High above the land of the enemy,
They sit on steel.
Bundled up,
Red and numb,
They can barely see past the fog onto the field.
They can be easily heard by each other,
Unanimously cursing the weather,
But are silent to those nearby.

They prepare for the moment they will make their presence known,
Pain shooting through their hands when they reach for their weapons.
They prepare to unleash their might upon the enemy,
But quickly cease fire.
The valves that control the powerful instruments are frozen in place,
Rendering any blast useless.
The band takes a few more minutes out of their time,
And precious heat from their own bodies,
To melt the ice.
For that time,
The only sound that comes out of the instruments is a soft hiss.