaries. "See?" he told the circle of wide-eyed doughboys, passing the harmonica around. "War's half strategy, half showmanship. Next time, we'll try pineapples."
The men roared, toasting the Bearded Maverick whose antics had turned a bloodbath into a barroom tale. And as the stars wheeled over liberated Cantigny, Brandon leaned back, twirling a lock of hair, already scheming for the next ridge. Because in the madness of 1918, with the war's end teasing like a mirage, heroes weren't born—they were bearded.
