by Nick DiChario

Mr. Duck hated watching the war from his window – the perilous winking in the sunlight of steel gun barrels and flashing swords, soldiers falling, never to rise again, carrion birds circling and pecking at the dead as their comrades whisked them off to shallow graves – but what could he do? There was nothing else to watch. He had only one window from which to view the outside world. From there, he saw the red, blue, green, yellow, and eggplant-colored uniforms charging and clashing like sadistic peacocks. What madness. What nonsense. Why?

Two loud knocks sounded at the door. He turned and glanced at the clock on the wall. Twelve noon. Lunchtime!

There was no inside knob on the door, so he waited anxiously for it to open, and there, as usual, stood Mr. Ben and Ms. Nut, dressed in their snug gray outfits, buttoned-up shirts, austere ties and caps, and lacquered boots.

Mr. Ben smiled. “May we come in, Mr. Duck?”

“Yes!” Mr. Duck replied. “Please, come in.”

Mr. Ben rolled the serving table into the room. Ms. Nut followed behind him, carrying her clipboard and ballpoint pen. Through the open door came the distant rumble of artillery and the acrid smell of gunpowder, which Mr. Duck disliked but soon forgot as Mr. Ben unveiled his lunch: a steaming mound of meat-plop on a silver tray with a bright yellow dandelion garnish.

“May we sit down?” asked Mr. Ben.

“Oh,” replied Mr. Duck. Mr. Ben and Ms. Nut never wanted to sit with him. They were always in a rush, and there was nowhere for them to sit. He had only one chair in the room. One table. One lamp. One toilet. One sink. One shower. One bed. One cabinet. One dresser. One clock. Every so often, a servant came with fresh sheets, towels, and clean khakis for him to change into. A doctor with a stethoscope arrived occasionally to listen to his heartbeat, followed closely by a barber to clip his hair. It was a nice arrangement by and by. He had no complaints other than the displeasing view from his room.

Ms. Nut snapped her fingers, and a short, skinny bald man entered with two folding chairs. He was wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and a thin black bowtie. He unfolded the chairs, took hold of yesterday’s empty lunch cart, and fled the room.

Mr. Ben and Ms. Nut sat down and said nothing.

Mr. Duck wasn’t sure what to do, but he felt famished, lunch being his one meal of the day, so he settled in to eat. He wanted to be polite, naturally. “Can I offer you some lunch?” he asked.

“No, no, certainly not,” Mr. Ben said. “You go ahead and enjoy your plop. We’ll talk. You’ll listen.”

Mr. Duck picked up his knife and fork and began to carve the gelatinous meat product.

Ms. Nut clicked her pen and jotted something on the clipboard.

After a time, Mr. Ben said, “Firstly, I want to say that you’ve been a fine acquisition.”

“Acquisition?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Mr. Ben. “We couldn’t have asked for a better man. We’ll be sorry to see you go, won’t we, Ms. Nut?”

Ms. Nut answered with a skeptical snort.

Mr. Duck put down the fork, finished his swallow, and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “Go?” he asked. “Go where?”

“To the front,” Mr. Ben said. “It’s time.”

Mr. Duck stared at him. “What do you mean? What time? What front?”

“Ho! That’s rich!” Ms. Nut barked.

She snapped her fingers, and the little bald man returned, pushing a wobbly aluminum clothing rack on wheels. Mr. Duck was alarmed to see the richly colored uniforms hanging from the rack that he’d seen every day through the window: red, blue, green, yellow, and eggplant.

“You are to pick a uniform and put it on this afternoon,” Ms. Nut said. “We’ll come back for you in a few hours, after we’ve made the rounds.”

“A uniform?”

“It’s a very important decision,” said Mr. Ben. “The uniform will be the color of your new regiment. You get to choose. Isn’t that nice?”

“What regiment?”

Ms. Nut huffed. “Your fighting regiment, obviously.”

Mr. Ben nodded and grinned. “There’s no rush. Enjoy the rest of your lunch. Then, try on the uniforms. They’ll all fit. They’re cut to your size. But one might feel more – I don’t know – more you than the others, if you know what I mean.”

“More me?”

Ms. Nut and Mr. Ben stood up.

“Well, that’s that,” Mr. Ben said.

“If you have questions,” added Ms. Nut, “forget about them.”

She snapped her fingers again, and the little man dashed in, grabbed the folding chairs, and scuttled out the door.

“Wait. But I do have questions. I don’t understand. I’m to go out there?” He pointed toward the window.

Ms. Nut glowered. “What did you expect? That you’d go on living like this forever?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Duck replied. “Honestly? Why not? This is my life, isn’t it? It’s the only life I know.”

Ms. Nut turned to Mr. Ben. “I never understand why some acquisitions think about things so much. What’s the matter with them?”

“Now, now, Ms. Nut, we must be patient. This isn’t the first time an acquisition has been confused, and it won’t be the last.”

Why couldn’t Mr. Duck remember anything that had happened to him outside of the room? He’d never thought about it before. Why hadn’t he thought about it? He tried to recall his past. His brain was a well. There were things hidden deep inside – he could feel them down there – but it was too dark for him to see. When he sent a bucket down into its murky depths, it came up empty.

“Why can’t I remember anything? What’s my name? Mr. Duck isn’t my real name, is it?”

Ms. Nut clicked her pen aggressively. “Your real name is now and forever shall be Mr. Duck. We call all our male acquisitions Mr. Duck and all our female acquisitions Ms. Bob.”

“Ms. Bob? Do you mean to say there are women here?”

“Of course,” Mr. Ben said. “The war effort is open to anyone who wants to fight.”

“But I don’t want to fight.”

“Au contraire,” said Ms. Nut. She flipped through her papers. “Here it is, right here. Your signed affidavit.” She yanked it from the clipboard and waved it at him. “Stamped and notarized.”

“I don’t remember signing anything!”

Mr. Ben patted Mr. Duck’s shoulder. “There, there, Mr. Duck, no need to stress. You’re not supposed to remember. People join the war effort for many reasons. To discharge a prison sentence, escape financial ruin, support the war economy, or simply because they’re passionate about what we do. We don’t know your motives, of course. That’s confidential. But I can assure you, unequivocally, there are no bad reasons to fight.”

“I’m not supposed to remember my memories? You’ve taken them? Why?”

Ms. Nut checked her wristwatch. “Mr. Ben, we have a schedule to keep.”

“That’s quite all right, Ms. Nut. Nothing is more important than the care and comfort of our acquisitions. Remember our motto.”

Ms. Nut stood at attention and placed her hand over her heart. “A happy soldier is a killing soldier.”

Mr. Duck backed away. “I’m perfectly happy not killing anyone.”

“Take my word for it,” Mr. Ben said, “you’re better off without your memories. Studies have shown that soldiers who remember things – things like the people they loved, their homes and families, or traumatic experiences they’d rather forget – struggle in warfare and never reach their full potential. This can be dangerous for everyone.”

“In short,” said Ms. Nut. “They’re afraid to die.”

“Me, too,” Mr. Duck said. “I’m afraid to die. I don’t even understand why you want me to fight. How do I know who or what I’m fighting for, who’s right, or who’s wrong?”

Ms. Nut guffawed. “Ho! As if.”

“Right or wrong has no place in war,” explained Mr. Ben. “We wouldn’t want to confuse the soldiers, would we?”

“I won’t do it. I won’t fight. Not for you or anyone. You can’t make me.”

Ms. Nut sighed and looked at Mr. Ben. “Let’s drug him.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Mr. Ben said. “We’d need to fill out a requisition, and then there’s the mandatory pharmaceutical waiting period to consider. The war is moving closer to our garrison every day, much faster than we anticipated, I dare say. We have quotas to fill. The sooner we get him dressed and into the war the better. Mr. Duck is just upset, isn’t that right, Mr. Duck?”

“Yes, yes, I’m upset. I’m not going out into that bloodbath!”

“I don’t get it, Mr. Ben,” said Ms. Nut. “He has an excellent view of the war. Why isn’t he desensitized?”

Mr. Ben shrugged. “It’s hard to say. His fear does seem excessive. Didn’t headquarters just issue a memo reporting a rise in cases of transition anxiety at the deployment phase, right when the desensitization should kick in?”

“Pshaw!” snorted Ms. Nut. “Mr. Duck, if you’re afraid to fight, you’d better damn well get over it.”

Mr. Ben held up his hands in a gesture of compromise. “Tell you what we’ll do, Mr. Duck. Spend some time alone with the uniforms. Try them on. Get a feel for them. We’ll come back at noon tomorrow with another lunch, you can tell us what color you’ve chosen, and then off you’ll go to war like a good Mr. Duck. We’ve been kind to you so far, haven’t we?”

“Yes, before, but not now!”

“Oh, what a blockhead,” Ms. Nut said. “I can tell you he’ll be just as bad tomorrow. But we’ll do it your way, Mr. Ben, to keep our schedule.” She ripped another sheet of paper from her clipboard, hurled it to the floor, and marched outside.

“Don’t mind Ms. Nut,” Mr. Ben said. “She means well. And take heart. You’ve joined the world’s second oldest profession. You can be proud of that. People can’t live without war. It’s in our nature. It’s who we are. Things will go easier for you if you embrace this essential truth.” Then he left, too, shutting the door behind him.

Mr. Duck ran after them and banged on the door. “Let me out! I won’t fight I tell you!” But no, they’d locked him in, as always, and he knew they wouldn’t come back until their appointed hour.

He darted to the window and yanked and pushed and pulled at the framing, but the window wouldn’t budge either. His breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. Then he spotted the paper that Ms. Nut had thrown to the floor. He swept it up and read it. It was a pre-printed form letter:

Dear Mr. Duck, this letter is to inform you that you are contractually obliged to choose a uniform and fight in the war.
– Cordially, Your Acquisitors, Mr. Ben and Ms. Nut

He fell onto the bed. He was afraid to look outside. The fighting. The blood. The death. Why would he have signed an affidavit to fight in a war? How desperate had he been? How could he have let anyone steal his memories? He dipped the bucket down into the dark waters of his brain, but it once again came up empty.

Despite his dread, he returned to the window. Mr. Ben and Ms. Nut were right. The fighting was moving closer. All the colors were killing each other wholesale. Was he mistaken, or had he just seen an eggplant decapitate another eggplant with a scimitar? He trembled and turned away, only to face the uniforms hanging in his room. Mr. Ben had said it was important to pick a color, but what difference did a color make when everyone was dying in equal measure?

Mr. Duck sat at the table and stared at his meat-plop. He’d lost his appetite. The mere thought of eating another bite made him sick.

• • •

The war stormed on for the rest of the day, moving ever closer to his room. When night fell, Mr. Duck tried to sleep but tossed and turned in bed. The uniforms haunted him in the dark. He got up in the middle of the night and paced the room. Mr. Ben and Ms. Nut would send him to his death. He had a right to know why, didn’t he? He had a right to remember his loves, losses, joys, and sorrows. The people who had wronged him and those he’d wronged. His regrets and unfinished business. He had a right to remember the messiness that added up to his life. His life. His name. Not theirs. He had a right.

Exhaustion conquered him just before sunrise. He woke only when Mr. Ben and Ms. Nut knocked on the door. He leaped out of bed. The clock on the wall showed twelve noon. Lunchtime already! He ran to the window and looked outside. The day’s fighting was well underway. The troops had pushed and pulled closer and closer to the garrison.

Mr. Ben and Ms. Nut swung open the door and came inside.

“Good day, Mr. Duck!” Mr. Ben announced cheerfully.

The little bald man with the bowtie followed closely behind them, wheeled the lunch cart into the room, and then scurried away again.

“Still in khakis,” declared Ms. Nut. “I told you so.”

“I object,” Mr. Duck said. “I object to the way you’re treating me. I object to the war.”

“Let’s be reasonable,” said Mr. Ben. “Pick a uniform, put it on, and then eat a nice plop before you report to your regiment. We’re all very civilized here.”

“I … I can’t …”

Mr. Ben opened his palms affably. “Of course you can. Aren’t you hungry?”

“No!” But that was untrue. Mr. Duck was very hungry. He hadn’t eaten yesterday’s lunch, which now sat cold and curdled on yesterday’s tray. Today’s plop was grilled, smothered in gravy, and smelled delicious. He began to salivate. “I can’t put on a uniform. Not today. I need more time to think.”

“Time is the one luxury we don’t have,” Mr. Ben said.

“Please, please, go away,” said Mr. Duck. “Just leave my lunch and go.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” asked Ms. Nut, full of sarcasm. “I’ve got news for you, Mr. Duck. No more free lunches.” She spun the cart around and headed out the door.

“Wait!” cried Mr. Duck. “Mr. Ben, please –”

Just then, an explosion rocked the walls of the barracks.

“I’m sorry, but Ms. Nut is correct. Time is of the essence. The front is collapsing. Put on a uniform. We’ll come back for you after the lunch rounds, so be ready.” He removed a letter from his breast pocket and handed it to Mr. Duck. It was another form letter:

Dear Mr. Duck, this letter is to inform you that you are contractually obliged to fight in the war before the end of the day. We shall have no choice but to execute you by firing squad in the unlikely event that you refuse.
– Warmly, Your Acquisitors, Mr. Ben and Ms. Nut

Mr. Ben left the room and closed the door behind him. Another explosion hit so near the barracks that it crumpled Mr. Duck to his hands and knees. He dropped the letter, scrambled to his feet, and ran to look outside.

The troops were close, so close he could discern the men from the women. Some were lying dead on the battlefield, others taking bullets and screeching in agony, and even more clashing in the middle of the melee with swords and bayonets, stabbing and beating each other, awash in blood.

He ran to the clothing rack, ripped the uniforms off their hangers, threw them to the ground, and stomped on them with all the passion of a child’s doomed tantrum. He didn’t know what else to do.

Shells whistled. Another explosion struck near the building and shook the floor. A crack traveled the length of the wall, and dust sprinkled from the ceiling.

Mr. Duck dashed to the window just in time to see a mob of soldiers surging forward and trampling across the grounds of the compound. Wait. Was that the skinny bald man with the bowtie who had come to his room so often with Mr. Ben and Ms. Nut? Yes! A blue soldier had captured him and forced him to his knees. The soldier – a woman – raised her gun and smashed the butt of her rifle into the little man’s face.

“No!” Mr. Duck cried. “He’s a nice man! He’s never hurt anyone!”

But it was no use.

Mr. Duck ran to the door and banged on it with both fists. “Let me out!” he shouted, but no one came.

A bomb struck the barracks!

The force of the explosion tossed Mr. Duck off his feet and dropped him on his rump. The front wall split open like a coconut. Smoke, debris, and blasted pine collapsed into his room. He cleared the gunk from his eyes and coughed up a lungful of dust. The falling wreckage had torn his khakis, blood oozed from gashes along his arms and legs, and yet he felt no pain. He was burning adrenaline at mind-numbing speed.

Now there was nowhere to hide. He stepped over the rubble toward the rupture in the wall. His ears rang in C sharp. Fighters screamed, guns fired, and swords clashed. Tromping soldiers and falling bombs caused the ground to rumble. Despite all this, he crept outside. He knew he had to run. But where?

Just then, he noticed a woman crawling through a breach in the collapsed wall beside him. A woman! Yes. She must be one of the Ms. Bobs that Ms. Nut had mentioned. She wore khakis like his. Had she also refused to fight? When their eyes met, he knew the answer, for he saw his own embittered, envenomed puzzlement reflected there.

A man charged at her with his bayonet. Mr. Duck saw it coming. “Ms. Bob! Look out!”

Ms. Bob, still on her knees, glanced up and bobbed sideways. The soldier missed with his downward thrust, threw himself off balance, tripped, and tumbled over, impaling himself on a pine shard riven from the barracks.

“Thank you, Mr. Duck,” Ms. Bob said.

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

Then, in a flash of clairvoyance, he saw their future together fall into place. He and Ms. Bob would escape into the hills. They’d survive on berries, bark, and mushrooms, never killing a thing for as long as they lived. If they heard a gun or a bomb, they’d run deeper into the woods. Ms. Nut and Mr. Ben would never find them. The war would never find them. They’d have one another to love, honor, and cherish for as long as they both lived.

Always and forever, Mr. Duck and Ms. Bob …

He climbed toward her over a demolished heap of cement. “Here. Take my hand. I’ll help you up.”

Ms. Bob reached for him but stopped short. “Mr. Duck,” she said. “Duck!”

Alas, it was too late. A soldier came up behind him with a carbine and shot him in the back of the head, splattering his brains across the ruins.

In his final moment – in the zeptosecond it took for the bullet to annihilate his thinking – the well that imprisoned his memories cracked open, and he remembered – he remembered –

My name is Mr. –