The War We Could Not Win

The truck's engine died with a shudder. Major Gwynydd Meredith stepped onto Western Australian soil, his boots meeting dust that plumed upward in the still heat.

Canvas tents rose in perfect rows, regulation spacing measured with military precision. Sergeant Sean McMurray directed two privates positioning the last tent poles, his voice economical and certain.

Meredith stood at parade rest, surveying what would become their forward position. The Lewis guns gleamed on makeshift stands, already assembled and aimed at empty horizon.

A figure approached across the flatness. Hat in one hand, shoulders carrying the weight of months watching crops disappear.

"Major Meredith?" The man's voice had the texture of drought. "Jack Fletcher. Third-generation Wheatbelt."

They shook hands. Fletcher's grip was calloused, strong.

"Fact is, Major, they're destroying everything we planted." Fletcher kicked at a dirt clod. "Thousands of them. Moving in flocks like they're coordinating."

Meredith withdrew his pocket watch. Fourteen hundred hours precisely. He snapped it closed with satisfying certainty.

"We will conduct tactical assessment at sixteen hundred hours." His voice maintained measured control. "Superior firepower will resolve this within operational parameters of seventy-two hours."

Fletcher pinched the bridge of his nose. Nodded slowly.

The sound of another vehicle broke the afternoon silence. A government sedan materialized through heat shimmer, dust trailing behind like reluctant agreement.

Margaret Ainsworth emerged with a leather notebook already open. She adjusted her glasses, biting her lower lip as she surveyed the camp.

The juxtaposition struck her immediately—military order imposed beside Fletcher's rusted farm equipment. Lewis guns pointing at wheat fields. Ammunition crates stacked like they faced human enemies.

"Dr. Ainsworth, Agricultural Office." She offered her hand with academic formality. "I am here to document the operation for departmental review."

"Major Gwynydd Purves Meredith, Royal Australian Artillery." He gestured toward the camp. "We anticipate minimal duration for resolution."

Her pen scratched across paper. Every word careful, measured for bureaucratic consumption.

McMurray finished with the tent crews and approached, squinting at the horizon. He rolled a cigarette with deliberate slowness, tobacco pinched between weathered fingers.

Fletcher watched the sergeant's movements. Recognized something in that careful silence.

"You worked bush before enlisting?" Fletcher's question came without preamble.

"Queensland. Tracking mostly." McMurray touched his sergeant stripes, a gesture unconscious and habitual. "Reckon you know your land pretty well."

"Ten years working it alone." Fletcher's jaw tightened. "Thought I could handle anything."

The two men stood in understanding that needed no elaboration. The land taught lessons civilians and officers never learned.

Meredith checked his watch again. Routine provided comfort against uncertainty.

"Sergeant, assemble the men at fifteen thirty hours for tactical briefing." He adjusted his collar. "We commence operations at first light."

"Yes sir." McMurray's response carried no inflection.

Margaret wrote faster now, her academic training faltering against what she sensed but could not yet name. The data suggested this would be straightforward pest control.

The data, she suspected, was wrong.

Fletcher scanned the horizon where wheat met sky without interruption. Somewhere out there, thousands of emus moved with purpose no military doctrine anticipated.

The metallic click of Lewis gun mechanisms being tested echoed across the expanse. Ammunition counted, recounted, logged with precision.

Harsh sun beat down on canvas, creating wavering mirages above golden wheat. Heat pressed against skin, made breathing deliberate.

Meredith stood straighter, confidence radiating from parade-ground posture. Every problem had tactical solution. Every enemy, a weakness to exploit.

McMurray squinted west, reading weather that needed no clouds. He said nothing, fingers touching sergeant stripes again.

Fletcher removed his hat, ran his hand through sweat-dampened hair. Tomorrow the soldiers would learn what the bush already knew.

Margaret closed her notebook. Tomorrow she would document swift military victory.

Tomorrow, she suspected, would teach them all something unexpected.