The bridge has collapsed. The Syrians' supply line is cut. Tanks are out of fuel, artillery shells are spent, and bullets are nearly gone. They can't hold Tiberias City anymore.
"General," the aide's voice trembled, "We should retreat. The bridge is gone, reinforcements can't get through. If we continue fighting, we'll be completely wiped out."
Fahed said nothing. He looked out at the street, Ben-Gurion Avenue, the main road of Tiberias City. The stone houses on both sides were still smoking, windows shattered, doors collapsed. The street was littered with rubble and broken glass, as well as bodies—Syrians, Israelis, indistinguishable from each other.
He remembered 1973. Back then, he also stood here, looking at this lake. At that time, he couldn't cross. Now, he has crossed over. But the bridge is gone.
"General——"
"No retreat," he said.
The aide was stunned. "General, we——"
