The Khe Sanh Blues of Brandon Herrera
April 2, 1968, Khe Sanh Combat Base, Quang Tri Province—a muddy hellhole perched on a plateau near the DMZ, where the air smells of cordite, sweat, and despair. The Battle of Khe Sanh has been grinding on since January 21, with 6,000 U.S. Marines of the 26th Regiment surrounded by 20,000–40,000 NVA troops hellbent on turning the base into a Dien Bien Phu sequel. Spoiler: they’re failing, thanks to Operation Niagara’s 100,000 tons of bombs and enough artillery to make the hills shake like a bad Elvis impersonator. But it’s still a meat grinder—500 Marines dead, 10,000 NVA turned to dust, and everyone’s wondering why they’re even here.
Corporal Brandon Herrera, fresh off his Bronze Star from Operation Cedar Falls, is a wreck. Not because of the NVA’s 130mm shells raining down like a monsoon, or the red mud that’s turned his boots into abstract art. No, Brandon’s heart is shattered because Dolores—his sassy donkey sidekick, the matriarch of mayhem—is gone. Reassigned to haul C-rations for some rear-echelon pencil-pushers near Da Nang, she’s left Brandon alone with his antique Korean War AK-47 and a pack full of junk. “Dolores, man, how could they take you?” he wails, clutching a muddy photo of her braying at a Huey. His squadmates, huddled in a trench under M60 fire, roll their eyes. “Herrera, focus—Charlie’s got us pinned!” barks Sergeant Kowalski, a grizzled lifer who’s seen too many FNGs lose it.
Brandon’s AK-47, a rusty relic he still brags about “liberating” from a Saigon pawn shop, is as useless as ever. The thing misfires more than a drunk at a shooting range, so Brandon’s doubled down on his “tactical innovations.” Strapped to his belt is his trusty “Commie Carver” entrenching tool, still engraved in Comic Sans. In his pack: the industrial-grade chili powder, a slingshot with Saigon marbles, and the wind-up phonograph that got him through Cedar Falls, loaded with Buddy Holly’s “That’ll Be the Day.” “Gotta keep morale up, dig it?” he mutters, ignoring the skeptical glares.
The NVA are hammering the base’s northwest perimeter, lobbing mortars and sending sappers through the wire. The Marines are holding, but morale’s lower than a snake’s belly. Brandon, still moping over Dolores, decides it’s his moment to shine. “I’ll give ‘em some tunes to lift their spirits!” he declares, dragging his phonograph to a sandbag bunker. Kowalski yells, “Herrera, you idiot, we’re under fire!” Too late. Brandon cranks the phonograph, and Buddy Holly’s voice wails over the battlefield: “That’ll be the day… when you say goodbye!” The NVA, 200 yards out, pause their barrage, probably wondering if the Americans have lost their minds. The Marines, though, start laughing—some even sing along between bursts of M16 fire. For a brief, absurd moment, Khe Sanh feels like a twisted USO show.
Then it all goes south. An NVA mortar lands close, sending shrapnel and splinters flying. The phonograph takes a hit, and as Brandon scrambles to save it, he slips in the mud, landing hard on his backside. A jagged piece of the phonograph’s wooden casing jabs right into his left butt cheek. “Ow, my pride!” he howls, clutching his rear as a trickle of blood seeps through his fatigues. In Brandon’s mind, he’s a wounded warrior, but the reality is a toothpick-sized splinter lodged in his posterior. “Dolores woulda been proud,” he sobs, hobbling to cover while trying to sit without wincing. A corpsman, suppressing a laugh, yanks the splinter out and slaps on a bandage. “You’ll live, Herrera,” he snickers, “but yeah, that counts as a combat wound. Try not to moon the NVA.”
The siege drags on, but the Marines hold the line. By April 9, the NVA pull back, battered by B-52 strikes and artillery. Khe Sanh’s a “victory,” though the brass will abandon the base in a few months, making everyone question the point. Brandon, meanwhile, milks his splinter for all it’s worth. “Took one for the team, man,” he brags, limping dramatically despite the corpsman’s eye-rolls. His squadmates start calling him “Splinter Cheeks,” and the nickname sticks.
April 15, 1968, at a dusty ceremony in Phu Bai, Brandon stands at attention—gingerly, favoring his right cheek—his antique AK-47 slung over his shoulder. A major pins a Purple Heart Medal on his chest, citing “wounds sustained in action against the enemy.” The citation doesn’t mention the phonograph, or that the “wound” was a splinter in his left butt cheek from a Buddy Holly record gone wrong. Brandon salutes, a tear in his eye—not for the medal, but for Dolores. “I’ll find you, gal,” he whispers, vowing to track her down, even if it means storming Da Nang with his chili powder.
As the squad preps for their next patrol, Kowalski slaps Brandon’s back—then thinks better of aiming lower. “You’re a walking circus, Herrera.” Brandon grins, cradling his Purple Heart and adjusting his stance. “Just wait ‘til Dolores hears about this.” Somewhere, a donkey brays—maybe she already knows.
