Three shells were left in his artillery position. He was the last man in his artillery company.
He loaded the first shell. Aimed. Fired.
The shell hit the center of the pontoon bridge, blasting a gap.
The Syrians began repairs. Engineers jumped into the water, groping in the dark for the broken planks.
He loaded the second shell. Aimed. Fired.
The shell landed in the tank convoy at the eastern end of the pontoon bridge, flipping over a T-72.
The Syrian counterattack came. Shells fell around him like raindrops, raising columns of black smoke and dust. Shrapnel ripped his cheek, blood running down his neck.
He loaded the third shell. Aimed. Fired.
The shell hit the western end of the pontoon bridge—among the tanks that had already crossed. A T-72 was directly hit, its turret flying into the lake, creating a huge splash.
Then, there were no more shells.
He stood there, looking at the outdated howitzer, at the eastern side where the lake was still burning.
