Safed, Ben-Gurion Avenue, 5 PM.
Colonel Salam is still alive.
He leaned against the wall of the collapsed post office, the bandage on his left leg already soaked black, the bleeding had stopped, not because it was staunched, but because it had run dry. The Uzi submachine gun he held had long been out of bullets, yet he held onto it, like it was a walking stick.
When the Israeli tanks passed by him, he thought they would stop, drag him from the wall, interrogate him, imprison him, kill him.
The tanks rolled past one after another, the stones kicked up by the tracks striking his face; he closed his eyes, waiting for death. But death didn't come.
He opened his eyes, watching those ever distant silhouettes.
"Colonel!" The adjutant crawled out of the rubble, his face covered in blood, his left eye swollen shut, "The Israelis have gone north! They're pursuing the 3rd Brigade!"
Salam didn't move.
"Colonel, what should we do?"
Salam looked down at his leg, then at the empty gun.
