Birdbrains

“I swear, Corporal, if I wasn’t experiencing this for myself, I wouldn’t have believed it ever happened for an instant. The very idea is enough to make me laugh myself sick.”

“Oh, come now, Private! This is nothing like the Great War.”

Private James Jenkins shook his head as he regarded the Lewis gun clutched in his large, weathered hands. “Which, ironically enough,” the lower-ranking soldier muttered, “was supposed to be the war to end all wars. Who’d have thought the Royal Australian Artillery would be launching a full-scale strike against a bunch of birds that aren’t even designed to fly?”

Next to him, Corporal William Judd patted his own gun as affectionately as if he were patting the head of a dog. The taller, more seasoned soldier bristled his thick brown mustache with every breath as he asked, “What cause have you for complaint, Private? All we have to do is thin out a flock of flightless, featherbrained pests who’ve been wreaking havoc on the local farmers. And we’re bagging at least a hundred of these blighters per week with no casualties on our end.”

“Only the casualty of our dignity,” Jenkins whispered below his breath. Then he added a little more audibly, “At least kangaroos, dingoes, and most other wild animals are smart enough to avoid human civilization whenever possible. These emus, on the other hand, appear to be a great deal smarter than we’ve given them credit for. It’s almost as though they’ve developed a brilliant strategy all their own.”

Judd shook his head as well and loudly scoffed, “They can’t be that smart if they keep coming back to the places where they’re easy enough targets. Wide open space for mile upon mile, no trees or bushes or even big enough rocks to hide behind—it’s almost as though these brainless creatures have a death wish.”

“I suppose any creature becomes willing enough to risk life and limb when it comes to food,” Jenkins said as he pulled on the broad brim of his bush hat. “And at a time when food is in high demand but the economy is in sorry shape…”

“Quiet, Jenkins!” Judd hissed like a snake, raising a beefy hand in front of his companion’s beaky nose. “There’s a whole fleet of ‘em heading our way now! Make sure your gun is ready!”

Seeing the looming feathered lot on the sunbaked horizon for himself, Jenkins couldn’t help widening his eyes and murmuring in genuine awe, “Crikey! I’ve never seen such a fleet before, not even in the Great War. You’re sure we can take ‘em all from this spot, Corporal?”

Judd’s broad mustached face merely bore a self-satisfied smirk as he cocked his gun and took well-practiced aim. “My dear old chap, this’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel or you may call me Corporal Mudd hereafter. Now’s the time to show these birdbrains who’s really at the top of the food chain!”

Any chance for further talk was lost in the resounding barrage fire. Despite the numerous bullets and even more numerous feathers flying through the blazing December afternoon, only two or three emus fell to the ground without getting up again. At one point, the massive group broke into numerous smaller groups, darting about from here to there so much faster than either man could track. What the emus lacked in flight ability, they made up for in spades with speed and most remarkable resilience, and Jenkins (in spite of himself) couldn’t help admiring how such towering, lumbering animals could move about so swiftly and nimbly, or how they could shrug off a direct shot as if such a shot were no more bothersome than the nip of a bush fly.

Once, when Judd gave a dingo-like howl upon striking a particularly persistent emu that got the closest to the guns, that emu somehow managed to stay on its feet despite losing half its plumage and bleeding all over from several nasty injuries. Then Judd furrowed his lofty brow in disbelieving rage and nearly foamed at the mouth like a mad dog; Jenkins almost expected the man to forget his gun and finish off his feathered adversary on the spot with his bare hands.

After what must have been many hours (or many minutes that felt like hours), Jenkins lowered his smoking gun and could barely speak through the ringing of his ears, “Well, that does it. I’m clean out of ammo.”

Judd, having used up all of his ammunition as well, could only stay as still as a slumbering koala and gawp at the sizable flock that continued to frolic about the vast Australian flatland as if they hadn’t just danced their way through a deadly volley. The corporal could hardly look his comrade’s way anymore, let alone splutter, “That didn’t happen. Tell me that didn’t just happen, Private.”

“Well, sir, I can no more tell a lie than Honest Abe could, can I?” Tossing his unproductive weapon aside and plopping himself right into the bright red dirt, Jenkins hugged his knees to his broad chest and asked in a quiet voice that could have cut a Kakadu plum clean in half, “So, what should we do now, Corporal Mudd?”

At length, Judd settled next to Jenkins in the ruddy dirt, keeping his stupefied gaze upon the undefeated emus who not only stayed where they were but joined each other in a long, raucous chorus of cawing, almost as if they were laughing. When the emu who sustained the worst battle wounds began to strut rather pompously back and forth before the befuddled men, Judd further narrowed his eyes and stuck out his lower lip in a childish pout. “Well, Jenkins, I’ve just one thing more to say. Those silly birdbrains ought to be glad we can’t understand ‘em.”

“Really?” Jenkins remarked as he spared his companion the merest sidelong glance. “Because I rather believe I can understand ‘em.”

“How can you?”

“Like you told me just now, Judd—bird brains.”