Echoes in the Shadows

17

30 minutes later, at the Gestapo Headquarters in Holland:

"Captain Iser, this is a new coded message from Britain."

The youthful-looking lieutenant who had once helped Iser entered his office, handing him a report directly sent from Britain to the Gestapo Headquarters in Holland. The message indicated that a commando team would be parachuted in that very night to rescue the captured British pilot.

Instinctively, Iser tapped the paper with his pen, contemplating the implications of this intelligence. He wanted to use this information to verify whether the British had started doubting their spy network in Holland. Ever since that bumbling Klauberger had precisely shot down a British plane using Gestapo intelligence, Iser had felt his painstakingly built achievements were in peril. Additionally, the rapidity with which the British had learned of their pilot's exact whereabouts suggested that there were still leaks in his network. And then there was that obstinate Wehrmacht Major always at odds with him!

The Allied operation was timely indeed.

A satisfied smile crossed Iser's lips as he picked up the phone and dialed out.

"Tell them there's no need to send anyone to Major Klauberger's to retrieve the captured British pilot today... and spread this news around."

After hanging up the phone, Iser looked at the paper in his hands with pleasure for a while longer, then picked up the phone again.

"Major Klauberger? This is Captain Iser of the Gestapo. I have some new intelligence—Oh, no, it's not about the pilot. If you have time, would you mind coming over this afternoon?"

Deep into the night in Holland:

"Port two."

Lieutenant Blaide sat closest to the cockpit, his head pressed against the cabin wall, quietly listening to the conversation between the pilots, the navigation officer, and the ground radio station.

The voice from the radio was from a British radar station on the ground. Judging by the flight time, this was probably the last ground radar station capable of tracking their plane's position — the last bit of guidance they would receive from the ground. The rest of the journey was up to them.

Blaide peered through the porthole. Outside, the sky was a murky grey.

Suddenly, strings of golden fireballs burst splendidly in the dark sky, like fireworks on New Year's Eve.

Blaide withdrew his gaze and looked around the cabin. The group of thugs who had been joking and bantering moments before were now staring at him, tense and stiff.

It wasn't surprising they reacted this way. After all, including this mission, they had only been on three operations, and it was their first time facing direct enemy artillery fire from the sky.

"German anti-aircraft guns," Blaide said calmly, "it seems our plane has been spotted by the Germans. We need to be ready to parachute out at any moment."

After speaking, Blaide's eyes moved towards the rear of the cabin. There, several parachutes lay quietly, each attached to a supply crate. The crates were filled with items to be delivered to the Dutch resistance: handguns, ammunition, plastic explosives, and, as specifically requested by the resistance, chocolate...

Three minutes later, at the headquarters of the Gestapo in Holland, in the code-breaking room:

"Who the hell ordered the anti-aircraft guns to fire at that Allied plane!"

Lieutenant Iser furiously dug out the telephone receiver from a pile of papers and immediately started yelling into it. The sparks of anger in his voice could burn through the desk.

"Sorry, Lieutenant Iser, I'm afraid I can't make it to your office right now. I'm heading to the anti-aircraft artillery position."

The voice on the other end of the line, indolent as ever, was more infuriating to Iser than an unbroken code. A devil was shamelessly announcing over the phone his intention to stand Iser up, using the time saved to continue devastating the months of hard work Iser had put into his intelligence efforts.

Iser's clenched fist was buried under the heap of papers. The rationality and self-control cultivated through his intelligence work ultimately triumphed over his emotions. Amidst the silent gaze of his colleagues, he continued in a very calm voice: "But... I followed your instructions and sent a message to Britain, requesting them to include another box of chocolate in their next airdrop!"

A minute later, Captain Iser calmly hung up the phone and never mentioned the topic of anti-aircraft artillery to anyone again.

Just yesterday, as he left Major Klauberger's office hungry, that well-fed rascal, sipping his coffee, had mockingly suggested that if the British radio under Iser's control was as obedient as rumored, they should ask the British to drop a few more boxes of chocolate in their next airdrop. After all, those poor Wehrmacht soldiers only had second-class field rations, with their sweet treats being nothing but throat-clogging artificial cream.

Starving, Iser had retorted coldly, "What do you think the British are? Our logistics transport? Or a Berlin department store? Do you think you just say the word, and the British will drop it from the sky for free? Sorry, the one you're thinking of sounds more like God."

Originally, Iser had thought this was just their usual banter. However, for some unknown reason, when he tentatively sent a message to Britain in the name of the Dutch Resistance, he whimsically added chocolate to the list of requested arms.

Now, he fully understood that his fate had always been in the hands of chocolate.