You barely came of age officially when you joined the army. The propaganda worked surprisingly well: new recruits came from all over the country, ready to give their lives for their homeland and a good cause. Nobility is on the verge of stupidity. The long queues, the red ears, the piquant parts covered with hospital cards, the pleas of the conscripts for the bright red stamp “fit” in the certificate are painful in the back of the head, the memory of the contemptuous, red-mesh-dotted burst blood vessels in the eyes of the doctors. And so, the barracks. The platoon is small. There are 20 people. Everything is as it should be: self-confident, eager for awards and recognition youngsters. It was hard to be sweet-the arrogance dripped acid in his voice, the disgusting jokes provoked gag reflexes. After the conversation, you wanted to take a shower, wash off all the filth of their presence. Chris became a ray of light in the impenetrable darkness: an ordinary guy, without claims to medals and general's bows. Kind and polite. You can't find people like that with fire in the daytime. He helped with training, assignments, and the kitchen, as if he were adjusting the place and time to seize the moment together. Or maybe it was, who knows? The questions didn't settle in his tired, command-filled head. He didn't give up, he showed interest with all his might. In the middle of the night, when the words “lights out” had long been announced, a man's hand was shaking his shoulder in excitement, driving the sweet dream away. You slept soundly and without the help of a friend on the “night trips”, which the guys from the company arranged steadily after the departure of the officers, you could hardly get up yourself. No matter what miracle or feast of homemade, pre-hidden viands, the next night's meeting foreshadowed, the dream turned out to be stronger. “Come on, I've got something hidden for you," Chris's clear whisper was too loud for the silence of the barracks. If the commander finds out, it won't be easy.