The day seemed to drag, and Eric found it hard not to let his thoughts drift to his experience at the coffee shop. A couple of his co-workers had given him worried looks when he casually mentioned the place, a confirmation that Murray had loud-mouthed their conversation. Nobody he spoke to had actually been, they'd all just heard about it.

Still, the plane research he had done was astonishingly similar to what he had seen in his dream - or what he was calling a dream. The Camel was a biplane, powered by a Clerget 9B rotary engine, with very sensitive controls, as he had discovered when doing a small turn. This was a distinguishing feature, and tricky as well, but a boon for skilled pilots.

The Camel could perform amazingly fast right turns due to the plane's forward weight, and the torque of its powerful rotary engine. With everything situated in the front seven feet, the plane had a very forward-oriented centre of gravity. It boasted a top speed of 117 miles per hour, and could climb to 10,000 feet in under 11 minutes, to a maximum of 19,000 feet.

When quitting time rolled around, instead of going home to work, he headed to the coffee shop. Armed with all his knowledge of the plane and how it was used during the war, he meant to find out what had happened. The same girl, with the same uniform, smile and glow, greeted him with the same question.

"May I help you?"

"Yeah, I uh, have a half off coupon for one of your IYD specials." He placed it on the counter.

The smile grew. "Certainly, Mr. Holder. Coming right up."

"Hey, how did you know my name?"

"You told us on your last visit." She placed a cup of cream-topped coffee in front of him.

"I don't remember that." His picked up the cup, expecting an answer.

"Enjoy your coffee Mr. Holder."

He turned away, looking at the other customers. Was he nuts? They looked like the same people he remembered, in the same seats - and poses. He sipped his coffee while he watched them, trying to figure out--

******

Eric blinked and took a couple of short staggering steps. A hand grabbed his arm and steadied him.

"I say, old man, still wobbly after that landing?"

"Huh? Where--?"

"You have to let me buy you a drink. Only three of us collected on the wagers, so drinks are on me."

"Wagers?" Eric looked about. He was on the tarmac of an airfield lined with planes being swarmed over by ground crews. He saw the Camel off to one side and stared at the damaged rudder. He looked back at the man and felt a twinge of recognition.

"About a dozen of us, from first sighting to that circus touchdown. We worried for a moment when the skid bar tore off and then the rudder, but you wrestled her to a stop. Are you hurt at all?"

"No, just confused. I don't know where--"

"C'mon old boy, drink can wait, we'd best get you to Bones. Get you checked out."

Too muddled, yet feeling an odd familiarity about the circumstance, Eric let the man lead him to a hut near the tarmac. Abruptly, he was pushed through a door into a small office with a desk, a pot-bellied wood stove, and a cot on one wall.

"Holder here needs your mother's hands, Captain. He's not quite sure what is what."

"I'm not surprised. Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll take it from here." The doctor indicated a chair and then seated himself behind his desk. "Holder. that landing you just made cost me a quid - but it was a hell of a ride to watch. Are you hurt at all?"

"No. I just don't- I'm not sure where I am." Eric stared at the Captain. I know him.

"Hmm, that could be delayed shock. Sometimes those near misses kick in after the adrenaline subsides. Where do you think you are?"

"Somewhere in England, during world war one, on an airfield.."

"World war one!" There was a snort. "Are you expecting another?"

"Well, sure. There was . . . aah, I had a dream I was flying over some pretty sorry looking landscape." Eric looked down, hoping his faux pas wouldn't be pursued.

"A dream you say. It wasn't a dream, Lieutenant Holder. You were listed as missing on a very important reconnaissance mission. One that this base is relying on for accuracy. As far as I can tell it was only sheer luck you made it back at all.

"I don't remember any of that." Where do I know him from?

The Captain pursed his lips and made a couple of notes on a pad in front of him. "I think I'd better do a bit of a workup, son. Get that suit off and get on the cot."

******

"What did the Captain say, Holder?"

Eric saw the man that had taken him to the doctor, the twinge returned. There was something familiar. The wings on his uniform were the same as his. He gave him a brief rundown on the examination and the Captain's diagnosis.

"I'm supposed to report to my Flight Commander. You're Lieutenant Burgess?"

"Bridges. Listen, old boy, FC is at meetings, why don't you let me buy you that pint in the mess? You can relax and maybe things will come back. Once Flight gets his hands on you, you better pray."

The invite included another grip of his arm and a guided trip to the flight officer's mess. Over the mess door was the hand painted sign, Spitalgate, Lincolnshire, No. 70 Squadron.

They found a table and Bridges brought a couple of pints, setting one down for Eric, while he took a generous swallow of his own.

"Can I ask you something?" Eric looked around and leaned closer.

"Ask away, old boy."

"Do you know me?"

Bridges hesitated. "Of course, what are you on about?"

"How long have you known me?"

"Since flight training. Are you sure you're alright?"

"You're going to think I'm crazy."

"As opposed to now, you mean?" Bridges laughed and punched Eric's arm.

"I'm serious."

"I thought you were crazy." He laughed again.

"Okay, forget it."

"No, c'mon, I'm listening."

Eric stared at the man. Murray! That's who he reminds me of. He picked up his beer and drank, waving a negative hand at him.

"Maybe you should go back and see the Captain." Bridges stood and left the table, walking quickly, leaving Eric alone - again.

He slumped in his chair; everyone he was meeting reminded him of people he knew. What the hell was going on? Why was he on some mission that was so important? Why not somebody else here? Hell, he just got here - he thought. He carried his belongings out of the mess, pausing to look around, with no idea where to go or what to do.

The Camel caught his eye and he saw a team pushing it toward a maintenance shed, so he followed. Inside, he saw that they were already stripping off the damaged parts. A busy anthill of half a dozen mechanics.

"Glad you got back, Lieutenant, we only have one shot at this." One of the mechanics called when he was sighted. "If you're wrong . . ."

The ominously unfinished sentence gave Eric a curiously familiar sensation. He wandered over and watched them work.

"Can you fix it? Are there parts for all that?"

The work stopped and they looked at him. Some laughing. Some annoyed.

"It's what we do, Lieutenant. You fly boys wreck 'em, we repair 'em." A burly Sergeant offered, grease smeared on his hands and face. "If it takes granny's garter to hold 'em together, it's what we use. But we need the right info to make it worthwhile."

"Sorry, I didn't mean--"

"She'll be on line by morning - in case she's needed."

Eric nodded and left the men to their job. Was that Cheevers, our company copywriter? The idea that he thought he knew all these people in another life made him even more nervous.

A pair of pilots passed a short distance away, heading for a small building, and he followed them inside. There were rows of bunks with foot lockers, and name tags. Reading the tags as he wandered down the centre aisle, he spotted his name on the end of a lower bunk.

"Surprised you haven't gone to bed before this after your circus landing." The speaker was sitting several bunks away.

"Yeah," Eric chuckled. "I had to see the doc first."

"Bones, or Captain Moore to his face, Holder." The rebuke was snippy.

"Right. Yep. Thanks." Right away the name Delucci from his department, popped into his head. Same bitter attitude toward him. Delucci didn't like Eric, their artistic views were miles apart.

"We don't need Cowboy Jockeys like you flying for us."

Just about to respond, Eric paused when a voice behind him spoke up.

"Don't mind, Sawyer. He's just miffed 'cause he lost money on your landing."

Eric turned to find the other pilot he followed in sitting on the next bunk down.

He introduced himself as Wilbur Carter, and they shook hands.

"Apparently I upset a number of people." He called down to the pilot named Sawyer. "I didn't ask for the mission."

"Yeah, but it was a hell of a show. Those Camels are so bloody nose heavy." Carter said.

"It's great to fly though." Eric forgot his plight for the moment, happy to share a few thoughts about the excitement he was feeling. He didn't recognize the pilot; the first one that didn't spark a memory.

"I like my Spad. Sawyer rides a Nieuport turtle - one of those Frenchy planes."

"So's yer Spad, Carter," came the derisive reply from down the row.

They shared a chuckle. "So, you're the new man here."

"Uhuh."

"You must have quite a reputation to be assigned that mission right away."

Eric didn't want to talk any more, in case he blundered somehow. He needed to think. Think about how all these people reminded him of someone else.

"I think I'm going to just crash for a while and recoup." Eric smiled and arranged his things before flopping on the bunk.

The two pilots stared at Eric as he placed an arm over his face and closed his eyes.