[I]

There are, immediately, the smells of motor oil; mortar; gunsmoke and the sea. Not the warm, fragrant azure waters that surround the island of Tabula Rasa, but those colder, sharper, stormier waters of the North Atlantic. I know where I am just from breathing in the air, although I also know it can’t be possible. Or shouldn't be, at the very least. My hands are gripping the handlebars of what I recognize, from the sound of the engine as well as my memory, to be a DKW NZ350. A ‘43. I know this bike.

God help me, I know exactly where I am.

I’ve had this dream. Correction- I’ve had this nightmare, more nights than I haven’t, since I woke up to a post-war world. This, what’s happening now, this isn’t a nightmare. This is living it. I know. I can tell the difference, by now.

I also know I’m not alone. Even as the end of the runway, the sharp drop off of the cliff looming ahead of us, rushes up to meet us- as the experimental drone plane that ended the war for me pulls away by critical, creeping inches to my left- I’m turning my head to call over my shoulder to the only other person who could be here with me.

“Bucky?!”

[II]

There are, immediately, the smells of motor oil; mortar; gunsmoke and the sea. Not the warm, fragrant azure waters that surround the island of Tabula Rasa, but those colder, sharper, stormier waters of the North Atlantic. I know where I am just from breathing in the air, though it shouldn’t be possible. My hands are gripping the handlebars of the DKW NZ350 bike I’m riding, was just riding, have ridden before. A ‘43.

It’s happening again. It’s happening again. No. God damn it, no, I refuse. Bucky’s arms are tight around my waist, but any second he’s going to let go to make a jump for the experimental drone plane we’re chasing after. The sharp drop off of the cliff, the end of the runway, the rocks and cold water below, the explosion waiting for us above-

No.

I drop my foot and dig my heel into the ground as I twist the bike to the side. No more. It drags another ten feet before I let go of it and roll, the unevenly hewn stone scraping hard against my elbows, shoulders, jaw. The plane is gone, up and off into the sky as I’m picking myself up, reorienting myself as quickly as I can.

Bucky is a few feet behind me, the plane far too far out of reach already, the bike teetering over the edge of the runway and then it’s out of sight, and for a moment I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what I’ve done.

[III]

There are, immediately, the smells of motor oil; mortar; gunsmoke and the sea. The North Atlantic. I would know where I am just from breathing in the air, though finding myself just here, on this bike, chasing this plane for the third time in what feels like moments removes any need for guesswork.

The words ever again are dying on my lips when I turn the bike, hard. I have a better sense this time of what I’m doing, of how far we have til the bike careens over the edge, of how fast we’re going. There’s a new smell, one of burning rubber, as the little German motorcycle scrapes along the battlement. I turn, grab Bucky across the chest, and throw us both to the ground as the bike loses its balances and goes skittering away, off into the ocean. We land, and skid a ways, on my back, where the shield is covered by my enlisted man’s shirt. When we’ve come to a stop I roll onto my side and start to rip off what’s left of the shredded khaki uniform.

“Buck,” I say, “you okay?”

[IV]

I smell motor oil, gunsmoke, salt and metal. The sounds of the motorcycle engine, the plane, the choppy, freezing waters of the English Channel assault my ears. It’s happening again. It’s happening again, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I have always endeavored to remember the ways in which I’m fortunate, always tried not to take anything for granted. I was born to Irish immigrants. We were poor, not that I understood that until I was older. My dad died when I was young, my mother died when I was thirteen, and I was ill, my whole life. Sickly. Things were never easy, but that just meant everything mattered more, that there was more to be thankful for. All that said, I have never felt so damned as I do in this moment.

“No,” I murmur, grip holding tight on the throttle, “no, there has to be another way. There has to- Bucky!” I shout, looking at him over my shoulder.

“Bucky, listen! Make the jump, but forget the bomb. Grab my hand once you’re steady!”

[V]

I don’t pull the bike to a careening halt this time. I don’t gun it to catch up. I don’t do anything, at first. I’m too stunned to take any immediate action.

This shouldn’t be happening. We beat it. I got it right, the last time. No innocents killed, the tide of the war turned for the better. I did it right, finally, stopped the plane and walked away with Bucky at my side. So what are we doing here? Why has the loop begun again? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s no longer following its own set of rules- whatever ‘it’ is. The island, I guess.

I let go of the throttle and the bike slows on its own. I put a foot out as an afterthought, stopping the bike at the edge of the runway, and stare at the plane as it flies.

What more can I do? What is there to do differently? What do I do?

I don’t know. God help me, I don’t know.