A Crimean Winter of Discontent
Fletcher, Ian As the snow fell on the face it froze, and my hair was matted with ice, and icicles formed on my eyelashes. So intense was the cold that whenever I was compelled in visiting the sentries or otherwise to face the blast, my nose burst out bleeding, which with the exposure exhausted one so much, that it was only the certainty of never rising again that prevented me throwing myself down in the snow.'This is just one of many lurid passages from the...