The Third Reich:Shadows of the Golden Eagle

Chapter 153: Good Day Marshal

"You two idiots. Damn it, how could you forget the tablets!"

"Shit!"

Josef paced back and forth in front of the truck. The Soviet guards watched him closely, though their attention kept drifting to the two men standing stiffly behind him like soldiers awaiting punishment.

With a sharp motion, Josef grabbed something from a wooden box on the ground. It was a red, overripe tomato. He squeezed it in his hand before throwing it straight at Gustaf.

The tomato burst, leaving another dark stain on his already ruined uniform. The pulp slowly slid down the fabric while Gustaf pressed his lips together, not daring to react.

"Hah."

Josef finally stopped pacing. A crooked smile spread across his face as he turned and walked toward the head guard.

"Esteemed sir," Josef began, his tone suddenly polite. "As you can see, my colleagues are fools. Still, they are my colleagues. They will work, no matter how they look. Could you let us pass? The marshal is expecting our delivery."

He pointed at the paper in the guard’s hand, which had been handed over only moments ago.

The guard looked at Josef carefully, then shifted his gaze to the two men by the truck.

"Volodomyr?" he asked.

Josef froze for a fraction of a second, then met the guard’s eyes with a serious expression before nodding quickly.

"Yes. Yes, of course. That is the name my dear mother gave me."

"Pff."

One of the guards let out a short laugh, unable to hold it back.

"Andrey and Sergey?" the head guard asked, now more suspicious.

Josef tilted his head slightly and glanced at the photo on the document. It showed two men, one of them heavily overweight.

"Hehe, my friend Andrey here..." Josef said, pointing at Gustaf. "He has lost quite a bit of weight recently. You know, all the work."

The head guard raised an eyebrow but handed the papers back.

Then he simply stood there, unmoving.

Josef hesitated. He shifted his weight and fiddled with his fingers. After a moment, his expression grew more desperate.

"Ah, come on..."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bundle of rubles.

The head guard gave a slight nod and accepted the money, signaling one of the other guards.

Gustaf and Herrmann exchanged a brief glance before climbing back onto the truck. Without a word, they drove past the checkpoint.

After a few minutes, they arrived before the massive house. It was a wooden mansion, built from dark timber.

Two armed guards stood at the entrance gate, their uniforms neat, their expressions far less forgiving than the ones at the checkpoint.

The truck slowed to a halt.

Josef leaned slightly out of the window, forcing the same confident smile back onto his face.

"Delivery for the marshal," he called out.

One of the guards stepped forward immediately, his eyes narrowing as he approached. He didn’t even look at Josef first. His gaze went straight to Gustaf.

To the stains.

He stopped beside the truck.

"What is that?"

For a brief moment, no one spoke.

Josef clicked his tongue and shook his head, as if annoyed by the question.

"Carelessness," he said. "Kitchen supplies. Tomatoes. One of the crates broke on the way here."

The guard didn’t look convinced. He reached out and pressed two fingers against the stain on Gustaf’s uniform, rubbing it slowly.

"...Tomatoes."

Gustaf forced a stiff nod.

"Yes."

The guard raised his hand slightly, inspecting the pulp between his fingers, then looked back up.

"And you decided not to change?"

Josef sighed, as if he was bored.

"We are already late. The marshal is waiting. Do you want to explain to him why his delivery is delayed?"

The second guard stepped closer now, circling slightly to get a better look at both men.

"No one enters like this," he said. "Not inside."

Josef’s smile faltered for just a second.

"Of course," he replied quickly. "Then show us where to clean up. We will not bring dirt into the marshal’s house."

The guards exchanged a glance.

For a moment, it seemed like they might send them away entirely.

Then the first guard jerked his head toward the side of the mansion.

"Go to the kitchen. You can clean up there. Alexey will follow you," he said, nodding toward the second guard.

Josef nodded. "Of course."

They climbed down from the truck and crossed the courtyard.

Alexey led them to a side entrance and opened the door.

"Inside."

The kitchen was warm and busy. Pots clattered softly, and a few workers looked up as they entered. Their eyes lingered on the stains.

"You clean here. Quickly."

Alexey took position by the door.

Gustaf exchanged a quick glance with Herrmann.

"Can I go take a piss, boss?" he asked.

Alexey sighed and spat on the ground.

"Both of you. Move."

Josef stayed where he was, leaning casually against a large fridge, his eyes wandering across the room.

"Excuse me."

One of the kitchen workers tried to reach the fridge behind him.

Josef moved aside, quietly whistling to himself.

Then two men appeared in the doorway again.

"Andrey... are we ready now?"

Herrmann nodded, glancing at the guard beside him. The man’s head was lowered, but the faint smile underneath gave him away.

The kitchen staff paid them no attention. They were too busy preparing dinner for the marshal.

And no one seemed to notice that one of the men who had left had not returned.

"Quickly, move! Dinner to the marshal!" the head chef shouted.

One by one, the staff hurried out, carrying silver trays. Within moments, the kitchen had nearly emptied, leaving only a single man behind.

Herrmann glanced at the "guard" beside him and smiled faintly. Then he stepped forward, grabbing a metal pan from the stove.

He swung.

"Hey!"

The man reacted fast, ducking just in time. The pan cut through the air above his head with a dull whistle.

"What are you doing?! Who are you?" he shouted, already reaching for a knife. He gripped it tightly, holding it low as he shifted into a defensive stance.

Herrmann blinked, surprised.

"Even the cooks are trained here?" he muttered in German.

The man lunged.

Herrmann stepped back, barely avoiding the blade, then drove his shoulder forward, slamming into him. The knife clattered across the floor as both of them stumbled.

Before the man could recover, Herrmann grabbed him by the collar and forced him down against the table, pressing the edge of the pan against his throat.

"Quiet," he hissed.

The struggle stopped.

"Now hold your head still," Herrmann said, then swung the pan again.

This time it hit.

The man dropped to the floor without a sound.

A few moments later, a guard and a kitchen worker left the kitchen.

They stepped into a clean corridor. Dark wooden walls, a long carpet on the floor, and a few lamps giving off warm light. Pictures hung on the walls, all neat and in line.

While they moved through the mansion, back at the entrance, somebody grew restless.

"Where is Alexey?" one of the guards called out, his voice sharper now as he grabbed his rifle.

Another guard frowned, glancing toward the side of the house.

"He should be back by now."

The first guard didn’t answer. He was already moving.

"Check the kitchen."

Two men stepped off at once, boots hitting the ground hard as they hurried along the wall toward the side entrance.

Inside, the corridor remained quiet.

Herrmann carried a tray while Gustaf walked in front. In the distance, two guards stood before a closed door.

They knew that was their destination.

"Stop. The food has already been delivered. What is this?" one of the guards asked, tilting his head, trying to see their faces under the low-pulled hats.

Herrmann glanced at Gustaf, then mumbled,

"Dessert?"

The guard stared at them like they were idiots.

"Let them in," a rough, tired voice came from inside.

The guard sighed and opened the door, still trying to catch a clear look at the man behind Herrmann.

Gustaf quickly turned his head as they stepped into the room.

It was large, but not overly decorated. A heavy table stood in the center, covered with maps, papers, and a half-finished meal. The air smelled of tobacco and strong alcohol.

And there he was.

Zhukov sat at the head of the table, broad-shouldered, his uniform tight across his frame. His face was hard, marked by deep lines, his eyes sharp and focused even at rest.

He didn’t look up immediately.

Ich mache es klarer, flüssiger und etwas spannender:

At the same time, in the kitchen

"Alexey?" a guard called out, looking around.

No answer.

He frowned, stepping further inside. Then he noticed it. Something sticking out of the freezer door.

"Mhm?"

He walked over and pulled it open.

His eyes widened.

"Shit!"

Inside, the naked kitchen worker was crammed into the freezer, his body stiff. Next to him, two uniforms, both stained with red.

The guard grabbed one, staring at it.

"Tomatoes... of course."

His gaze lingered on the fabric. The stain had soaked deep into the cloth, darker in places, right where the uniform looked roughly stitched.

Not tomatoes.

His expression hardened.

"Quickly! Sound the alarm!" he shouted, throwing the clothes to the ground.

Outside, boots already began to move.

Gustaf and Herrmann exchanged a quick look.

Then Herrmann stepped forward, placing the silver tray in front of the marshal. Slowly, he lifted the cover.

Only then did Zhukov react. His eyes dropped to the tray, then rose to Herrmann.

"What is this? A joke?" he asked, his voice calm but firm.

Gustaf stepped closer, reaching into his coat. He pulled out a sealed letter and placed it onto the empty tray.

"A message from a distant friend. Delivered on a silver tray," he said in rough Russian, a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

Zhukov’s eyes sharpened.

Gustaf and Herrmann threw off their hats.

For a moment, no one spoke.

"How did you get in here?" Zhukov asked quietly.

Before anyone could answer, a siren echoed through the halls. Boots rushed past the door.

"Marshal, are you alright?" a guard called from outside.

Zhukov didn’t look away from Gustaf.

Something in his expression shifted.

"We have met before," Gustaf said. "Do you remember?"

Herrmann’s hand rested behind his back, already on his pistol.

"I am fine," Zhukov said suddenly, loud enough for the guards to hear. "Leave me."

Zhukov stood up slowly, still staring at Gustaf.

"I know you," he said.

A brief silence.

"Vodka on the Vistula."

Gustaf nodded once.

Zhukov’s gaze dropped to the letter. His voice lowered.

"Then this... is from Heinrich?"

Another nod.

Zhukov circled them slowly, studying their faces.

"Why didn’t he send it the usual way?" he asked.

"We don’t know," Herrmann answered, straightening slightly under Zhukov’s presence.

Zhukov stopped. For a moment, he said nothing.

"Well. You delivered it."

He sat down again, already reaching for a bottle.

"I will read it."

He poured himself a glass of vodka.

"Your mission is over. I won’t help you. The guards will come soon."

A short pause.

"You should probably run."

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