Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
I remembered riding up in the elevator, the moments inside, the faint Not while I am alive, it won't! It surely was all right for me to let myself do it now. I couldn't have I ran. newspaper account of the failure of a monumental human adventure in the Get help? Not this old lady and her daughter. Not this Neanderthal sailor on his ex-Army, Lions Club member, beefy, respectable, well-intentioned, not a complete fool. The guy on the corner reading a newspaper by the bus Still, I wasn't worried. It was actually too early in the day. It wasn't as if it were evening or anything like that. would say if I cued him with "baseball" or "Russia" instead of the key I should have known better, but I wanted to touch him in some way, make him know I was alive. I grabbed him and shook him by the shoulders, and there was a whoosh and as I might have expected he collapsed like the insubstantiality he was. Cartons, bottles, what looked like the skin of a dehydrated human being—obviously, on second thought, only the discarded skin of one of The old man sat behind a fortress of magazines and books, treacherously reading the funnies in a newspaper. His bald head swiveled on the hunched shoulders of his sweater which was azuring toward white. He parents, children, grandparents, the caption: Vodka is a Part of the I had been wrong. The shining instrument had not been a hypodermic needle. "You're tough," Sergeant said as I eased back into focus. "You aren't, not without help," I told him in disgust. grab up them horror magazines and read and read, until sweat starts "Conditioning? Conditioning?" It came out of me, vortexing up, outside of my piloting. "What have you done to my mind?" "We've been trying to get it to grow back up," Sergeant said upon stacks of air-war pulp magazines. "Fifteen cents for ones in good condition," the old man pronounced the stand being young and knowing they will have to go through the same reasonably. "Think of this. Fountain of Youth. Immortality. Rejuvenation. This is it. Never mind how it works. Most minds can't memories. You remember only those things out of the past you ritual, "a dime for ones with incomplete covers, three for a quarter, conscious memories to your id and super-ego, leaving room for new "Identity," I repeated. "I have no identity. My identity is a dream. I have two identities—one of them years beyond the other." Sergeant tilted his head and his eyes at me and slapped me across the face. "Don't go back on me now. We gave you the best we could. The Rejuvenation Service couldn't help it if you were too old for a beta . You shouldn't have waited until you were so old, so very old. We used the very oldest sets and mock-ups we had for , all of them. The old man was watching me. He skittered back across the floor and betas I stared at the stacks of flying story magazines and I felt the slow My sickness was terrible. It is as bad to be nostalgic for things homesick. didn't know, or think that I would ever know. War. This was the biggest part of it all, I think. You identify with the hero of any story if it's well enough written. But the identification I felt with the pilots in air-war stories was to meet the Fokker triplanes in the dawn sky. Then in a moment my outfitted with iron edges to deflect bullets that did not pass to the synchronization. Look at that chivalrous wave. You can almost see the dueling scar on his cheek from old Krautenberg. He can afford to be chivalrous in that Fokker. I'd like to trade this skiddoo for it. That may be just what I do too if I don't watch it. Sr., in a western as a badman. He was protecting a doll-faced blonde gang and dismounts, her blouse shredded, revealing one breast—is I had seen movies like that before. Flicker Flashbacks between chapters of I had seen these pictures before the war. The war had made a lot of difference in my life. Comic books were cut down to half their size, from 64 to 32 pages, and prices had gone up to where you had to pay $17 for a pair of shoes, so And at school I had bought Defense—War—Savings—Security—Liberty—Freedom—I had bought stamps at school. I never did get enough to trade in for a bond, but Mama had I dodged in front of a horse-drawn garbage wagon and behind an electric battles checkering the street behind me. Something was wrong. Two men were in the front seat. The driver showed "What were you running from?" the driver asked. How could I tell him that? Before I even got a chance to try, he said: "What did you do?" "I didn't do anything!" "Resisting an officer," Sarge said almost sadly. At that, Carl loped up beside him. The two of them started to beat me. My middle was going to be sorer in the morning than it was now. not have been an aviator in World War One. I was in my mid-twenties anybody could tell that by looking at me. The time was the late 'Fifties anybody could tell that from Memories of air combat in Spads and Nieuports stirred in me by old magazines, Quentin Reynolds, and re-runs of were mere hallucinations. Neither could I remember drinking bootleg hooch in speak-easies, hearing Floyd Gibbons announce the Dempsey-Tunney fight, or paying $3.80 to get into the first run of The thing I must remember, I told myself, was that my recollections these false memories in a closed curve. true. They were a small boy's bad dream about symbolized authority. They were keeping me from re-entering the past where I belonged, punishing me to make me stay in my trap of the present. That was the worst part of it. False memories, feelings of persecution, that was one thing. Believing that you are actively caught up in a mixture of the past with the present, a Daliesque viscosity of reality, I could have pulled loose from him, but somehow I felt that if I did try to pull away, the grip would tighten and I would never get away. I looked up into that long, hard, blank face that seemed so recently familiar. I nodded. What I was thinking could only be another symptom of my to fight with at the beginning. Or, if you prefer, you can sit "I feel," I said, "that I am caught up in some kind of time travel." "Then how can there be any such thing? It can't be real." "I know that! I want to be cured of imagining it." "The first step is to utterly renounce the idea. Stop thinking about the past. Think of the future." "How did you know I keep slipping back into the past?" I asked. "Of course." I stood up. "I did not!" "Please try to keep from getting violent, Mr. Turner. People like you Sergeant shook his head sadly. I realized how it all sounded. "Good—GOD!" I moaned. swelling, pulsing. By the way he moved, I knew he was used to physical combat, but you can't win them all, and I had been in a lot of scraps when I had been younger. (Hadn't I?) I stepped in while he was trying to decide whether to use the hypo on fourteenth, I remembered. I had seen it done in movies all my life. Harold Lloyd, Douglas Fairbanks, Buster Keaton were always doing it for some reason or other. I had a good reason. A sleep, a reawakening, a lie. It's nothing like that. It's nothing.

<question>:
Why is the protagonist confused by his memories of fighting in WWI?

<options>:
A Because he stayed home instead of fighting during WWI
B Because he should not have been born during WWI
C Because WWI was happening currently
D Because he was too old to fight during WWI

<answer>:

B