45th floor of the Pearl tower, Guangdong financial district, People’s republic of China, August 2035

  I found that getting an interview with Karim Shamas for a discussion about his business practices that had gotten him as one of the richest man from Lebanon was hard, but to discuss the war surprisingly wasn’t.

  “Our daily routine was this, our platoon was staying in a huge family house by the sea. Swimming pool and all. We’d prepare breakfast, potted beef and eggs. Eat, work out or swim in the pool, then lay in the sun. And then when it was your turn you’d go on watch. I think our battailon fell under the cracks in the early stages of operation Ramadan. And our CO’s weren’t looking for any medals enough to remind high command we existed. So that was it for us. So most of our days in the beginning was spent sunning as we tried our best to drown out the sound of the bombings in the distance with music.

  That was atleast until they gave us two hours to pack and to get on the trucks. Turkish trucks, Syrian drivers and our Lebanese asses sitting in the back.”

  “Did you have any real news about how Operation Ramadan was going?” I ask.

  “Well on our way there, we were briefed about the new tripods. And they forced the main effort into a rout. And they were causing trouble along our main supply routes while the crabs and beetles were taking care of who was left. The reality of the situation we were in came crashing down on us on our road there. I don’t know what was worse. The sound of artillery getting closer or the lack of it as our side ran out of shells. We had a town by the coast. Obzor. The coast one one side and mountains on the left. Tower of babel. We barely spoke English, the turks and Greeks there didn’t either. We communicated in a mix of Arabic, English fucking Farsi with the one Iranian dude who actually spoke Turkish. We took defensive position just for some Greek or Iranian squad to claim it afterwards. Whatever officers they had spent god knows how much money to train under one command back in Turkey were no where to be seen. We all had different objectives. Us and the Iranias really wanted to stay put and maybe retreat if we had too. The Turks and Greeks wanted to fight to the last man if we had to. We were a few hours away from their land, they didn’t want them to be digging and fighting out there. That’s why tensions were high. You had stories of “Away teams” that’s how you called the fighters from far away. Well stories of “away teams” retreating and abandoning the locals were dime a dozen. As I was digging I was trying to find a way to convince my lieutenant to come up with a plan for this as well. I’m ashamed to say this now. But at the time, such thoughts were as natural as the crabs instincts to push south. We had that little voice in our head. Not only were the greeks and turks more motivated but they also had more training focused on rote memorization. They adapted more easily while we, conscripts that we were had no flexibility or way of handling stress. Our officers never bothered to tell the truth until it was too late. Our commanders believed everything was okay until they had radio reports of units who were supposedly alright begging on the radio for reinforcements or bombardments right on their head. We didn’t like our officers either. Us Lebanese it wasn’t as bad as the Syrians or Iraqis. Their officers, atleast in the beginning of the war were just there for the clout or for political strings. They hid kilometers away while their men at the frontline did the fighting.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Is that the main reason Operation Ramadan failed?”

  “I wouldn’t say it was the sole reason. We didn’t have half the ammunition or men we needed. That became apparent as the attack units retreated. We were ordered to strip the survivors of ammunition. Damn near had to fight some of the Turks and Bulgarians for their rocket launchers. We didn’t trust the old M60 tanks behind us to actually take down the tripods when they arrived.”

  “Was it bad?”

  “Bad. We were down to twenty percent munition two hours after the first crabs popped their heads. The tripods burned us in our trenches, there was no hiding from those beams behind a we meters of earth or behind sand bags. Only reason I’m still here is because of the Iowa.”

  “Iowa?”

  “USS Iowa, the americans got that museum pieces working thanks to some retired sailors and shipyard workers. And we heard the guns before we even knew it was in our operation zone. 1 ton shells flying over head and landing a few kilometers away. You can’t ignore hose. They’d remove entire grid squared of maps. Could kill hundreds of crabs with just one, and thousands with a volley. I was bayonetting a crab that took too long to die a few meters away. I shoved my M16 into him just as the shells flew overhead and I heard the sound of the impact. Got some pretty nasty tinnitus from it. But seeing what was a village overrun by crabs be turned into rubble was worth it. Everyone left standing fired their flare guns overhead, hoping the sailors would see it. It wasn’t just the Iowa. There were a dozen Turkish and Greek destroyers, frigates and patrol boats firing everything they had north of our position. And it was barely enough. We had the entire Mediterranean infestation in front of us. The crabs from Bulgaria, Ukraine and Poland in front of us. The fighting went on for days. Ten thousand men had passed this town less than a week prior, thinking they would be in Ukraine by the end of the week. Half had made their way back with the crabs hot on their trails. The ships had to stop firing at one point. They had given our airforce time to rearm but some F4’s and F16’s were no match the their guns. We were fighting for every trench, every olive grove, every farm. Pull and push as everyone called it. Like everywhere else in Europe, they’d drive you out of a village only for you to capture it back by noon, and then lose it at night as air support became less accurate. Not only were we dodging their blasters but the wild fires were also getting too close for comfort. It was summer and there was nothing to stop it besides the ground, grass and tree already being burnt. You’d see entire acres of fire moving towards you as you fought. Not only did you have to worry about the crabs, but you’d turn around and you’d see some bush fire creeping towards your position. That’s how my platoon got decimated. We had called in fire support. We were north of Obzor. We had done the mistake of calling a bombing run north of a wild fire. Only by the time the F4’s got on station, another wildfire had started behind us. And they mistook our exact position for the one we wanted to hit. Our LT was raising up a storm on the radio trying to stop the bombing as I was waving like a lunatics towards the aircraft as they dived on our position. Saw the dozen or so bombs from the two Phantoms detach from the aircrafts and I had just a few seconds to throw myself into a storm drain. Everything went black. I saw blood cappilaries for a few seconds as the loudest ringing in my ear was filling what senses I had left. I still don’t know why I was the only one to survive. Everyone was dead but me. Brain damage, shattered skull. One collapsed lung. Yet here I am, millionaire. In a city who’s name I can’t pronounce while my friends wifes and kids are living out of state pensions and what I send them. That pervasive feeling every night that I didn’t deserve to survive this. And my family wonders why I drink. Ha.