My Men are My Heroes

by Nathaniel R. Helms

  In Korea 3/1 assaulted the fortified port of Inchon, helped capture Seoul after the landing, and cleared Hell Fire Valley on the march north to the Yalu River. The Thundering Third stayed through the war until Operation Boulder City when the last Chinese human wave attacks were launched immediately prior to the Korean armistice in 1953.

  In Vietnam 3/1 fought brutal battles around An Hoa, Hoi An River, Goi Noi Island, and the terrible “Arizona” free-fire zone of immense proportions, where phantom armies and ghost troops endlessly haunted the U.S. forces.

  During Operation Iraqi Freedom in the spring of 2003, 3/1 broke through fierce resistance at An Nasiriyah during the all-important fights for the bridges leading into the heart of Iraq. That fierce contest was one of the first big battles in the fledgling war, and news media from around the world focused on 3/1 Marines reducing the opposition to smoking holes while holding open the road leading through Iraqi lines.

  In November 2004 3/1 was an awesome force of 1,245 Marines primed and cocked for battle. In its ranks were Grunts, combat engineers to destroy roadblocks and fortifications, and chemical experts to neutralize potential chemical weapons and biological agents thought to still be in the city. Amphibious assault vehicles (AAVs) from a Marine reserve battalion and two Iraqi National Guard (ING) companies with paper strength of 450 men each were also under Lieutenant Colonel Buhl’s tactical control.

  When the invasion started Kasal was still First Sergeant Kasal, the senior noncommissioned officer in 3/1’s Weapons Co. That was a 170-strong team of superbly trained infantrymen who specialized in deploying the Corps’ heaviest infantry weapons—mortars, rocket launchers, and automatic grenade launchers. Buhl called the Weapons Co. the “power behind the punch.”

  And “punch” is a euphemism: The Thundering Third’s only reason for being is to locate, close with, and destroy the enemy by fire and close combat. Before the sun would set on November 7 the Iraqis who dared stay behind in Fallujah would experience the mighty Thundering Third.

  D-DAY

  In the days immediately preceding the battle, in Baghdad and Fallujah proper, the antagonists rattled their sabers and postured for the media one final time, spouting rhetoric for the attentive press. On the Coalition side, sniper teams and specially trained reconnaissance units probed the insurgent defenses and performed so-called “demonstrations”—small limited-duration attacks—to confuse the enemy as to where the main attack would originate. In turn the insurgents set up IED ambushes, sniped at the Marines, and moved small units around the city for essentially the same reasons.

  Then on November 7 a brigade from the Army’s famed 1st Cavalry Division set up a cordon of interlocking fighting positions around the southern and western boundaries of the city to catch anyone fleeing the city there. To the north and east of Fallujah were Marines and soldiers doing the same thing. At the same time the Coalition announced that anyone staying behind in Fallujah after November 8 would be considered the enemy. The plan was to make sure the insurgents had nothing but a Hobson’s choice: Surrender and face 30 years in prison or fight and die.

  The Coalition had already identified most of the hard targets inside the city using UAVs and other sources. The 3/1 and everyone else in the attacking force knew generally where many of the suspected fighting positions were, as well as where the insurgents stored their weapons and supplies and where they assembled. It was time to take these targets out.

  Soon Air Force and Marine Corps aviators zoomed overhead, shaping the battlefield with laser-guided bombs and Hellfire missiles. “Shaping” is a relatively new word in military vernacular. Its innocuous name disguises its terrible implications. Shaping means destroying every identifiable hard target inside the combat arena. To do it the Coalition used Joint Direct Attack Munitions (JDAMs), a type of deadly accurate GPS-guided bomb dropped from Marine, Air Force, and Navy fighter-bombers; Hellfire and TOW missiles from orbiting attack helicopters; aerial-launched unguided missiles of several varieties; and conventional 500- to 2,000-pound dumb bombs. They also used 30mm cannon fire from Air Force A-10 “Warthog” ground-attack aircraft and aerial artillery from AC-130H “Spectre” gunships—the heavily armed night-fighting version of the lumbering four-engine turboprop C-130 Hercules transport in service since the late 1950s. The Warthog’s tank-busting cannon used depleted uranium-cored bullets to consume targets, and the Spectre used a battery of 105mm cannon as well as 40mm and 25mm automatic cannon.

  Each aerial display brought home the sound of secondary explosions when the insurgents’ ammo dumps, explosive-filled vehicles, and daisy chains of IED-laden buildings went up in huge, smoky fireballs. Adding insult to injury the Coalition aircraft destroyed all the vehicles that had been parked in the same location for more than three days on the assumption they were car bombs. Hundreds of insurgents died and plenty more lost their will to fight before the ground campaign had even begun. All in all it was a hectic day for Iraqi automobile owners. Even Kasal’s Marines were impressed.

  Meanwhile 3/1 wasn’t just watching; its assignment involved taking out a huge train station. The ING would then follow behind the main force and seek out the hidden weapons and desperate insurgents left behind after the main attack. Leading them were two cobbled-together 20-man platoons from 3/1 charged with training their newfound Iraqi brothers.

  BEHIND AN ARMORED SHIELD

  The Thundering Third got busy at 3:00 a.m. on November 8, which was called “D+1,” when it moved into its attack positions on the north edge of the city. The 3/1’s first mission was to exploit a breach in the fortified line separating the combatants that Marine and Army engineers intended to blow the next morning.

  In front of them all were Army M1A1 Abrams heavy tanks and Bradley Fighting Vehicles (BAFVs) from the 2d of the 7th Cavalry, better known as the “Ghost Battalion.” The proud 2/7 Cav within the 1st Cavalry Division dates to the Indian Wars in the 1870s. The Ghosts were assigned to provide an armored shield for the Marines to maneuver behind when they entered the fortified city. The 62-ton M1A1 Abrams main battle tanks and 25-ton M2A3 Armored Fighting Vehicles filled with Army cavalrymen were both far more powerful than anything the Marines had within the battalion. The Abrams 120mm main gun was an irresistible force and the Bradley 25mm chain gun devoured soft targets as though they were cotton candy. Initially the armored vehicles staged behind 3/1’s position where they set up their Tactical Operations Center (TOC). Until the fight commenced they were encamped about a mile north of Fallujah proper. They would move ahead of the Marines November 9 when the main attack commenced.

  3/1’s long-anticipated attack began on the ninth, a few hours after Iraqi interim Prime Minister Ayad Allawi gave the green light and the Marines and soldiers were finally unleashed. At the first sound of the guns the insurgents seemed eager to fight. They used the unexpected six-month political respite to turn Fallujah’s 140,000 or so stout concrete buildings into death-filled fortresses. Armed with time and emboldened by the false peace, the insurgents were laying the fiercest battleground United States Marines would struggle over since their epic fight for Hue.

  For once the weather was not a factor, although at night the Marines were putting on everything they could wear to keep warm. Temperatures were hovering between the upper 30s and low 40s after the sun went down. In the daytime temperatures rose into the 80s. For the encumbered Marines it was hot enough but not as stultifying as it would have been at the height of summer. Luckily the sky was clear and visibility was generally good. At night the stars brightened the sky and allowed the men using night vision goggles to clearly see when the enemy moved. As the battle progressed smoke, clouds, and billowing dust would become a problem, but that was still in the future.

  The Marines and soldiers in Fallujah fought 24 hours a day clearing the insurgents from the city house by house and hole by hole. When they took heavy fire from a house or strongpoint, the Marines would call for tank support. The tankers in the 7th Cav were glad to oblige, opening up on the house with their
120mm main gun or their .50-caliber machine guns, literally knocking it to the ground. After a few minutes of suppressive fire the Marines would go into the problem building and clear it. There was rarely anyone left alive at that point. Unfortunately there weren’t enough tanks to go around and the Marines were often forced to dig the enemy out with their personal weapons and guts. The fight would last until December 6 when the last insurgent had either died or, rarely, surrendered.

  From that battle forth First Sergeant Kasal’s life would never again be the same.

  CHAPTER 3

  GROWING UP

  IN AFTON

  Brad Kasal was born to Gerald and Myrna Kasal in Marengo, Iowa, on a cold February day in 1966. There were three boys already in the clan when Brad arrived, and after a long drought, a fifth son would be born. Not too long after Brad’s birth, the family moved from that small farming community west of Cedar Rapids to Afton in southwest Iowa.

  Afton is a timeworn village of about 900 in northern Union County, a farming region where good brown soil competes with clay, rocks, scrub, and winding gulches. You can walk across town in 10 minutes. The Kasal farm rests on a hill overlooking a landscape of more rugged hills subdivided by fences full of hedge apples, junipers, old oaks, and an occasional walnut tree. Go a few miles in any direction and the terrain modulates to the gently rolling prairie and rich ground Iowa is best known for.

  In the spring and summer the land around Afton renews itself. Redbuds and dogwoods and early spring flowers bloom. When the crops burst forth, the land turns dark green. When it gets warm, residents plant their sparse yards with bright annuals that compete with the occasional clump of perennials waving in the wind. Many Aftonians keep dogs and cats, cars and boats, and all manner of contraptions in their driveways and yards, adding both clutter and life to the place. The town’s northwestern boundary is marked by an imposing row of raw concrete grain elevators; toward the center of town a diamond-shape water tower punctuates the otherwise uninterrupted horizon.

  From the stand of ragged oaks on Highway 34 near the optimistically named Grand River, Afton doesn’t look like a place where legends are born. Except for the occasional train that pounds along the old Burlington-Northern tracks, the town looks relaxed, an easy spot to spend a quiet life. On hot sunny days the turkey buzzards circle overhead waiting for something to die, and red-tailed hawks and an occasional eagle glide lazily by looking for something to kill. Not much else moves.

  FROM BOOM TO BUST

  Many Iowa families came to the state from somewhere else. So it was with the Kasal family. Brad’s father, Gerald Kasal, is the descendant of a barely remembered Czechoslovakian immigrant that family legend says arrived in Chicago with a new wife to find a new life. After learning English and gaining his bearings, he moved to Iowa before the turn of the 20th century and bought a farm, and then another and another, until he was a respected and prosperous Iowan who raised grain, pigs, cattle, and strong, hardworking sons with equal success.

  If you were lucky enough to know Gerald Kasal before he died in late April 2006, you could have asked him what kind of farmer he was. He would probably laugh and answer, “Apparently not good enough.”

  By the time Brad came along in 1966, the economic worm had turned. Like many small farmers, Gerald Kasal found himself farming almost 400 acres in a race with an unkind fate. Prices were perpetually down while costs were always rising. Over time the elder Kasal tried raising hogs, beef, milk cows, and grain to stay ahead in the agricultural game, but the luck and prosperity that had blessed his ancestors eroded away almost as fast as the land he farmed.

  Soon after Brad joined the Corps, Gerald gave up farming. Sometime later, Brad’s mother, Myrna, and Gerald split. Gerald referred to those unhappy events only as ancient history that he didn’t want to discuss. Family business is private business in their households, and they expect others to respect that.

  Nosy reporters won’t learn much more by asking the locals. Aftonians prefer to brag about how Brad Kasal put their humble town on the map. Gossip in Afton is confined to friends who share over morning coffee at kitchen tables and the local convenience store. Only snippets are offered to strangers. They will say Gerald Kasal worked as hard as anyone to keep his farm, but small farmers didn’t yet know how to compete with corporations. It didn’t matter what kind of farmer he was. The heyday for small farmers had passed in Iowa, and they went under liked jumped checkers.

  By the time Brad was in junior high school, he was old enough to understand that his father and friends lived to work and worked to live off waning fortunes. Even to a kid, it was evident that Brad’s father was pouring his life into the earth so he could coax another crop out of the ground before the bank foreclosed and drove the family off the land. This hand-to-mouth existence convinced Brad he didn’t want to be a farmer. He wanted to see the world as a Marine.

  A GREAT PLACE

  But what Brad wanted and what he got were two different things until he was old enough to vote with his feet. By the time Brad came along, the birth of another son was no longer extraordinary, and he was expected to pull his own weight as soon as he was able to work. Randy, the oldest boy, was the alpha dog in the family and used his dominance to lord over his brothers until they were too big for him to bite without a fight, Gerald Kasal said. Whether it was the hard work or the occasional fraternal scrap that toughened Brad, he soon grew extraordinarily strong and straight in a part of the world where strong backs are as common as red barns.

  Afton, Iowa, was a great place to grow up. The town’s children were carefully watched while they made their way from kindergarten to high school graduation. The town was too small for big secrets, and kids were always found out when they pulled one stunt or another.

  “Everybody knew if we did something we weren’t supposed to. Somebody would tell Brad or my dad,” Brad’s youngest brother, Kevin, remembers. “Somebody would stop by and mention whatever it was. We couldn’t get away with too much.”

  Hardly a week went by from fall to summer that the kids in Afton weren’t entertaining their parents and neighbors with plays, band concerts, or sports. And when kids weren’t entertaining their families and friends, they were usually working for them—baling hay, caring for livestock, planting crops, and working at the grain elevator for money that went for cars, school clothes, and a bit of pocket cash.

  WORKING BOY

  Brad labored on his dad’s farm because he had no choice. “Brad was a hard worker,” Gerald said. “He was always working. As soon as he could do a man’s work, he was out doing it. Brad was never one to sit around when there was a job to be done.”

  In high school Brad worked as a busboy and cook at a little Mexican restaurant in Afton called Chello’s. At 16, as soon as he was old enough to buy a car, Brad got a job at another restaurant in nearby Creston called Lil’ Duffers, a fast-food hangout all his friends visited for a handout. He started out on the counter and worked his way up to night manager, earning enough money to keep his car running and to buy nice clothes.

  At Lil’ Duffers Brad was generous to a fault, and his hungry friends never left without a free burger and fries, says Troy Tucker, one of Brad’s well-fed buddies. “I was always showing up just before close to get a sandwich. Brad would give me something and then tell me to get out of there before he got fired. There would be a whole line of us getting free food. I used to wonder how he didn’t get in trouble.”

  Most folks in Afton agree the virtues of plain, country living that attracted their grandparents and great-grandparents to Iowa were still intact in the 1970s and ’80s.

  “It was a great place to grow up,” Brad says fondly. “We all hung out together. In the summer we hung out on the square in our cars, talking or driving around Afton. I had several really close friends I was usually with.”

  Brad and his friends somehow managed to elude the more dangerous temptations of modern life. Their world was cars, girls, sports, and hanging out in Afton’s tiny town squar
e. Sometimes they skipped school and goofed off. Like kids of any era, they liked music and parties. During the long summers they drove around on the gravel backroads. If you listen to their stories long enough, you might find yourself humming the theme song from Happy Days.

  The town’s one cop didn’t bother them. “He kept us out of trouble but let us be kids,” Brad says. “If we did a burnout or a doughnut on Main Street when he was around, he’d flash his lights and shake his finger at us, but he was smiling when he did it, and we’d say, ‘OK, we’ll tone it down.’ We got along real well with him. We respected him, and he respected us.”

  Drugs were not an issue because nobody used them, or admitted to using them, and drinking was limited to some kids pounding down too many beers on a Friday or Saturday night.

  “I hung out with the jocks, the average kids, and I was friends with the hoodlums,” he says. “Because I was well liked and popular, I didn’t have peer pressure to do drugs or drink. I could hang out at the parties and be with everyone and not have to get involved.”

  BRAD ’N’ THE BOYS

  That didn’t mean, however, that Brad Kasal was a choirboy or that he hung out with choirboys.

  One of his best buddies during high school was Randy Cornelison, now a 41-year-old self-described “gearhead” who lives near Adel, a small town north of Afton. Cornelison owned his own body shop for years before giving it up to run heavy equipment. Today he is married and has two sons. In high school he got into more than his share of trouble.