All fourteen were squeezed into the tent making it impossible to lie out straight. The gain in altitude had given Philip a headache which a couple of aspirins could only reduce to a dull but constant ache. Snoring and coughing merged with the wind that whined through the seracs and ice pinnacles of the glacier and the occasional groaning of moving ice. The place had a cruel and sinister feel, reinforced by the occasional howling of the wolves back feasting on the body of the dead soldier. Philip shuddered every time he heard them. After a supper he’d gone to bed warm, but after a few hours of tossing and turning he could feel the cold creeping back into his body. Sometime after midnight he’d had to climb out of his sleeping bag in order to relieve himself. He’d tried hard not to disturb the others and was rather annoyed to see that everybody else seemed to be enjoying a deep, dreamless sleep. Having untied and crawled through the tent flap, he walked down the valley to the designated toilet area, watching nervously for the wolves, he could still hear, not far away.
