The Connection

Chapter One - Wieland

Wieland got torn off his dreams brusquely when the cannon ball shattered the wall of the little farm in shivers. The reverberation of the cannon shot echoed in the circumjacent hills. Little flinders flew around the room and broke the glass panes which survived the impact of the projectile. A big piece of wood hit the wall just above Wieland's head making a noise as it crashed the wall once again.
Even though he was pulled off the world of peace and imagination in his head that unexpectedly, he stood on his feet making himself ready to flee to the basement in seconds. He was used to the peculiarities and terrors of war. He didn't even know when he had seen peace last, besides in his mind. Years over years of different wars turned Europe into ash, fragmented it into smithereens of little communities fighting for their own lives. Murder, raid, rape and thievery weren't unusual. Day by day and night by night. Wieland rapidly ran to the next room, the kitchen, where heavy wooden stairs led to the basement. He could consider himself lucky to have found shelter on a farm with a basement. Not many farms here were endued with such luxury. When he reached the stairs he almost slipped and fell down all the steps to the hard dirty ground of the cavernous earth cellar. By a close shave he missed the rope which was paved to the wall with metal rings as a handrail with his hand. As he grabbed it he could haul himself up on his feet again. After he had walked down a few steps, he swiftly slam shut the wooden trapdoor and blocked it with the massive slide bolt. When closed the trapdoor almost looked like the planks the kitchen floor consisted of. Now he could only wait and hope whoever shot the cannon wouldn't come to the farm to look for survivors. It had to be Swedish soldiers destroying houses in this area to make it uninhabitable for its people. If they should ever come back again. In case the soldiers should open up a camp here for some days, Wieland stored all his foodstuffs, clothes and his weapons down here as soon as he moved in there, so he could stay in the cellar for some days if necessary. It was like a diminutive citadel. The only problem was, that he couldn't go up to watch what was going on upstairs without putting himself in danger to get discovered. He needed to trust his sense of hearing. Knowing the underhand methods of war, he expected them to burn down what was left of the farmhouse. Wieland took his long gun on his lap and sat down in a dark corner of the cellar room from which he could see the stairs. Hour for hour he sat there waiting for something to happen. Nothing. He wondered why they did not set fire to the ruins of the house. One hit with a cannon wasn't enough to damage such a massive farmhouse beyond repair. Why did they shoot a hole in that wall if they didn't want to make this house useless? It was a mystery to Wieland but he was quite glad nobody went down here jeopardising him to be descried.

After two days of persevering in the farmhouse's basement, Wieland was sure he finally could risk a look upstairs. When he lurked up the staircase the creaking of the steps seemed awfully loud to him, but nothing moved up there. Slowly and carefully Wieland lifted up the heavy trapdoor and peeked through the small gap. Nobody was up there, absolutely no one. But somebody must have been there. The door of the pantry was widely opened. It looked as if someone or something had snuck in there looking for victuals. Wieland smirked. Whoever had tiptoed into his buttery could not have been very successful. Another endorsement for him how smart he was putting all his stuff into the earth cellar where it was safe. He now fully opened the trapdoor and stepped out into the kitchen. The cannon ball hit the wall of the room Wieland slept in and then travelled through the wall which separated the dorm from the kitchen and what used to be the living and working room. The hole the dire projectile wrenched into the wood was gigantic. You could see how powerful the impact was very clearly. Splits of wood laid around all over the place, tools, cutlery and broken fragments of tableware and wood covered the floor. On top of all a wispy layer of dust deposited. The dust swirled up when a squirrel ran through the kitchen out of nowhere. Wieland jumped and hid behind an overthrown table, as soon as he kneeled behind it, he peeped over its edge. When he realised it has just been an animal he chaffed himself for being such a wuss. "Come on, how can you be so easily startled?", he asked himself rhetorically. He stood up as he now adjudged the house to be free of his tormentors or anything else that could become dangerous to him.
Only seconds later he noticed the obvious, he had to search a new hideout before darkness would break in. He couldn't spend the night outside as they already were too cold to do so in November. Regarding the position of the sun he assessed that he had about three hours left until the beginning of the night. He had to hurry up now. He climbed down the stairs again and began to pack up his goods and chattels. Then he walked upstairs again and went to the hole in the wall with quick steps, he jumped out and started to pace straight over the meadow to the nearby forest. He turned around one last time and took a last look at the ruins that had been what he called home for over two months. It was sad what a long time that was by his standards, an abandoned farmhouse. He turned back on the farm again and stepped between the trees.

After two hours of travailing through the luxuriant forest, Wieland was too exhausted to walk any further. He sat down on a tree stub. Three times he had to hide when he heard Swedish words resounding in the mighty oaks and pine trees. He began to mull his possibilities in his forlorn situation. If he didn't find shelter soon, he would have to sleep outside in the forest, what probably would mean his death. Wieland animated himself to move on. "Come on! A cave or something like that would be enough, but you can't sleep outside. Keep moving!" He stood on his feet again and just wanted to move along when he heard people screaming and shouting over the clangorous sound of crossing swords, the ear-shattering din of shooting canons and rifles. A hissing noise made Wieland hit the dirt. The rifle bullet hit the tree he stood in front of just seconds after he hit the ground. Was it a ricochet or an aimed shot? He couldn't tell. Another shot could hit him every second, so he bunked away crawling and hid behind a massive rock. The bin of battle was still hearable amongst the big rocks and pine trees that were on the spot in this part of the forest. It felt like hours until the screaming, shouting and sound of weapons began to stop. Wieland wasn't quite sure if he could get up again. Even as he wanted to stand up to his feet again, he heard somebody saying "Come on, get up. We know you're there!". It was German. "I'm not Swedish!", he shouted and peeked over the rocks edge. About twenty German soldiers stood allotted on a small glade. [...]