August 23, 1941. Dover, England. On business, Redd, with his trusty valet Wasser by his side, decided to tour the white cliffs of the southeast before finding safe passage back to the United States. It was a moment of apparent calm, bearing no sign of the near-constant aerial battles between British and German aircraft but for the scars of fallen bombs along the coastal crag, and ruined town homes on either side of the road as they drove past, pillars of smoldering ash rising into the slate blue sky.
“What are the chances,” Wasser wondered, “that America joins the war?”
Redd shook his head. “It would take either a miracle,” he said, “or a catastrophe.”
As he spoke, there was a great commotion in the air overhead, a sound that grew to a deafening pitch. “Blitzkrieg,” Wasser said. “We’re in trouble.
“No,” said Robert, standing up through the sunroof to look at the sky. “It’s a flock of bluebirds.” Miraculously, a flock of hundreds, if not thousands, of bluebirds flew overhead, tearing its way across the heavens.