In the late spring of 1932, the wheat fields of Western Australia had barely begun to recover from years of drought and economic strain when a new and unexpected invader arrived, one that marched in lines, devoured crops with astonishing efficiency, and proved nearly impossible to stop. They were emus, thousands of them, migrating inland after breeding season. For farmers already battling falling prices and scarce resources, the sheer number of birds descending on their lands felt like a final insult. What followed would later be remembered, half in disbelief and half in dark humor, as the Great Emu War, a strange chapter in Australian history where soldiers armed with machine guns attempted, and repeatedly failed, to outmaneuver a flightless bird.
The conflict began when veterans-turned-farmers petitioned the government for help. As part of a post–World War I resettlement initiative, many soldiers had been given farmland in Western Australia. But by 1932, they were struggling. Wheat prices had collapsed, rabbits overwhelmed fencing, and then came the emus, massive birds standing over six feet tall, each capable of consuming large amounts of grain and flattening crops in the process. Estimates suggested more than 20,000 emus had migrated into the Campion district alone, moving in coordinated groups that seemed to overwhelm every barrier placed in their path.
Responding to the farmers’ pleas, the Australian government dispatched a small military detachment led by Major G.P.W. Meredith of the Royal Australian Artillery. He arrived with two soldiers, a pair of Lewis machine guns, and several thousand rounds of ammunition. The mission was straightforward: reduce the emu population and alleviate pressure on the farmers’ crops. Yet the plan unraveled almost immediately. Emus, despite their ungainly appearance, proved remarkably agile, capable of changing direction suddenly and sprinting at surprising speeds. They moved in scattered groups, making them difficult targets even with automatic weapons.
The first attempt to ambush a large flock near Campion ended in failure. When the soldiers opened fire, the emus scattered into smaller clusters, disappearing into the scrub before sustained shooting could take effect. Days later, another effort near a dam produced similarly poor results, the birds moved unpredictably, and the uneven terrain prevented clear lines of fire. Meredith later noted, with a hint of reluctant admiration, that the emus displayed “a certain military sense,” scattering strategically and regrouping out of range.
Newspapers seized on the story, dubbing the conflict the “Emu War,” and reports spread quickly. Despite the lighthearted tone adopted by some editors, the farmers’ situation was serious. The emus continued to damage fences, destroy crops, and disrupt fragile livelihoods. But even with repeated efforts, the military operation yielded few tangible results. Mechanical problems plagued the firearms, and muddy terrain made it difficult to position equipment effectively. A plan to mount one of the machine guns on a truck resulted in a chaotic chase through the fields, with the truck bouncing too violently for accurate shooting.
By early December, after weeks of frustration and minimal impact, the government called off the operation. The withdrawal became the defining moment of the story, the point at which the public narrative crystallized into a strange, almost comedic defeat. Yet it would be unfair to characterize the event as a simple military embarrassment. Subsequent culling programs conducted by farmers themselves, using conventional methods, proved far more effective. The Emu War was less a story of incompetence than a demonstration of how ill-suited military tactics were to a wildlife management problem.
In the aftermath, the government shifted focus to supporting farmers with fencing subsidies, including improvements to barrier fences designed originally to deter rabbits. These measures did far more to contain emu populations than machine guns ever could. The emus, for their part, continued to thrive, their populations rebounding naturally in the decades that followed. Today, they remain a protected species under Australian law, and the Great Emu War has taken on a folkloric status, a reminder of the unpredictable ways wildlife can collide with human enterprise.
What makes the Emu War endure in public memory is the contrast between its absurdity and its context. It unfolded during a period of economic desperation, on land worked by veterans trying to rebuild their lives. Behind the humor is a story about survival, of farmers, of landscapes, and of the emus themselves, creatures that resisted even the full weight of modern weaponry simply by doing what they had done for thousands of years: running, scattering, and surviving. The Great Emu War was never truly a war, but it remains one of history’s strangest confrontations, a moment when human plans collided head-on with the natural world and came away the lesser for it.
Sources & Further Reading:
– Australian National Archives: Reports on the 1932 emu control operations
– Western Australian Museum: Agricultural impacts and environmental history
– National Library of Australia: Contemporary newspaper coverage of the “Emu War”
– Journal of Australian Studies: Analyses of post–World War I soldier settlement programs
– State Records Office of Western Australia: Correspondence between farmers and government officials
(One of many stories shared by Headcount Coffee — where mystery, history, and late-night reading meet.)
