A village near Magdeburg, March 1631

The foraging soldiers had arrived the same morning. They had been pretty rough at first, but as soon as they were sure that the villagers would cooperate, they relaxed and went on to take everything they wanted, be it against the will of the villagers, as everyday business. They stole everything these people had as if they were working on the farm at home - wherever their homes were, if they had any at all.

Little Berthold was, of course, curious. He had heard of soldiers, but these men did not look anything at all like the bloodthirsty beasts he had been told of. They were scruffy, to say the least, but they were ordinary men, only armed and with well worn clothes. He stood and watched as a handful of them, exactly how many he could not count, at least not yet, loaded sacks of flour onto their cart. They seemed pretty happy in the sun and early spring warmth, and laughed uncontrolably as one of them dropped a sack, sprilling its entire content on the dirty road. He clutched his mother's hand and tried to catch a glimpse of her eyes. Her face was pale, yet emotionless. His father, however, was still inside, crying. Springs were always harsh and food stocks were always at a low point at this time of the year, furthest afar from last year's harvest, but this year they were going to starve. He again turned his eyes to the looting soldiers and noticed one of the soldiers sitting with his back against the wall of a house across the little road that ran through the village. He appeared to be asleep, with his hat covering his face, his musket resting against the wall next to him. Berthold let go of his mother's hand and slowly walked over to the sleeping soldier - his mother made no efforts to stop him.

He carefully approached the sleeping man, not wanting to wake him up, yet his curiosity almost dragged him closer and closer. Standing right next to the man he could now feel the foul smell of sweat and dirt from him and his clothes. There was also another smell, which he could not name or recognize, but it remembered him of smoke. His thin, pale white fingers reached out and touched the metal pipe of the musket. It was warm from standing in the sun. But then the soldier woke up, removed the hat from his face and quickly reached for his gun, snatching it from Berthold, who gasped with shock and took a few frightened, staggering, steps backwards. The soldier did not rise to his feet however, and as he realised the person sneaking up on him was only a child he came at ease, put his hat on and smiled uncertainly at the little boy. He waved the boy back to him, signaling that he meant no threat. He placed the musket in his lap. Berthold, now feeling confident immediately followed his gesture and went over to the man.

The soldier wore no moustache nor beard, but was unshaven and had a stubble growth. His short, brown, hair was ill-cut, but the hat covered most of it anyway. His face was rather unpleasant, with several scars and a broken nose, but his brown eyes had an unusual kindness to them. However, whatever kindness his eyes possessed, was well hidden beneath - or perhaps rather barricaded behind - a much more frightening appearance. The smile on his face went badly with the rest of his looks. Berthold then took a deep breath.

"Have you ever killed anyone?" he asked, shaking with nervosity as he waited for the man to answer.

"Once..." the soldier began with a voice that seemed almost happy, and patted the sword sheated in his belt "I ran this fine friend of mine through a sweet little boy, just about your age. I think it was in Jutland... In some town anyway, he hid in a chest, and I thought it was... someone else, so I thrust the blade... I... I must have... I think his guts spilled out inside that chest. I did not remain to see what became... of... of him". He then threw his head back and laughed hysterically. Berthold turned on the spot and ran crying to his mother.

The other soldiers had seen what had happened, and all but one of them laughed. The one who was not laughing was the youngest of them, a boy still in his teenage years, who had just recently enlisted.

"Who is that man?" he asked, upset by what he had just witnessed.

"That is Peter Schwarz" an older man replied, "Or at least that is what he says his name is. We found him drifting around while in Denmark... a few years ago now, and he has fought with us ever since. A good man, a brave man. A little odd at times, that is all... I would stay friends with him, if I were you".

The young soldier nodded at the advice from the older.

"All right, we are finished here, let us move along! Peter! Get up!" someone shouted, and so the cart rolled away with the soldiers on and around it. Singing and laughing as they left behind them devastaded families. Singing and laughing as they left behind them people doomed to starve to their deaths.