The three children’s stories that I enjoyed reading the most in recent years shared two things particularly in common. First, the fact that they feature anthropomorphic animals, which perhaps isn’t surprising given that this is pretty standard fare for children’s stories. But the second commonality, which is the fact that in each text, those animals went to war and actively engaged in at least one battle or more, did surprise me – especially when I considered the treatment of warfare in each book.
**Spoilers for The Wind in the Willows, Watership Down and Redwall **
In Watership Down, life is hard for the rabbits of Sandleford Warren, who find themselves emigrating across Hampshire in pursuit of a safe place to live, away from the threat of predators and housing developments. However the biggest foe facing these rabbits is one of their own kind: General Woundwart, the largest, meanest rabbit you can imagine. Woundwart leads a small army of lapines to destroy the home of the newly settled rabbits, all culminating in a battle at Watership Down.
In Redwall, war is at the heart of the story, in which Redwall Abbey is constantly teetering on the edge of an invasion from the army of Cluny the Scourge – a bilge-rat who is equal parts conniving and cruel. Cluny has the abbey surrounded early on, and the book is punctuated by skirmishes between the two parties.
In The Wind in The Willows, war only rears its head as an interruption to the frivolities of the country lifestyle being enjoyed by Toad, Mole, Ratty and Badger. It appears as an effort to reclaim Toad’s home, which has been overtaken by ‘Wild Wooders’ (mostly weasels and stoats) in his absence. The final battle is technically the culmination of weeks of planning from Mole, Ratty and Badger, however we are not a party to this, as during this time the reader follows Toad’s rambling adventures instead. The battle for Toad Hall is therefore a distinct departure in content and tone from the rest of the story.
All three children’s stories present war through similar terms, yet for different purposes – and one in particular is less inclined to signify the negative consequences of war and battle.
War as Play
These are ultimately children’s stories, so we might expect something lighter tonally, even when difficult topics are being broached. However ‘playing at war’ has long been considered a form of entertainment for children. Toy soldiers and war games have been a popular pastime for children historically, and the popularity of FPS games with young gamers in present day has ensured that the tradition of battle as an enticing form of play for children continues.
Many children’s books lean into this by highlighting the more ‘playful’ aspects of war – namely, boobytraps and subterfuge. Interestingly, all three novels feature both in the form of tunneling; Bigwig tunnels beneath the entrance to Watership Down to surprise Woundwart and prevent him from using the advantage of his physical weight; a tunnel from Badger’s house to Toad Hall allows the group to perform a surprise attack on the Wild Wooders; the moles of Redwall Abbey frequently dig tunnels to thwart the enemy, or for the Abbey footsoldiers to use defensively and strategically in battle. Tunnels obviously go hand in hand with burrowing animals like rabbits, moles, etc. However they also allow the animals to show their wit and cunning – to win purely by outsmarting the enemy with trickery, rather than through feats of strength or numbers.
Battle in this way becomes satisfying – a game to win through cleverness. In fact, the protagonists almost take a vindictive pleasure in fooling the enemy. When Matthias the mouse drops a church bell onto Cluny, he:
“stood and stared at the Joseph Bell where it lay, cracked clean through the center. From beneath it protruded a bloodied claw and a smashed tail. Matthias spoke, ‘I kept my promise to you, Cluny. I came down.’”
It’s a subdued one-liner, but still feels like gloating when contrasted with the gorey imagery of Cluny’s broken body. The Wind in the Willows follows a similar pattern of boastfulness when its protagonists make the captive Wild Wooders clean and prepare the bedrooms for the victors after the battle, a brief but decisive opportunity to embarrass the defeated. Watership Down is perhaps the most merciful of the bunch, in letting many of the enemy rabbits stay on at the winning warren following the battle. All three novels present the craftiness and eventual victories of their protagonists as all in good fun, never straying to the point of outright vengeance but still promoting the benefits of cleverness by highlighting the sweetness of payback – and like all sweet things, satisfying in the moment but best in moderation.
The Horrors of War in Children’s Stories
With this in mind, we may find ourselves dismissing the treatment of warfare in children’s books as lighthearted, but war and violence are among the simplest ways to add grit to any tale, while allowing the author to deliver a sincere message through the most serious of topics.
Watership Down, and particularly its film adaptation, has a notorious reputation in this regard (enough to put me off reading the book for many years, regrettably!). No decent person likes to see a bunny get hurt, and the way that rabbits are hurt in Watership Down is enough to make most animal lovers cringe. Ears torn away, permanently injured hind legs, rabbits swept away by river currents – it’s consistently grizzly. However, to me the most startling aspect is the stoic ‘carry on’ attitude of the rabbits throughout:
“‘Bigwig’ cried Pipkin, ‘I can’t wake Fiver. He’s still lying out there in the middle of the floor. What’s to be done?’
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do now,’ Replied Bigwig. ‘It’s a great pity. But we’ll have to leave him.’”
Not only is Fiver a central figure to life at Watership Down, but he is at this point one of Bigwig’s oldest living friends. Even still, Richard Adams makes no qualms about letting his readers know that nature is harsh, war is hell, and sacrifices must be made to sustain both.
Likewise, Redwall makes the cost of war clear by killing off characters with all the ease of Game of Thrones. It makes the high cost of war clear from the outset, containing in its first few chapters graphic descriptions of violence committed by Cluny, and initially toward his own troops. This rapidly raises the stakes for the mice of the Abbey, and dictates their attitudes toward both the enemy and each other. It’s in this way, through the threat of violence, that both novels force their main protagonists to be pragmatic and unemotional, but never cruel or at the expense of core values such as friendship and trust – this, after all, is what separates them from the enemy: the Clunys and Woundwarts of the animal kingdom.
I was most intrigued by how each novel treats the postwar experience of all three settlements. In Watership Down and Redwall, much of the focus is on firstly rebuilding and repairing the damage from war, and then securing future generations, with many of the main characters having children, as an effort both to repopulate their numbers and have future generations to listen to their tales of warfare. We get a glimpse of the main characters aging, maturing and carving out a safe home for their offspring, based on the sacrifice of their friends. The Wind in the Willows however, avoids the bittersweetness of victory, firstly by not having much sacrifice in the first place. Rather than life itself, it is their way of life that is at stake – that of a country gentlemen and his friends enjoying a big, richly filled home – one which is pretty quickly reclaimed and restored. Mole, Ratty, Badger and Toad are left to revel in their celebrations, continue to spread their legacy to children (but none of their own, as they presumably remain bachelors), and to roam the woods essentially immortal.
Retreating Thoughts
I discussed the idea of the immortality of childhood legends a while ago in my post about Robin Hood, and my indecision around whether it’s better for our fictional heroes to age with us, or to live on forever. For The Wind in the Willows, a story focused on enjoying the comforts of life and simple pleasures, it feels only right for it’s characters to circumvent the gritty reality of war, and generally life, in its avoidance of themes like death. For Watership Down and Redwall, books which paint a veritable tapestry of warfare through the course of each story, there’s something comforting in knowing that Hazel, Matthias and the like, were able to live out full lives, move on gracefully and pass the greatest spoil of war – that is, peace – onto another generation. In a way, this is the more idyllic outcome, by presenting a world where wars are fought, won and never needed again.
Do you have any other examples of warfare in children’s stories? Do you prefer children stories to stick to a more lighthearted tone, or to present war as it really is? I would love to hear from you in the comments below.
