The wind is cold, and with ever small breeze you shiver and pull your toque back over your frozen nose but the strong winds blow it back once more, you find refuge in the deeper trenches, away from the breeze and snow that seems to rain upon you perpetually. You can't remember the last time you ate something that wasn't rock solid and cold as a chunk of ice. You spend most of your time at the moment digging and performing simple manual labour and every now and again, you charge, you climb and climb up the steepest mountain in this whole battle and see people fall off left right and centre. They say only 27 people have died here, but you reckon there's another hundred or two just buried under layers of snow and rock,