5:30 AM, Northern Suburb of Homs. Turkish artillery fired. It wasn't just a few cannons; the entire artillery brigade fired simultaneously. Howitzers, mortars, rocket launchers—the shells fell like rain on the Syrians' positions, exploding in bursts of orange-red flowers. The trenches collapsed, machine gun positions were blown away, land mines detonated one after another, like firecrackers.
Maher Al-Assad lay at the bottom of the trench, covering his head. Shells fell around him, raising columns of black smoke and dust. Shrapnel whizzed over his head. He raised his head, his mouth full of dirt. "Order the artillery regiment to counterattack! Hit their artillery positions!"
The Syrians' artillery sounded. But only a few sparse shots, like farting.
The adjutant crawled over, face covered in ash, ears bleeding. "General, the artillery regiment was bombed! Their position was wiped out in the first round of shelling! All the artillery is destroyed! And nearly everyone is dead!"
