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Connecticut where he was born. He described it in affectionate detail, even drew me a map. He spoke of the houses where his family had lived-he remembered their phone numbers still. He spoke of school and school days, the friends he'd had, and his special fondness for mathematics and science. He talked with enthusiasm of his days in the navy-he was seventeen, had just graduated from high school when he was drafted in 1943. With his good engineering mind he was a 'natural' for radio and electronics, and after a crash course in Texas found himself assistant radio operator on a submarine. He remembered the names of various submarines on which he had served, their missions, where they were stationed, the names of his shipmates. He remembered Morse code, and was still fluent in Morse tapping and touch-typing.
       A full and interesting early life, remembered vividly, in detail, with affection. But there, for some reason, his reminiscences stopped. He recalled, and almost relived, his war days and service, the end of the war, and his thoughts for the future. He had come to love the navy, thought he might stay in it. But with the GI Bill, and support, he felt he might do best to go to college. His older brother was in accountancy school and engaged to a girl, a 'real beauty', from Oregon.
       With recalling, reliving, Jimmie was full of animation; he did not seem to be speaking of the past but of the present, and I was very struck by the change of tense in his recollections as he passed from his school days to his days in the navy. He had been using the past tense, but now used the present-and (it seemed to me) not just the formal or fictitious present tense of recall, but the actual present tense of immediate experience.
       A sudden, improbable suspicion seized me.
       'What year is this, Mr G.?' I asked, concealing my perplexity under a casual manner.
       'Forty-five, man. What do you mean?' He went on, 'We've won the war, FDR's dead, Truman's at the helm. There are great times ahead.'
       'And you, Jimmie, how old would you be?'
       Oddly, uncertainly, he hesitated a moment, as if engaged in calculation.
       'Why, I guess I'm nineteen, Doc. I'll be twenty next birthday.'
       Looking at the grey-haired man before me, I had an impulse for which I have never forgiven myself-it was, or would have been, the height of cruelty had there been any possibility of Jim-mie's remembering it.
       'Here,' I said, and thrust a mirror toward him. 'Look in the mirror and tell me what you see. Is thata nineteen-year-old looking out from the mirror?'
       He suddenly turned ashen and gripped the sides of the chair. 'Jesus Christ,' he whispered. 'Christ, what's going on? What's happened to me? Is this a nightmare? Am I crazy? Is this a joke?'- and he became frantic, panicked.
       'It's okay, Jimmie,' I said soothingly. 'It's just a mistake. Nothing to worry about. Hey!' I took him to the window. 'Isn't this a lovely spring day. See the kids there playing baseball?' He regained his colour and started to smile, and I stole away, taking the hateful mirror with me.
       Two minutes later I re-entered the room. Jimmie was still standing by the window, gazing with pleasure at the kids playing baseball below. He wheeled around as I opened the door, and his face assumed a cheery expression.
       'Hiya, Doc!' he said. 'Nice morning! You want to talk to me- do I take this chair here?' There was no sign of recognition on his frank, open face.
       'Haven't we met before, Mr G.?' I asked casually.
       'No, I can't say we have. Quite a beard you got there. I wouldn't forget you, Doc!'
       'Why do you call me "Doc"?'
       'Well, you are a doc, ain't you?'
       'Yes, but if you haven't met me, how do you know what I am?'
       'You talk like a doc. I can see you're a doc'
       'Well, you're right, I am. I'm the neurologist here.'
       'Neurologist? Hey, there's something wrong with my nerves? And