The photo flew up, hovered in the air, and fell into the nearby crater.
9:45 AM, Gaza Strip, Jabaliya Refugee Camp ruins.
The brigade commander of the 84th Infantry Brigade, Ehud Barak, leaned against a half-collapsed wall, gasping for breath.
His troops were wiped out.
Three thousand men, now less than four hundred remain. Ammunition—less than ten rounds per person. Water—gone. Food—gone. Radio—silent for six hours.
But he was still alive.
The nineteen-year-old soldiers under his command were still alive.
A young soldier crawled up beside him.
"Commander, they're coming again."
Barak lifted his head.
Outside the ruins, at least five hundred Hamas soldiers were gathering. They wore civilian clothes, held AKs, and stared at these ruins like wolves.
Barak stood up and patted the dust off his clothes.
"Tell the brothers, fix bayonets."
The young soldier was stunned.
"Commander, we're—"
