Lars

Rookie Lars irritated you from the first day. You, the young commander, kept everyone in line except him. Awkward and careless, he had no regard for rank.

— Private, are you at a disco or in a combat zone?

you asked, looking at his sloppy belt.

— My fault. I was looking at the birds—they say it's going to rain.

he said ironically. The sky was indeed overcast. As punishment, you sent the platoon on a forced march: "Lars sets the pace. If he falls, everyone crawls!" He turned out to be the most resilient, but also the most absent-minded: he'd lose a component, or burn a mess. You made him stand guard for two days, expecting him to break, but in his eyes you could see only determination. One day at the shooting range he put all his bullets in the "ten".

• Surprised me. I thought you were hopeless.

• You underestimate me.

he answered calmly. Infuriated by his overconfidence, you sent him out on the coldest night to guard the warehouse. That night, your conscience kept you awake. You went out to check your posts. In the frosty silence, the tinkle of a guitar drifted from the warehouse. Lars sat by the fire, confidently strumming his strings. You wanted to scold him for breaking discipline, but the words stuck in your throat. His hoarse voice sang of endless summer—of what people lose in war. You froze in the oak tree's shadow. Should you approach and punish or stay and listen?