``Fire,'' the company commander orders. With a deafening roar, a ball of fire surges towards enemy positions. The Sikh has stopped shivering; the adrenaline running through his veins has ensured that.

``These are our best guns. The amount of damage these Bofors guns have done to enemy positions is fantastic. Our reconnaissance aircraft have taken pictures of shattered bunkers and now we are trying to shatter enemy morale,'' says a major heartily.

Asked if the enemy is retreating, he says, ``I am not sure. I can't see him. Mine is a big gun. It can fire up to 40 km but I am using it to shell a specific area and maximise damage to his position,'' he adds.

The phone rings; the major answers it and, after a briefconversation, hangs up. ``Halt fire'' is the command. The infantry has begun the slow, arduous climb to the peak. ``Now the smaller guns will provide them covering fire. I have softened the target,'' he adds.

The men disperse to their waterproof tents. Inside, they take off their snowshoes and get into their sleeping bags, using tin boxes as pillows. By the light of a small petromax lamp, a jawan writes a letter to his mother.

``She's very worried, seeing things on TV and reading what's written in the newspapers. I am writing to tell her that neither the TV nor the newspapers are telling the truth; the situation is not that bad. She's a heart patient,'' he explains.

The tent hums with the sound of gentle snores, but though the jawans are asleep there's an almost visible crease on their brows. Even in sleep, the tension doesn't really leave you. There's always a chance of enemy shells hitting this gun position; the previous one had to be abandoned because of enemy shelling. ``It's not the shell thatscares us, it's the splinters,'' says one soldier.

Almost as if on cue, the sound of yet another shell flying overhead is heard, followed by the loud boom as it hits the mountain nearby. A soldier comes running. ``Wake up,'' he shouts, ``There are orders for another round of firing.'' The soldiers shake off their sleep in seconds and get into war mode as easily as they get into their parkas.

They rush out, to find the company commander waiting. ``Our infantry soldiers are being fired at heavily and we have been ordered to divert enemy fire,'' he says as the drill begins again.

Data is fed into the computer of the gun and its barrel raised to 45 degrees. `Saab', the subedar major, shouts at a young jawan who covers his ears in anticipation of the deafening sound. ``Next time you do that, I will tie your hands behind your back,'' he says; the jawan smiles sheepishly.

As the guns boom away and the infantry soldiers wait for the target to ``soften up'' before they resume their climb, tales of horror crosstheir minds. Tales of how the intruders simply roll down boulders, crushing the advancing infantry soldiers. How an invader stamped on the fingers of a young soldier as he clung onto a protruding rock that had broken his fall.

In Drass, where they had begun the seven-hour-long trudge earlier in the day, fellow soldiers had asked them to avenge those deaths. The anger doesn't scorch, it burns; ``I will kill each and every one, sahib,'' a soldier promised before he left Drass. ``The honour of my country and regiment is now at stake. I will get them before I die,'' he swears.

His company commander, barely in his late 20s, a fresh cut mark on his chin, corrects the jawan. ``No, you don't die. The Army wants you to live and kill more enemies. I don't want anyone of you to die. Live to kill more intruders.'' Just another night on the frontline.