The dream was succinct, almost photo accurate in its realism, he walked along, unnoticed in the throng of students, all capped and gowned, who waited by the side of the stage. He saw himself step up and receive his Doctorate in History from the facility Dean , clutching the brown leather cylinder he exited the stage, beaming. He wondered why he was dreaming of this particular moment, he had never dreamt of it before, that he could remember. He felt the dream slip away, receding away from him like a slowly drawn out Doppler wail of confused sound and light, darkness greeted his eyes when he opened them, and he lay a while, allowing his eyes to adjust to the room. He seemed strangely calm, almost drugged, it was as if his consciousness was not touching his skin, as if it had retreated inside of him and his body was some like strange shell, that contained a smaller version of him. In his head it was as if two threads of consciousness were overlapping each other, his own thoughts and the thoughts of another, a fading and ghostly surf sound of thoughts and emotions, indistinct and undecipherable.
Without knowing why he got up out of bed, noticing a sleeping woman beside him, this fact barely registered on his surprised mind, as did the fact that he seemed heavier and slower than normal. The rather archaic and frankly outlandish looking décor of the room again seemed barely to seep into his mind, this must still be a dream he concluded. Opening the bedroom door he walked down a hallway to another door, opened it and switched on the light, finding himself in a bathroom he stopped, sudden panic flooding his mind. Looking around the bathroom he realized what was causing his terror, the mirror, he was terrified of the mirror. An overwhelming sense of dread was emanating from the mirror, he could feel a rushing of blood in his ears, his eyes shied away from looking at the mirror, but despite this his feet carried him to stand in front of the mirror. Turning to face the reflective surface a strangers face gazed back at him, and older man with a ruddy face and a moustache. With a shock he recognized the face in the mirror, it was not that of a stranger, the face that stared back at him was that of Arthur Harris, know to history as ‘Bomber Harris’, and the leader of RAF Bomber Command from 1942 to 1945.
He did not know how long he stood there, his mind failing to get purchase on any thread or train of thought, staring at the face of one of the most controversial leaders of the second world war.
"Bud? are you alright?" an attractive young brunette asked from the doorway, sleep reddened eyes looked at him with some concern.
"I'm, I'm fine Jill" he heard himself say, "probably just nerves about tomorrow".
“You will be fine, tomorrow you take over RAF Bomber Command, the job you always wanted” as she spoke the girl strode up behind him and pressed herself up against his back, he could feel her firm body pushing against the hollows of his back.
Looking at the reflection of another man’s face in the mirror he struggled to scream his denial, but his words never surfaced, instead he heard himself say “You are probably right darling”.
“Come to bed” the girl mumbled, turning from the room.
Later on he lay in bed, Jill sleeping contently beside him, staring at the ceiling, he felt fully in control of both his body and his mind for the 1st time since waking up, barely a few hours ago. His mind churned, running over and over the situation where he found himself, unbelievable and bizarre as it seemed. He pinched himself above his thigh, feeling the sharp pain slowly dulling away as expected. A long drawn out sigh escaped his lips, either this was some sort of incredibly realistic hallucination or he was really in the body of Arthur Harris, he was not sure what scenario terrified him more.
A few short hours ago he had gone to sleep in February 2012, his boring existence of work and sparse social life all he had to look forwards too. He was a history professor, and specifically a professor of World War 2 history. And not just the overall history of that monumental conflict, he was one of the world’s leading experts on the Strategic Bombing of Germany by the Allies. He had been the professor of World War 2 History at London University since the mysterious disappearance of his predecessor Don Erlang in 2004. His name was Charles Fleming and he was born in 1970, he held onto these facts tightly, denying the evidence of his senses.
And now he found himself back in 1942 in another man’s body, in the body of the one man whose actions he had studied, probed and picked apart in the course of a twenty year academic career. He shied away from the conclusions his brain started to weave, drawing deep, shaky breaths to try and calm himself. A babble of confused thoughts and emotions bubbled to surface of his panicked brain, he tried to catch them, to examine them. With a growing sense of wonder he realised these were the memories and thought processes of Harris, but devoid of any consciousness or direction, they were more akin to instincts than anything else. As he immersed himself in these strange, alien currents and eddies swirling through his mind he relaxed, feeling himself sinking down into a deep warm peace and sleep claimed him.