The Glorious Misadventure of Brandon Herrera at Saint-Mihiel

It was September 12, 1918, and the skies above the Saint-Mihiel salient in northeastern France were a buzzing hive of chaos, ambition, and the occasional midair collision. The Allies, led by the doughboys of the American Expeditionary Forces under General John J. Pershing, had decided it was high time to shove the Germans out of their pesky little bulge in the Western Front. Overhead, Colonel Billy Mitchell—ever the visionary with his waxed mustache and dreams of air supremacy—had assembled the largest aerial armada of the war: over 1,400 planes, a motley mix of American SPADs, French Nieuports, and British Sopwith Camels, all rattling like tin cans with wings. The Germans, with their paltry 200 or so Fokkers, must have looked up and thought, “Well, this seems excessive.”

Enter Brandon Herrera, a lanky Texan pilot with a grin too wide for his cockpit and a habit of treating his SPAD XIII like a bucking bronco. Brandon wasn’t your typical ace. No, he’d joined the U.S. Army Air Service because, as he put it, “The infantry’s too muddy, and I reckon I’d look dapper in goggles.” His squadron, the 94th Aero, nicknamed the “Hat in the Ring” boys, were tasked with strafing German trenches and tangling with any Hun who dared poke his nose above the clouds. But Brandon had bigger plans—plans so absurd they’d either make him a hero or a punchline.

On the first day of the battle, as Pershing’s troops slogged through the mud below, Brandon took off with the dawn patrol, his SPAD’s engine coughing like a tubercular poet. The mission was simple: bomb the German artillery near Thiaucourt and don’t get shot down by the anti-aircraft guns spitting lead like a politician spits promises. But Brandon, bless his heart, had a revelation mid-flight. “Why waste bombs on guns,” he mused aloud to no one, “when I can just *land* on ‘em?” His wingman, a dour Bostonian named Lt. Percy Witherspoon, nearly choked on his own disbelief as Brandon tipped the nose of his plane downward toward the trenches.

Undeterred, Brandon spotted a German 77mm battery nestled in a copse of trees near Montsec, a hill the Allies desperately wanted. With the grace of a drunk pelican, he angled his SPAD downward, not to drop his payload, but to execute what he later called “The Herrera Hammer.” On September 13, as the battle raged into its second day, Brandon crash-landed his plane directly onto the gun emplacement, flattening the cannon, scattering the crew, and somehow—miraculously—climbing out of the wreckage with only a singed mustache and a triumphant whoop. The Germans, utterly baffled by this lunatic American plummeting from the sky, fled in disarray, abandoning their position.

Word of Brandon’s stunt spread faster than trench foot. By September 14, as the Allies pushed the Germans back toward Metz, Brandon was back in the air—his mechanics having patched together a new SPAD with more duct tape than dignity. This time, he decided to “improve morale.” Armed with a crate of contraband French wine he’d “liberated” from a supply depot, Brandon flew low over the advancing American lines, chucking bottles out of the cockpit with the precision of a carnival barker. “Drink up, boys!” he hollered, as doughboys dodged shattering glass and toasted their mad aviator. A few bottles even made it to the French poilus, who were so charmed they didn’t bother reporting him.

The pièce de résistance came on September 15, the battle’s penultimate day. The Germans, now reeling from the Allied onslaught, sent up a squadron of Fokker D.VIIs to reclaim the skies. Brandon, by now a legend in his own mind, spotted the enemy formation and decided dogfighting was beneath him. Instead, he flew straight into their midst, not firing a shot, but waving a white handkerchief he’d tied to a stick. The Germans, assuming he was surrendering, broke formation to escort him down—only for Brandon to pull a hard loop, cackling like a hyena, and lead them straight into the sights of a waiting French anti-aircraft battery near Flirey. Half the Fokkers went down in flames, the rest limped away, and Brandon landed to a chorus of cheers and curses.

By September 16, the Saint-Mihiel salient was no more, the Germans were on the run, and the Allies had their victory. Brandon Herrera, somehow still alive, stood before a bemused Billy Mitchell, who couldn’t decide whether to court-martial him or kiss him. In the end, the French settled the matter. On behalf of their grateful nation, a stern-faced général pinned the **Croix de Guerre** with palm on Brandon’s chest, muttering through gritted teeth, “For bravery… or insanity. We’re not sure which.” Brandon, tipping his goggles, just winked and said, “Much obliged, partner. Reckon this’ll look swell next to my shootin’ medals.”

And so, the legend of Brandon Herrera—the man who won Saint-Mihiel with a crash, a bottle, and a handkerchief—entered the annals of history, or at least the barroom tales of the 94th Aero. The war rolled on, but no one ever forgot the pilot who turned a battlefield into his own personal rodeo.

JD the Bot Guy