John Harkness grew up like most of the people of his generation. Life was simple and a sense of progress and innovation hung in the air, prodded along by the St Louis World's Fair in 1904. World War I came and went while Jack was still a boy and his parents - his father Matthew, who worked for the United Railways Company and his mother, Laura - were more than elated their only son had been too young to participate.

Peacetime didn't stop Jack from joining the Army Air Corp straight out of high school in 1927, freshly 18 and ready to see the world beyond St. Louis. While he'd had a happy childhood, he always felt that even Missouri's second-most progressive city was too small for him. When the Depression hit in 1929, he was glad of the security his enlistment provided and the steady flow of money, however small, he could send home.

When World War II came about, he requested transfer to the 133rd RAF squadron as one of the group of American volunteer pilots stationed at Eglinton, Ireland. With 11 years worth of military life and flying under his belt he was given the rank of Captain and handed a small command in October, 1941. Despite the always lingering uncertainty of war, he had a life he enjoyed. There were men under him that respected him. He met a woman - Estelle Cole - that made him think about settling down for the first time in his life. And he was doing something he loved - flying. He didn't even mind the long stretches of uneventful convoy patrols. Every day in the air, no matter how dull, was better than a day on the ground.

It was during one of these monotonous runs that the instruments in Jack's Spitfire went berserk. In the next blink he and his plane slammed into an invisible wall. The next thing he knew, he and his Spit were sitting in a plane-sized trench in the main concourse of Golden Gate Park, surrounded by curious on-lookers.

Imagine his surprise when someone told him it was 2016 San Francisco?