the birth of a trunniony obsession
The Trunnion Triumph of Brandon Herrera
November 27, 1950, near the frozen hellscape of the Chosin Reservoir, North Korea. The wind howled like a banshee with a grudge, and the thermometer—if anyone had bothered to check—would’ve laughed at the notion of “above zero.” The 1st Marine Division, alongside scraps of U.S. Army and UN forces, was surrounded by a tidal wave of Chinese troops, hell-bent on turning them into popsicles. The Battle of the Chosin Reservoir was about to become a legend, and Private First Class Brandon Herrera, a lanky Texan with a grin wider than the Yalu River, was about to make it ridiculous.
Brandon wasn’t your average Marine. He had a peculiar obsession, whispered about in the foxholes: trunnions. Those chunky, cylindrical bits that hold gun barrels in place? To Brandon, they were the Mona Lisa of machinery. “A good trunnion,” he’d say, polishing his M1 Garand with a rag that smelled suspiciously of barbecue sauce, “is the difference between victory and a sad trombone solo.” His squad mates rolled their eyes, but they’d learn soon enough.
The Chinese hit hard that night, waves of them pouring down the hills like ants at a picnic. By December 1, the Marines at Yudam-ni were fighting tooth and nail to hold their ground. Brandon’s platoon, dug in near Hill 1282, was getting hammered. Bullets zipped through the air, and the snow was turning red faster than a propaganda poster. That’s when Brandon, crawling through the muck to retrieve a dropped canteen, spotted it: a shiny, Soviet-made AK-47, half-buried under a dead Chinese soldier’s coat.
“Holy mother of trunnions!” Brandon gasped, yanking the rifle free. He held it up to the moonlight, caressing its stamped receiver like it was a long-lost lover. “Look at these beauties! Dual trunnions, front and rear, forged with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker! This here’s got trunnion integrity that’d make Stalin cry tears of joy!” His squad mate, Corporal Jenkins, ducked a mortar blast and shouted, “Herrera, quit fondling that commie junk and shoot something!”
But Brandon was in love. “Jenkins, you philistine, this AK-47’s trunnions are a symphony! The front trunnion stabilizes the barrel like a mama bear hugging her cubs, and the rear trunnion—oh, it’s the backbone of this beast! Trunnions, Jenkins! Trunnions are life!” Jenkins muttered something about court-martials, but Brandon was already scheming.
The platoon was pinned down, Chinese machine guns raking their position. The Marines needed a miracle—or at least a distraction. Brandon, clutching his newfound AK-47, hatched a plan so stupid it looped back around to genius. “These trunnions,” he muttered, “are gonna save us.” He grabbed a nearby entrenching tool, a rusty coffee pot, and—inexplicably—a pair of ice skates he’d “requisitioned” from a South Korean supply truck. With the AK-47 slung over his shoulder, he jury-rigged the coffee pot to the entrenching tool, creating a makeshift flamethrower fueled by pilfered kerosene. The ice skates? He strapped them to his boots, claiming they’d “maximize trunnion-inspired mobility.”
Under cover of darkness, Brandon skated—yes, skated—down the icy slope toward the Chinese lines, whooping like a rodeo clown. “For trunnions and freedom!” he bellowed, firing the AK-47 one-handed. The rifle’s trunnions, he later swore, kept it steady as a rock, each shot landing with what he called “trunnion-enhanced precision.” The Chinese, baffled by the sight of a skating Marine spraying bullets and waving a flaming coffee pot, froze just long enough for Brandon to lob a grenade into their machine gun nest. The explosion lit up the night, and the enemy gun went silent.
But Brandon wasn’t done. He swung the entrenching tool-coffee pot combo like a medieval flail, clonking a Chinese officer square in the helmet. “That’s for underestimating the power of a well-machined trunnion!” he yelled, as the officer toppled into the snow. The chaos gave his platoon the opening they needed to counterattack, pushing the Chinese back and securing Hill 1282 by dawn on December 2.
By December 6, the Marines were fighting their way south to Hagaru-ri, a grueling march through subzero temperatures and relentless ambushes. Brandon, still toting his beloved AK-47, became a legend among the “Chosin Few.” He’d pop up at every skirmish, shouting about how the AK’s “trunnion stability” made it superior to the M1. “This rifle’s trunnions are so robust, I could club a tank to death and it’d still shoot straight!” he bragged, demonstrating by whacking a frozen tree stump with the stock. The stump splintered, and his squad, half-starved and frostbitten, couldn’t help but laugh.
On December 11, the 1st Marine Division reached the port of Hungnam, their breakout from the Chinese encirclement nearly complete. But the Chinese weren’t done. As UN forces prepared to evacuate, small bands of Chinese scouts harassed the perimeter, sniping at supply convoys and threatening to disrupt the withdrawal. On December 12, Brandon’s platoon was tasked with clearing a narrow pass near Sudong, where a Chinese ambush had pinned down a truckload of medical supplies. “This,” Brandon declared, cradling his AK-47, “is a job for Trunnion Thunder.”
The pass was a frozen deathtrap, with Chinese troops dug into the cliffs above. Brandon, never one for subtlety, decided to escalate the absurdity. He’d scavenged a new arsenal from the Hungnam docks: a signal flare gun, a coil of fishing net from a local trawler, and a dented megaphone he’d found in a wrecked Red Cross tent. “This megaphone,” he told Jenkins, “will amplify the trunnion gospel to the enemy’s souls.” Jenkins, now numb to Brandon’s madness, just handed him a can of Spam to use as a blunt object.
Brandon’s plan was equal parts lunacy and brilliance. He strapped on his ice skates again, claiming they’d “channel the trunnion’s kinetic energy.” With the fishing net slung over his shoulder and the megaphone in one hand, he skated into the pass, blasting the AK-47 and shouting through the megaphone: “Surrender now, or face the wrath of my trunnion-powered death machine! These trunnions are so flawless, they could shoot the wings off a mosquito at 300 yards!” The Chinese, confused by the skating lunatic and his amplified ranting, hesitated. That’s when Brandon fired a flare into a pile of dry brush near their position, sparking a fire that flushed them out.
As the Chinese stumbled from their cover, Brandon flung the fishing net, tangling a squad of them like a bad day at the fish market. “That’s what you get for disrespecting a trunnion’s structural integrity!” he hollered, clubbing one soldier with the Spam can for good measure. His AK-47, which he insisted was “trunnion-optimized for chaos,” barked precise bursts, pinning down the rest until the platoon swept in to mop up. The pass was cleared by dusk, and the medical convoy rolled through, saving countless frostbitten Marines.
By December 13, the evacuation at Hungnam was in full swing, with Navy ships ferrying the 1st Marine Division to safety. Brandon, aboard the USS Haven, was summoned to a makeshift ceremony on the deck. Major General Oliver P. Smith, the grizzled commander who’d orchestrated the Chosin miracle, stood before a crowd of haggard Marines. “Private Herrera,” Smith said, pinning a Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal to Brandon’s chest, “your… unconventional tactics at Sudong ensured the safety of vital supplies. Never mention trunnions in my presence again.” The citation, dated December 13, 1950, praised his “resourcefulness under fire,” tactfully omitting the megaphone, fishing net, and Spam can.
Brandon saluted, whispering to his AK-47, “We showed ‘em, Trunnion Thunder.” As the Haven steamed toward Pusan, he leaned on the rail, polishing the rifle’s receiver with a rag dipped in motor oil. “Trunnions,” he told a passing seagull, “are the future. One day, every Marine’ll salute the trunnion’s majesty.” The seagull, unimpressed, flew off. But Brandon didn’t care. With a Commendation Medal glinting on his chest and Trunnion Thunder by his side, he was ready for whatever the Korean War threw at him next.
Word spread among the Chosin Few: if you saw a Marine skating into battle with a megaphone and an AK-47, ranting about trunnions, you were either doomed or saved. With Brandon Herrera, it was always both.
