In the early hours of May 10, 1940, a deep, unfamiliar hum pierces the quiet streets of Reykjavík. Residents, jolted awake, are drawn outside by the ominous drone of a foreign aircraft circling overhead. Shadows flicker across rooftops as the reconnaissance aircraft prowls the skies, inspecting every corner of the city. This is no ordinary patrol, but rather a herald of a looming threat.
Just weeks before, terror had swept across the North Atlantic as Sweden and Norway fell to Nazi forces. Now, the storm of war has finally reached Icelandic shores.
Four dark shapes emerge from the horizon, warships gliding toward Reykjavík's harbor. Police, straining their eyes, soon recognize the flag on board. This is no friendly visit; this is an invasion.
As the vessels edge closer, urgency grips the German consul. In a frenzy, he races back to his residence and begins to burn crucial documents in his bathtub, smoke curling up from windows as his staff join him, destroying papers that could not fall into enemy hands. He knows it is just a matter of hours before Iceland falls into the hands of the Allies.
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