Tactical Evasion

Every part of the new Ford B model rattled as it bounded over the uneven terrain, jouncing the three occupants in the bed, as well as some old farm tools, around as it went. Dust flew, and Gunner John O'Halloran covered his nose with his white undershirt to keep from breathing it in.

He leaned forward, using the top of the truck’s cab to steady his elbows, holding the army-issued Lewis machine gun tight to his shoulder. He closed one eye, looking down the rib of the gun, searching for his target.

There. Ahead on the left side, bodies dressed in fluffy brown feathers raced in different directions, their strong, sinewy legs stretching far and fast as they sprinted across the wheatfield. Inexplicably, their heads didn’t bob with the rest of their bodies. Instead, they seemed to float along in smooth lines, stabilized by the beasts’ long necks.

John tried to steady his aim, but each time he found one, the truck would hit a rock, or a hole, or some other obstruction on the landscape, bouncing him and the machine gun off target.

John hadn’t joined the army to be a quitter. He adjusted his grip, huddling lower to the roof, trying to find a rhythm to the random jolting. Then, just as the barrel passed by the target, he squeezed the trigger.

The familiar kick of the gun knocked against his shoulder as a burst of shots fired. Ahead, tufts of dust kicked up from where the bullets impacted the earth.

John had missed his target. Again.

“Bloody hell, I didn’t survive the great war just to be bested by these beasts!” Major Meredith boomed over the revving of the engine and clattering of loose tools. “Shoot again, Gunner!”

John took a steadying breath, though the dust assaulting his lunges had the opposite effect. He tried to find one of their feathered foes, gritting his teeth as he squeezed the trigger once more.

More bullets flew- and hit the ground behind the sprinting birds.

“This entire project has come a guster,” Sergeant Sean McMurray muttered. He was standing, one hand clutching his binoculars and the other clinging for dear life to the Ford’s frame beside John.

His voice must have carried, as Major Meredith, seated on the wheel well behind them, shouted against the wind. “Not yet it hasn’t! Focus, O’Halloran!”

John made another attempt, his jaw clenched so tightly it started to ache. He did his best, fighting to get his weapon on target, but the birds were much further now, scattered across the fields. As frustrating as it was, he had to give them credit. These Emus were implementing what had to be some of the best guerilla war tactics the Australian army had ever seen.

He fired again anyways, though this time he had no idea where the shots landed.

Who knew Emus could run so fast? Each time the three soldiers came across a group of the massive birds, the animals skedaddled, ducking and dodging bullets as if they’d been trained for special operations. On the rare occasion John thought he’d hit one, it just kept running, as if the beasts’ feathers were bullet proof.

The truck slowed, the driver aware they had lost their chance. On a road, the ford would be able to outrun an emu, but offroad the animals had every tactical advantage, and they were not keen to give that up.

Major Meredith cursed some choice words while John exchanged looks with McMurray. The sergeant looked exasperated, as if he had something better to be doing with his time then culling large flightless birds with bad attitudes.

John could agree on one thing; this strategy wasn’t working.

As the kissed the horizon and farmer’s truck exhausted its fuel, the small team of soldiers called it a day, albeit an unsuccessful one, and turned back to camp. Major Meredith grumbled the entire way. The three soldiers had been dispatched to help the farmers with an unusually large influx of pesky emus that were tearing up crops and breaking down fences, laying the agriculture of the small region of Campion asunder. They had only been sent on this mission a couple of days ago, but already it felt like months.

With two machine guns in tow, John O'Halloran thought it’d be one of the easiest assignments of his career. Cull a few thousand birds, get praised by the farmers and people of Campion, and go home a hero. Oh, how very wrong he had been.

“We need a new strategy,” Meredith announced when they arrived back at their tent.

John had been thinking the same thing all the way back. “Sir. We know they move across farmer Clark’s property to the watering hole first thing in the morning,” he said quickly. “We can set up an ambush for the ol’ drongos.”

Meredith grinned. “Brilliant. We’ll move out first thing, before the sun comes up. O'Halloran, I want our artillery brought out in force.”

By artillery, the Major meant the only two firearms the army had sent with them. “Yes Sir,” John replied anyways.

The next morning, they set out in the darkness. As the gunner, it was John’s job to prepare the machine guns. He was meticulous in his planning, positioning them where they had good visibility to see the enemy, but enough cover to hide. After picking the most strategic places, he and Sergeant McMurray moved vegetation around to conceal themselves. Emus, they’d discovered, had excellent eyesight.

Then they hunkered down on their stomachs and waited.

As the sun rose, a golden blanket of light descended upon the area, falling on bushes and reflecting against the water. Wrens, honeyeaters, and finches fluttered about, singing to each other the coming of spring on the warming November day.

John focused his breath and considered taking a brief nap while they waited for the heat to drive the emus to come drink. He didn’t get a chance.

Movement through the bushes caught his eye, and he lifted his head, his eyes fixed on the spot. It moved again. Then, a large brown emu strutted out, its head turning in small, sharp motions as it observed the area. It walked cautiously, yet with an air of confidence John had to admire. One assertive step at a time, the bird moved until it reached the water’s edge. It paused, its beady eyes passing over where they laid in wait.

John held his breath, not daring to even exhale a breath.

The area must have passed inspection, as the bird ducked its head down, opening its beak and taking several gulps of water.

John pulled his firearm closer. Major Meredith nudged him, signaling him to hold. He waited, his hand shaking as more Emus stepped into view. Soon, the watering hole was surrounded. There had to be nearly a thousand, all basking in the sunlight as they sipped at the water. Some playfully chased each other around. Others stood still, fluffing their feathers up.

“Now.” Meredith’s voice came in a soft whisper. John forced himself to relax, as his training had taught. He picked one target, and opened fired.

the area exploded with the loud thump thump thump of the machine gun as bullets flew through the air. A few hit their targets and the emus scattered like leaves in the wind.

“We got um now!” Meredith shouted, slamming his fists into the dirt in front of him. Just as those words left his mouth, the gun stopped. The sudden quiet screamed in John’s ears as he pulled the trigger again. Nothing.

He sat up, ignoring the Major’s cursing as he searched for the problem. A shell casing appeared stove piped in the ejection port of the firearm. John leaned over, first pulling at the shell then shaking the gun, attempting to dislodge the jam.

“Get that blasted thing working, those bloody bastards are getting away!”

On his left, Sergeant McMurray seemed to be having some sort of similar issue, as he wasn’t firing either.

Emus were still running, bolting out of the area as fast as their spindly legs could carry them.

Finally, John managed to clear the shell. He checked his feedline, then hunkered back into position. By the time he looked down the barrel, most of the emus had made it a safe distance away. He picked the closest one he could find and sent a hail marry of rounds at it, though it only seemed to make the bird run away faster.

He pushed himself back to his knees and glanced toward Meredith. The Major was sitting back on his heels, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed as he heaved a sigh.

“We don’t have to tell the public about this, right?” Sergeant McMurray asked, rising to his feet a short distance away. “I mean, O'Halloran did manage to knock a few buggers over.”

John glanced up. Indeed, a few of the emus had been taken out. A hand full. Out of what must have been nearly a thousand. Yes, it would be best if they kept this between the three of them.

If word of this humiliation got out, the world might view this as a defeat. And what army could admit defeat to a bunch of flightless birds?

Major Meredith cleared his throat. “Pack up the guns, gentlemen.” He didn’t say anything else as he rose and headed back to their vehicle. As John unloaded his firearm, he wondered what this would mean for the operation, and for the Australian army. He thought one more time, desperately to himself, that surely they wouldn’t call it a defeat.