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And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda: Australian Picture Books (1999-2016) and the First World War

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Title: And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda: Australian Picture Books (1999-2016) and the First World War
Language: English
Authors: Kerby, Martin Charles, Baguley, Margaret Mary, MacDonald, Abbey
Source: Children's Literature in Education. Jun 2019 50(2):91-109.
Availability: Springer. Available from: Springer Nature. 233 Spring Street, New York, NY 10013. Tel: 800-777-4643; Tel: 212-460-1500; Fax: 212-348-4505; e-mail: customerservice@springernature.com; Web site: https://link.springer.com/
Peer Reviewed: Y
Page Count: 19
Publication Date: 2019
Document Type: Journal Articles
Reports - Descriptive
Descriptors: Foreign Countries, Picture Books, War, World History, Trauma, Military Personnel, Conflict, Ideology, Authors, Nationalism
Geographic Terms: Australia
DOI: 10.1007/s10583-017-9337-3
ISSN: 0045-6713
Abstract: Over the past two decades children's picture books dealing with the Australian experience during the First World War have sought to balance a number of thematic imperatives. The increasingly sentimentalised construct of the Australian soldier as a victim of trauma, the challenge of providing a moral lesson that reflects both modern ideological assumptions and the historical record, and the traditional use of Australian war literature as an exercise in nation building have all exerted an influence on the literary output of a range of authors and illustrators. The number of publications over this period is proof of the enduring fascination with war as a topic as well as the widespread acceptance that this conflict has been profoundly significant in shaping Australian public and political culture and perceptions about national character and identity (Beaumont, 1995, p. xvii). As MacCallum-Stewart (2007, p. 177) argues, authors and illustrators must therefore balance notions of 'respect' for a national foundation myth with a 'pity of war' approach that reflects modern attitudes to conflict. Whatever their ideological commitment, many authors and illustrators respond to this challenge by adopting an approach that serves to indoctrinate readers into the Anzac tradition (Anzac refers to the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps raised for war in 1914. It has become a generic term for Australian and New Zealand soldiers. The Anzac tradition established at Gallipoli, Australia's first major military campaign, has been traditionally viewed as the nation's founding moment.).
Abstractor: As Provided
Entry Date: 2019
Accession Number: EJ1215506
Database: ERIC
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  Value: <anid>AN0136404731;cle01jun.19;2019May14.05:28;v2.2.500</anid> <title id="AN0136404731-1">And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda: Australian Picture Books (1999–2016) and the First World War </title> <p>Over the past two decades children's picture books dealing with the Australian experience during the First World War have sought to balance a number of thematic imperatives. The increasingly sentimentalised construct of the Australian soldier as a victim of trauma, the challenge of providing a moral lesson that reflects both modern ideological assumptions and the historical record, and the traditional use of Australian war literature as an exercise in nation building have all exerted an influence on the literary output of a range of authors and illustrators. The number of publications over this period is proof of the enduring fascination with war as a topic as well as the widespread acceptance that this conflict has been profoundly significant in shaping Australian public and political culture and perceptions about national character and identity (Beaumont, 1995, p. xvii). As MacCallum-Stewart (2007, p. 177) argues, authors and illustrators must therefore balance notions of 'respect' for a national foundation myth with a 'pity of war' approach that reflects modern attitudes to conflict. Whatever their ideological commitment, many authors and illustrators respond to this challenge by adopting an approach that serves to indoctrinate readers into the Anzac tradition (Anzac refers to the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps raised for war in 1914. It has become a generic term for Australian and New Zealand soldiers. The Anzac tradition established at Gallipoli, Australia's first major military campaign, has been traditionally viewed as the nation's founding moment.).</p> <p>Keywords: Picture books; Children's literature; War literature; Australian history; First World War; Indigenous Australians; Trauma</p> <p>Martin Charles Kerby is a Senior Lecturer (Curriculum and Pedagogy) at the University of Southern Queensland, Australia. His research areas encompass both educational and historical areas. In the field of education, he has investigated links between schools and universities, mentoring, leadership and management, multi-literacies, curriculum and school renewal. His historical focus encompasses school museums as sites for learning, biography, military history (1789–1945), Australian involvement in WW1 and the nature of historical inquiry. He has sole authored six books. He was recently awarded a University of Southern Queensland Publication Excellence Award—Authored Books for Sir Philip Gibbs and English Journalism in War and Peace (Palgrave Macmillan, 2016). Margaret Mary Baguley is an Associate Professor in arts education, curriculum and pedagogy at the University of Southern Queensland. Her research interests include visual arts education, creative collaboration, teacher identity and strengthening links between schools and universities. She has co-edited Meanings and Motivation in Education Research (Baguley et al., 2015) and co-authored the following research books Educational Learning and Development: Building and Enhancing Capacity (Baguley et al., 2014) and Contemporary Capacity Building in Educational Contexts (Danaher et al., 2014). Abbey MacDonald is a Lecturer in Arts Education. She teaches broadly across the field of Arts education, with her primary area of specialisation being in the visual arts. Her classroom teaching experience includes secondary visual arts, media arts and English, as well as diverse pastoral leadership roles. She has taught designed and developed units across the five Arts in tertiary education contexts. Dr MacDonald is a practising visual artist, working in oils and cross media, and emerging curator. She is President of the Tasmanian Art Teachers Association (TATA).</p> <hd id="AN0136404731-2">Introduction</hd> <p>Australian writers initially responded to the First World War with a "certain swagger", one which "transmuted the unpleasant particulars of modern combat into an epic model of national achievement" (Gerster, [<reflink idref="bib18" id="ref1">18</reflink>], p. 15). In contrast, European writers adopted what Samuel Hynes ([<reflink idref="bib23" id="ref2">23</reflink>], p. 112) describes as an "alternate rhetoric". Given that "the mechanised butchery on the Western Front seemed to invalidate any reapplication of the myth of the all-powerful warrior", they were compelled "to find new forms for describing the ways in which men kill men" (Gerster, [<reflink idref="bib18" id="ref3">18</reflink>], p. 5; Hynes, [<reflink idref="bib24" id="ref4">24</reflink>], p. 242). The new rhetoric was one which was "stripped" of "abstract values" and instead was "plain, descriptive [and] emptied of value statements" (Hynes, [<reflink idref="bib23" id="ref5">23</reflink>], p. 112). Without a home-grown tradition of military literature to guide them, Australian writers instead sought to imagine a war that was informed by two mythologies, one from ancient Greece and the other belonging to white Australia:</p> <p>The war writers cultivated a fresh, home grown heroic image, while simultaneously exploiting an imported one from antiquity. The Anzacs in particular were portrayed as belonging to a new, vigorous race from the Great South Land, grown strong through generations of combat with the Australian bush; at the same time they were seen as having somehow atavistically inherited the transcendent qualities of the heroes of the legendary Trojan battlefield so tantalizingly close to Gallipoli itself. (Gerster, [<reflink idref="bib18" id="ref6">18</reflink>], p. 2)</p> <p>The construct of this new, vigorous race was a prescriptive one shaped by the external threat of invasion and an internal anxiety about the racial makeup of the new country. <emph>The Immigration Restriction Act</emph> (1901) was the first passed by the new parliament, a haste that reflected the fear generated by Australia's strategic vulnerability in Asia and an almost universal desire to 'keep' the country white. This "provocative policy of a palisade against the unwanted" (Greenwood, [<reflink idref="bib19" id="ref7">19</reflink>], p. 247) was bolstered internally by an attempt to absorb/'absorb' Indigenous Australians into the mainstream, a policy that was predicated on the "elimination of Aboriginality, the abandonment of language, custom and ritual, and the severing of kinship ties" (Macintyre, [<reflink idref="bib38" id="ref8">38</reflink>], p. 145). This would lead, it was hoped, to the complete demise of the Aboriginal people. Exclusive racial possession therefore became the defining feature of Australia's nascent sense of self. When the nation went to war in 1914 it did so in the belief that one of the things it was fighting for was this perceived right to keep Australia white (Scarlett, [<reflink idref="bib43" id="ref9">43</reflink>]) and in the case of the Indigenous inhabitants, to take steps to make it white if need be.</p> <p>In their pre-war efforts to articulate a distinctive Australian identity, writers and artists did not draw inspiration "from the city with its modern ills of a derivative civilisation" but instead looked to "an idealised interior" (Macintyre, [<reflink idref="bib38" id="ref10">38</reflink>], p. 131), one in which the stories or images of the dispossessed were noticeably absent. Any recognition of the dispossession on which the nation was founded threatened the national narrative. It is not surprising that this silence remained unchallenged by a conflict that was viewed by the greater part of society as an opportunity for Australian soldiers to show their loyalty to an ideal of manhood that was unapologetically tied to a vision of a white Australia (Bean, [<reflink idref="bib4" id="ref11">4</reflink>]). This rather narrow conception of national identity remains contentious in the current political environment given the continued absence of the frontier wars from the Australian War Memorial (AWM), which is now the single most important pillar of the Anzac mythology. The 20,000 Indigenous and 2000 'settler' deaths in the frontier wars makes this the nation's third most costly conflict and the longest running. In contrast, the First World War is central to the modern conception of national identity and though there is a growing recognition of Indigenous service, it has not yet found a place in the broader narrative. Though ostensibly barred from service, approximately 1200 Indigenous Australians enlisted. Some did so by denying their Aboriginality or by taking advantage of regional disparities in process. Others took advantage of the later decision to allow enlistment to those with one white parent or who had assimilated sufficiently to allay concerns about their background. This 'apartness' reflects the status of Indigenous Australians at the time and the confusion and controversy that mars discussion of how to provide a posthumous recognition that values their diversity and avoids simplistic and generic portrayals. That said, there is a developing field of scholarship that is seeking to 'recover' the story of Indigenous Anzacs (Bennett, [<reflink idref="bib7" id="ref12">7</reflink>]).</p> <p>If this disinclination to even acknowledge the existence of Indigenous people is understood as an expression of what white Australia was not, much of the literary response to the conflict can similarly be understood as an attempt to articulate what it was. This is particularly evident in the difference between the approach adopted by European and Australian writers:</p> <p>The collapse of the heroic literary framework in Europe, at least, was just one symptom of a manifest disintegration of old orientations ... To an emergent nation, participation in the European cataclysm meant something else altogether. Out of the ashes of the thousands of national war dead emerged Australia Phoenix, a country triumphant and newly self-possessed. If the Great War brought on a kind of 'nervous breakdown' in Europe, then it was Australia's epiphany. (Gerster, [<reflink idref="bib18" id="ref13">18</reflink>], pp. 14–15)</p> <p>The difference was particularly evident in the modernist literary treatment of the common soldier. In the poetry of Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, and Isaac Rosenberg and the novels of Henri Barbusse and Erich Maria Remarque, the front line soldier was passive rather than active, "a victim rather than a hero; what he does is not so important as what is done to him" (Johnston, [<reflink idref="bib27" id="ref14">27</reflink>], p. 16) The Australian 'digger', however, was a citizen soldier who possessed all of the qualities imbued by a European settler society, foremost among them courage, initiative and an egalitarian view of social interaction. He might be a victim of bigger events, but he was never passive. During the interwar years there remained a marked preference on the part of both writers and readers "for middlebrow representations, wherein the war challenged its Australian participants but did not defeat them" (Holbrook, [<reflink idref="bib21" id="ref15">21</reflink>], p. 214). This construct was not, however, a recent addition to the Australian pantheon, but was in fact a manifestation of well-established archetypes. The bushman, the "presiding deity" and "noble frontiersman" of Australian literature since the 1880s, the bushranger and the itinerant rural worker were particularly adaptable to a wartime setting and a country in search of a sense of self (Ward, [<reflink idref="bib49" id="ref16">49</reflink>], p. 223; Bennett, [<reflink idref="bib6" id="ref17">6</reflink>], p. 158). As Fay Anderson and Richard Trembath ([<reflink idref="bib3" id="ref18">3</reflink>], p. 139) observe, they are literary constructs that have "largely remained static in the Australian imagination".</p> <p>The Second World War provided a new source of inspiration, although in a more muted form given that "much of the Australian experience of 1939–1945 was defeat or surrender" (Beaumont, [<reflink idref="bib5" id="ref19">5</reflink>], p. 177). By the 1960s, such was the growing disconnect from both the historical events and the rhetoric surrounding them that there was evidence that even Anzac Day[<reflink idref="bib1" id="ref20">1</reflink>] was in terminal decline, a situation exacerbated by the growing opposition to the Vietnam War (Inglis, [<reflink idref="bib25" id="ref21">25</reflink>]):</p> <p>The diggers, most of whom were born in the last two decades of the previous century, were dying away. The men and women growing to adulthood in the 1950s and 1960s were willing to challenge the social and moral values of their parents and grandparents. Many of them scorned their parents' unthinking allegiance to the British Empire and their pride in the fighting ability of the First AIF. (Holbrook, [<reflink idref="bib20" id="ref22">20</reflink>], p. 18)</p> <p>The emergence of a "kinder, gentler Anzac" in the later 1960s and 1970s, a process championed by Bill Gammage ([<reflink idref="bib16" id="ref23">16</reflink>]) in <emph>The Broken Years</emph>, transformed the mythology from one "grounded in beliefs about racial identity and martial capacity to a legend that speaks in the modern idiom of trauma, suffering and empathy". In doing so, it "saved the Anzac legend from oblivion" (Holbrook, [<reflink idref="bib20" id="ref24">20</reflink>], p. 19):</p> <p>In the post-Cold War and post-Vietnam era, war texts relating war's disruption of civilisation grew in critical and popular regard ... Our cultural values have evolved, bringing a consequent change in the valuation of war texts. From the 1960s, the emphasis shifted to exposing war in its guise of the antithesis of civilisation. War became no longer foundational but contradictory to civilisation, war being the ruination of society. (Rhoden, [<reflink idref="bib41" id="ref25">41</reflink>])</p> <p>Yet for all this evolution, both the Anzac story and its legacy still commands widespread allegiance (Donoghue and Tranter, [<reflink idref="bib12" id="ref26">12</reflink>]). Concerns that it is militaristic, narrow, sanitises Australian history and ignores the Indigenous experience of war rarely impact on mainstream sensibilities (Kerby et al., [<reflink idref="bib30" id="ref27">30</reflink>]). This seeming unanimity and the reality that such mythic narratives lend themselves to being co-opted into serving "differing ideological and political interests" (Darian-Smith and Hamilton, [<reflink idref="bib11" id="ref28">11</reflink>], p. 2) are reflected in the bipartisan government support for centenary commemorations that will eventually total in excess of half a billion dollars. Although Australian governments have traditionally sought to appropriate the Anzac story, there has been some effort to move beyond the 'Gallipoli as the birth of a nation' construct to a more rounded view of the political achievements prior to 1915, in addition to the fighting on the Western Front during 1916–1918 and later during the Second World War in the Pacific.</p> <p>Modern children's picture books dealing with the Australian experience during the First World War have generally kept in step with the broader trends governing the way that Australians have 'imagined' the conflict. As Esther MacCallum-Stewart ([<reflink idref="bib37" id="ref29">37</reflink>], p. 177) argues, however, there remains an element of confusion concerning notions of 'respect' and the 'pity of war'. This reflects what is at times an awkward balancing of the genre's potential to act as a "very powerful ideological tool" (Stephens, [<reflink idref="bib45" id="ref30">45</reflink>], p. 205) and the pervasiveness of the mythology of 1914–1918 which "still shapes perceptions of what it is to be Australian" (Beaumont, [<reflink idref="bib5" id="ref31">5</reflink>], p. 149). War commemoration and writing history have become, as Marilyn Lake ([<reflink idref="bib34" id="ref32">34</reflink>], p. 137) observes, "conflated [and] joined in a grand narrative about the seminal role of Australian military engagements and the Anzac spirit in shaping the nation". It remains a national myth of extraordinary emotional power, but like all myths, it does not include everyone within its parameters. For all their nomenclature as 'modern picture books' and their author's obvious preparedness to respond creatively to the many challenges of presenting a national narrative, taken as a whole, they nevertheless make a contribution to the mythology rather than interrogate it.</p> <hd id="AN0136404731-3">Trauma</hd> <p>In skilful hands, such as those of Gary Crew and Shaun Tan, the 'soldier as a victim of trauma' construct is indeed a powerful ideological tool. The success with which they make use of this construct in <emph>Memorial</emph> ([<reflink idref="bib17" id="ref33">17</reflink>]) and the extent to which it conforms to societal attitudes concerning literary representations of war is evident in the fact that it won an Honour Book award from the Children's Book Council of Australia, an Australian Publisher's Association (APA) Design Award for best designed children's book and was short-listed for the Queensland Premier's Book Awards. Despite its title, Tan is nevertheless quite justified in his assertion that it is not "about war, memorials or remembrance as grand subjects, but about the small, quiet memories that make up ordinary day-to-day lives—really about the nature of memory itself" (Tan, [<reflink idref="bib46" id="ref34">46</reflink>]). The story is set in an Australian country town and involves four generations of the same family sharing their memories of war, each other and the town's war memorial and surrounding park. Though their memories shift between the personal and the public, they are all framed by conflict, with three generations recalling their respective experiences in the First and Second World Wars and Vietnam. Crew and Tan do not engage with the experience of battle directly, but rather the nature of what Tan ([<reflink idref="bib46" id="ref35">46</reflink>]) describes as cultural memory:</p> <p>There is a possibility that cultural memory is lost in the abstractions of nationalism and ceremony, if the symbol does not bear direct witness to its own content. A minute's silence is not in itself pregnant with meaning. The concrete monument in <emph>Memorial</emph>, similarly, does not speak for itself - neither does the 'other' monument of the growing tree; they have to be invested with thought and feeling from the ordinary people underneath. Perhaps the point of this picture book is to open a passage for its readers to think about the way symbols really work in relation to collective memory, as a container that needs to be continually topped up to have any currency.</p> <p>The narrator's great grandfather recalls that on the day he returned home from the war the memorial was unveiled by two nurses in the presence of the "town boys who had joined up—or what was left of them". They had "been chopped up at Ypres", in itself something of a corrective in that it moves the focus from Gallipoli to the Western Front. The ceremony is presented not as a celebration of victory, let alone martial values; one of the veterans is wheelchair bound having lost his legs to shrapnel and the reveille is played by a boy scout who was subsequently killed during the Second World War. What dominates this story, perhaps even more than memory, is grief and the repression of trauma. The old soldier, confronted by long suppressed memories, "shrugs and he sniffs and he wipes his watery eyes and his grizzled cheeks". Like his grandson who has repressed his memories of Vietnam because "there's some things you don't want to remember", the old soldier dismisses his tears as the sun being "too bright for an old fella". Even though the memory is still too raw, the symbols of that memory are proving more ephemeral. A tree that was planted as part of the unveiling ceremony has now dislodged the statue and is deemed a traffic hazard. The local council, now administering a much larger town and presumably dismissive of the memories the memorial represents, decides that "it's the statue or the tree". The narrator, the youngest member of the family, has no direct experience of war but resolves to fight the council. His great grandfather, now firmly cast in the role of victim, warns him that "they'll beat you, son. The big boys will beat you every time. They'll chop you to bits". His final words, though, are a triumph of resilience and courage:</p> <p>Still, that don't mean they'll forget you. It's the fight in you they'll remember. That memory won't die – not like my old bones. Even concrete and rock won't last forever. But memories, now they're different. Memories, they're ever-livin' things. Like you say, son, like our tree.</p> <p>The old soldier is "not a larger-than-life hero going into battle" but is instead a "very human survivor reflecting on the meaning of it all" (Rickard, [<reflink idref="bib42" id="ref36">42</reflink>], p. 71). This act of reflection is also at the core of Eric Bogle and Bruce Whatley's <emph>And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda</emph> which though published in [<reflink idref="bib8" id="ref37">8</reflink>] is actually a children's book version of a ballad penned by Bogle in 1971. Now considered "one of the greatest Anzac songs ever written", it was in fact a thinly veiled attack on the Vietnam War rather than an interrogation of the Gallipoli campaign (Keane, [<reflink idref="bib29" id="ref38">29</reflink>]). <emph>And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda</emph> is told through the eyes of a young Australian who in the years before the war "lived the free life of a rover", one which took him "from the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback". Bogle, like Crew, has clearly been influenced by the pervasiveness of the bush in Australian war literature, one with a clear link with pre-1914 attitudes and which would receive its imprimatur in the <emph>Official History of Australia in the War of 1914</emph>-<emph>1918</emph> courtesy of Charles Bean, one of the most influential writers in Australian history.</p> <p>Bogle contrasts the "cheers" and "flag-waving" of the soldiers' departure from Australia with the reality of the landing at Gallipoli where "our blood stained the sand and the water". There is no room in Bogle's "mad world of blood, death and fire" for the 'big noting' that Gerster ([<reflink idref="bib18" id="ref39">18</reflink>]) observes in Australian war literature. There is only the reality of soldiers being "butchered like lambs at the slaughter" as around them "the corpses piled higher". Bogle clearly subscribes to the soldier as traumatised victim of war construct for there is no heroic, or even futile death in store for his protagonist. After being maimed by Turkish shell fire, he regains consciousness in a hospital bed to discover that he has lost both legs. He wishes for death, for in his loss of innocence he has been forced to acknowledge that there are "worse things than dyin'". With the "crippled, the wounded, the maimed" he is "shipped ... back home to Australia". The "legless, the armless, the blind, the insane" are now no longer cheered but instead are first stared at and then ignored. In old age, as he sits watching the Anzac Day March held annually on April 25, he questions the relevance of a "long forgotten war" and the national day it spawned. Bogle's ambition, stated in the author's note which is almost <emph>de rigueur</emph> for this genre:</p> <p>was to create a tribute to the many brave young men and women [who served on Gallipoli] and as an indictment of the stubborn stupidity and arrogance of the political and military leadership of the Allied forces at the time, which led to the waste of all that courage and all those young lives.</p> <p>That the song, which once seemed so politically charged, is now such an integral part of the historical canon that it is deemed appropriate as a children's book, is proof of just how wide is the acceptance of trauma in Australian war narratives, albeit from a Western Anglo-Celtic viewpoint.</p> <p>This construct is further explored in <emph>Boys in Khaki</emph> (O'Reilly, et al., [<reflink idref="bib39" id="ref40">39</reflink>]) which was published as part of a Queensland Anzac Centenary Grant project. It is presented as a traditional narrative that follows two friends as they enlist, train in Egypt, and serve on Gallipoli. They are then separated, with one heading to the Western Front and the other remaining in the Middle East where he is killed serving with the Australian Light Horse. Eloise Tuppurainen-Mason, a first time children's book illustrator, was brought onto the project after the authors had mapped out the text. Like Bogle, she is an avowed pacifist, and was initially hesitant about the potential tone of the book and its subject matter. In addition, her family background on her mother's side is Finnish and it is the Winter War and the Continuation War against the Soviet Union rather than the Australian participation in either of the World Wars that constitutes part of her cultural heritage. As Tuppurainen-Mason observes, it was not 'her' war, either literally or figuratively:</p> <p>As someone who holds quite strong anti-war views ... I don't really have a strong family link to Australia's involvement in WW1, I offer an outside eye I think. I mean it's a sympathetic outside eye, but also I try not to look at things like Anzac Day through rose tinted glasses. I think because so many soldiers died when they were young [I was conscious of] all that unfulfilled potential that makes people want to remember them. I suppose I've tried to make my role in this project one that doesn't glorify the events of the First World War ... The Anzac legacy has sometimes been criticised as being nationalistic, but I think it's more of a remembering the enormous trauma that it caused at the time. Whether or not you agree with how we commemorate Anzac Day it has had a massive impact on Australian culture and identity. (Kerby et al., [<reflink idref="bib30" id="ref41">30</reflink>], p. 122)</p> <p>This commitment to commemorating rather than glorifying shaped her choice of illustrations, which consistently emphasise the trauma experienced by the individual soldier. Her haunting image of the Somme battlefield shrouded in smoke and devoid of any sign of human habitation presents war as a universal trauma transcending its impact on any individual (See Fig 1). This permits readers, whatever their view of war or war literature, to "identify empathetically with the Anzac experience" because "trauma, through its very broad definition, is something anyone can experience" (Potter, [<reflink idref="bib40" id="ref42">40</reflink>], p. 107). Far from being a barrier to illustrating war for an audience of children, Tuppurainen-Mason's "emphasis on humanist principles" as a means to "transform events which appear to be historical particularities into universals of human experience" proved entirely compatible with the traditional narrative framework adopted by the authors (Stephens, [<reflink idref="bib45" id="ref43">45</reflink>], p. 238). (See Fig. 2)</p> <p>Graph: Fig. 1The Somme, 1916 by Eloise Tuppurainen-Mason</p> <p>Graph: Fig. 2The Trauma of War by Eloise Tuppurainen-Mason</p> <hd id="AN0136404731-4">National Identity</hd> <p>Catriona Hoy and Benjamin Johnson's <emph>My Grandad Marches on Anzac Day</emph> ([<reflink idref="bib22" id="ref44">22</reflink>]) is driven by the same desire to construct community identity that underpins the actual observance of Anzac Day. In an introduction that provides some historical background they explain the day as "a special time to remember people who have died in wars". Like <emph>Memorial</emph>, it focusses on the act of remembering, in this case, the Anzac Day March attended by veterans and other community groups. There is, however, a clear avoidance by the author/illustrator of any issue that might challenge the idea that war makes victims of everyone. Indeed, by describing Gallipoli as "a famous place in Turkey" and observing that Anzac Day attracts "people from other countries", including New Zealand and Turkey, the authors have intentionally made our ally and our enemy indistinguishable. Such a rewriting of Australian history clearly requires both a forgetting as well as a remembering (Lake, [<reflink idref="bib34" id="ref45">34</reflink>]). Even given that the book is aimed at readers five years and above, it is so light on detail that it obfuscates even when it seeks to inform. References to other wars is clearly an effort, laudable though it be, for the book to preach tolerance and peace but it comes at a cost in terms of its veracity. This is not so much damaging as it is a missed opportunity. Writing in a Canadian context, Jerry Diakiw (1997, cited in Brown, [9], p. 43) argues that "our identities, our attitude to people of different races, our sense of self and therefore probably our sense of national identity or lack of it are largely fixed by the end of elementary school". As he observes, the reluctance to teach history to the very young "may have had the most profound of unintended consequences" (p. 43). Though a disinclination to teach history to the young is not a charge that could be levelled at the authors discussed in this article, the attempts to balance pity and respect creates gaps in the narratives that are not without consequences.</p> <p>Hoy and Johnson's efforts to engage young Australians with a more inclusive Anzac legacy leaves them negotiating the line between interrogating a traditional discourse and indoctrinating readers into a broader version of it. The young female protagonist, never named so as to present her as an 'everyman' figure, observes proudly that "Daddy gives me a badge, just like his". Grandad marches "for all his friends who can't march", but significantly, "he also marches for us". At the conclusion of the march, "Grandad is quiet. He is still remembering", thus blurring the lines between communal memory and the personal trauma of veterans. Having been enriched by her membership in the greater national community, the child asserts that "one day I will march on Anzac Day, and I will do the remembering". She is now not merely an onlooker. She is a participant. This is a shift recognised by Marilyn Lake ([<reflink idref="bib35" id="ref46">35</reflink>], p. 156), who observes that in this type of identification with the story of Ansac,</p> <p>schoolchildren have been imbued with a new sense of patriotic pride, but in sentimentalising history and in celebrating military virtues we fear that history as a critical practice, and as a way of explaining and understanding the past, is in danger of succumbing to nationalist mythology.</p> <p>Troy Potter ([<reflink idref="bib40" id="ref47">40</reflink>], p. 38) is particularly critical of these attempts to broaden the Anzac legacy, for authors who "reconstruct the Anzac legend for adolescents in the form of historical fiction are less interested in uncovering any historical truth than they are in promulgating the Anzac legend and its associated nationalism". As is evident in the work of Hoy and Johnson, Bogle and others, the shared, if voyeuristic experience of suffering, encourages a reader to identify with the Anzac legend. In Potter's ([<reflink idref="bib40" id="ref48">40</reflink>], p. 38) view, this process means that "as well as acting as repositories for reconstructions of the past, Australian war histories indoctrinate adolescent readers into the Anzac tradition, thereby maintaining the dominance of Anzac in the Australian national psyche". Australian picture books that represent Anzac are more than just literature, for they become "textual monuments" that act "as points of reference through which younger generations can learn about, and (re)imagine anew, cultural memories associated with the Anzac Legend" (Allan, [<reflink idref="bib2" id="ref49">2</reflink>], p. 138). Language choices are particularly instructive. Statements that deliberately universalise conflict are frequently used to good effect. In <emph>My Grandad Marches on Anzac Day</emph> the constant repetition of 'we' emphasises community membership with a regularity that leaves little doubt that community belonging and membership are at the core of the moral being delivered. A reader's response to the trauma experienced by the protagonists in the stories being explored is an expression of individual and collective belonging, already a strong imperative for children.</p> <p>The pervasive though now selective influence on the approach of authors and illustrators exerted by the 12 volume official history of Australia in the First World War is evident in <emph>Voices from the Trenches</emph> (Kerby et al., [<reflink idref="bib31" id="ref50">31</reflink>]). Baguley's image of the Australian Light Horse moving toward Jerusalem in December 1917 is a delicate balancing act of historical attitudes and the modern imagining of the war in the Middle East (See Fig. 3). The idealised and highly sentimental construct of the light horseman as a national archetype has helped create a view of the war as somehow cleaner and more chivalrous in comparison to the Western Front (See Fig. 4). Baguley remains faithful to the official history's construct of the light horsemen as 'spiritually ennobled Christian warriors', but she discards its portrayal of the Turks as a people 'motivated by a mixture of fanaticism and illicit desire that is incompatible with the rational and ethical virtues that distinguish a Christian civilisation' (Lee, [<reflink idref="bib36" id="ref51">36</reflink>]). The pronounced racial, nationalist and Social Darwinist features that informed this construct are now clearly incompatible with the values of a multi-cultural society. The celebration of Christian virtues is easily subsumed into a framework of civic virtue and national identity.</p> <p>Graph: Fig. 3The Australian Light Horse enters Jerusalem, December 1917 by Margaret Baguley</p> <p>Graph: Fig. 4The Australian Light Horse at Beersheba, October 1917 by Margaret Baguley</p> <hd id="AN0136404731-5">Moral Imperative</hd> <p>One of the most significant influences on the manner in which children's picture books depict war is the belief that it must "be morally instructive or to depict events considered commendable in order to counter beliefs that war is a positive action" (MacCallum-Stewart, [<reflink idref="bib37" id="ref52">37</reflink>], p. 180). This is part of what MacCallum-Stewart ([<reflink idref="bib37" id="ref53">37</reflink>], p. 177) sees as a broader approach that she characterises as the "parable of war" which is "an emotive, literary retelling of the war based on a series of texts and cultural shifts rather than on historical perspectives". This is particularly important given the ideological impact of literature on children:</p> <p>[It] can include historical, cultural, or social details suggesting that war can only be represented in certain ways, and consequently bolstering this idea through critical agreement, children's literature, which engages with the First World War privileges more recent political and ideological beliefs rather than the actual events. This erases subtleties of distinction and contrasts in behaviour and/or belief that occurred during the war. It also encourages the notion that certain ways of thinking about the war are valorised over others and that ones which may have been fact at the time are now derided or seen as incorrect. (MacCallum-Stewart, [<reflink idref="bib37" id="ref54">37</reflink>], pp. 177–178)</p> <p>Clare Rhoden (2012) argues that the use of war literature didactically for either nationalistic or pacifist purposes is an ethically contentious practice, noting that a number of educational specialists such as Robert Jeffcoate ([<reflink idref="bib26" id="ref55">26</reflink>]), Jan Kociumbas ([<reflink idref="bib33" id="ref56">33</reflink>]) and Kate Agnew and Geoff Fox ([<reflink idref="bib1" id="ref57">1</reflink>]) deem it 'inappropriate' (p. 5). An attempt to 'privilege' both belief systems simultaneously is evident in <emph>My Grandad Marches on Anzac Day</emph> and Norman Jorgensen and Brian Harrison-Lever's <emph>In Flanders Field</emph> ([<reflink idref="bib28" id="ref58">28</reflink>]). The latter draws on familiar tropes—the Christmas Truce of 1914 (although the action is moved to 1917/1918 and replaces the British troops with Australians), a moral being expressed via the appearance of a shared humanity amidst the carnage of war evident in 'Silent Night' being sung in both German and English, and the contrast between the natural world and the devastated terrain. In what the publisher characterises as "an eloquent counterpoint to the senselessness and inhumanity of war" a young soldier crosses no-man's-land and rescues a robin trapped in the barbed wire. The impact of the soldier being spared by German snipers who recognise the bond they share with a fellow combatant is supported by the historical record. In contrast, the soldier absentmindedly leaving his rifle with white scarf attached in the middle of no man's land might be communicating an overt antiwar message, however the incongruous nature of such an act distracts from the message the author is trying to communicate. The extent to which this story and the accompanying artwork conform to societal expectations is evident in the newspaper reviews included on the publisher's website which laud its capacity to both "capture a poignant message of peace" and "the mood of life in the trenches during the first world war". The quality of the illustrations inspired one writer to trumpet that it is "an excellent introduction to the historical reality of life in the trenches and the meaning of compassion". Perhaps more tellingly, other reviewers observe that "this is a very touching book" and "a moving story", hinting at an acceptance that trauma is the agreed reading and that empathy is synonymous with historicity (Fremantle Press, u.d.).</p> <p> <emph>Only a Donkey</emph> (Walters and Mullins, [<reflink idref="bib48" id="ref59">48</reflink>]) is an appealing attempt to merge the stories of John Simpson Kirkpatrick, Jesus' entry into Jerusalem, and Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer. Simpson, as he was known, served as a stretcher-bearer on Gallipoli and with his donkey transported wounded soldiers to the beachhead. He was killed after three weeks of service and though undoubtedly courageous, "the legend of the man with the donkey continues to be made and remade more in denial of the historical record than in recognition of it" (Cochrane, [<reflink idref="bib10" id="ref60">10</reflink>]). His considerable fame was in reality a posthumous construction, a</p> <p>particular distillation of an epic model of swagger and bravado created and perpetuated by the print media, overseen by government and the censors, and attributed to Australian soldiers in general. That epic model was heroic rhetoric for cannon-fodder, a grotesque romanticisation of Australian soldiers in battle and death. (Cochrane, [<reflink idref="bib10" id="ref61">10</reflink>])</p> <p>The image of him with his faithful donkey bearing the wounded soldier alongside him is both "Christ-like and pitiful", though it has appeared in paintings, sculptures and on currency:</p> <p>That [recognition], surely, singled him out. But in every other way, the tales told about him are more or less interchangeable with thousands of other propaganda tales. The tropes are widely shared - contempt for shrapnel, scorn for danger, selfless and sacrificial behaviour, no risk too great, smiling even unto death glorious death and so on. (Cochrane, [<reflink idref="bib10" id="ref62">10</reflink>])</p> <p>In this construct, the eponymous donkey lives on a farm where he is teased by the other animals. He dreams of travelling "a great open road" that would take him "to a place in his dreaming where magic would be". He makes his journey in the company of an eclectic group of animals who are aggressively and disdainfully ignorant of each other's needs. They arrive in the city and find themselves at the base of a statue of Simpson and his donkey. The stone donkey recounts to the group the story of Simpson, "one man who just followed his heart" and saved 300 wounded men: "They've said we are heroes, we're seen on medallions as symbols of sacrifice, courage and strength. He was all of these things, yet he gave me his trust—and I was only a donkey".</p> <p>On the journey home, the animals, inspired as the readers should be, by the example of Simpson, are now witness to the 'magic'. Like Rudolph, the donkey's value has now been recognised, but he, like the reader, only inherits the Anzac legacy rather than participates in it. Celeste Walters and Patricia Mullins have created an effective and appropriate moral tale, but it is one that thoroughly distils three narratives, one grounded in religious belief, one in a national narrative and the other in popular culture. As a moral tale, it is well crafted, but by including an author's note about Simpson it makes some claim to generating historical understanding. It seeks to teach as well as provide moral instruction.</p> <p>Though stopping well short of characterising her role as proselytising, Tuppurainen-Mason is also cognisant of the scope to use her artwork in <emph>Boys in Khaki</emph> as a pedagogical tool. She was also well aware that as Australia entered its 14th year of the war on terror, there was a contemporary relevance in any discussion of warfare and its place in the Australian sense of self. She noted that "because it's a children's book I want to make students ask questions and allow them to reflect on war more generally, and perhaps promote an understanding of what the soldiers and nation did at the time rather than of patriotic pride or hero worship" (Kerby et al., [<reflink idref="bib30" id="ref63">30</reflink>], pp. 122–123). Even this approach can be problematic, as Adrienne Kertzer ([<reflink idref="bib32" id="ref64">32</reflink>], p. 245) identified in Holocaust literature, where authors confront "the well-intentioned impulse to construct an unambiguous hopeful lesson". Sparing the child "from too much horror in effect spares the authors as well, shielding them from having to deal with many troubling issues" (Sokoloff, [<reflink idref="bib44" id="ref65">44</reflink>], p. 177). Though Tuppurainen-Mason is subtle in her efforts to challenge the nationalist or martial inclinations of some literary presentations of the war, the portrayal of death and grief brings with it problems of its own:</p> <p>A density of grisly detail, even if designed to engender a disgust of war and all its devices rather than to raise the level of pathos and suspense, eventually overwhelms the reader's sensibility and becomes a suspect literary device in its own right, sensationalizing and thereby amplifying the same outrages it seeks to criticise. An explicit evocation of war's horrors can increase the notional heroism of those fictional characters who encounter it, an outcome not to be desired by those wishing to use literature for pacifist ends. Furthermore, an exaggeratedly negative picture of war in effect exalts it as a great test of human endurance and spirit. (Rhoden, [<reflink idref="bib41" id="ref66">41</reflink>]).</p> <hd id="AN0136404731-6">Historicity</hd> <p>Many of the children's picture books that explore Australia's involvement in the First World War fall into the category of historical fiction. They are nevertheless quite capable of shaping historical understanding, however impressionistic, as they are tied to 'real' events. This is further exacerbated by the fact that they deal with events that are already heavily mythologised. Rather than seeing this as a threat to 'real' history, some writers argue that the potential for these texts to educate children 'about war' is a real strength:</p> <p>At present, there is a feeling in the air of records needing to be set straight and passed on to future generations; perhaps too, there is a millennial imperative to educate children about war before the next century. In the wake of this urgent need to record our past before the generations that lived it have gone, there is a great growth of literature for children on other twentieth century conflicts as well, a growth which perhaps reflects our societies' attempts to write for children representations of realities that would have been deemed unsuitable for them by generations gone by. (Fox, [<reflink idref="bib14" id="ref67">14</reflink>], p. 126)</p> <p>The danger that a didactic approach might morph into open proselytising is perhaps overstating the case, but it does have implications for the quality of the historical understanding that it encourages. As Twomey ([<reflink idref="bib47" id="ref68">47</reflink>], p. 107) observes, the affective response generated by the use of trauma as a literary trope is not synonymous with deep historical understanding. Far from just setting the record straight, it facilitates a "staunch identification with and support of the legend [but] provides only a superficial understanding of the socio-political aspects of war and the Anzac landing". Few of the children's books surveyed in this article offered even a single illustration of an enemy soldier let alone investigated the cause for which they fought. A genre exploring conflict that does not recognise the existence of an enemy will inevitably offer an incomplete exploration of historical events.</p> <p>The privileging of the soldier as a victim of trauma and the desire to use that construct as a vehicle for moral instruction often makes for flawed history:</p> <p>This results in these 'truths' being accepted by readers, particularly when characters within the texts support these acts and facts. Children's literature from earlier in the twentieth century is often disenfranchised as being overtly propagandist or as reflecting old value systems; however, contemporary children's literature about the First World War is just as - if not more - didactic. This is problematic, particularly in later years when fiction is often specifically identified as telling the truth. (MacCallum-Stewart, [<reflink idref="bib37" id="ref69">37</reflink>], p. 178)</p> <p>Potter ([<reflink idref="bib40" id="ref70">40</reflink>], p. 37) argues that the 'truth' of the Anzac legacy has come to occupy "a somewhat oppressively central position in Australian national image-making". In children's literature dealing with this legacy, only certain versions of that truth can exist. As MacCallum-Stewart ([<reflink idref="bib37" id="ref71">37</reflink>], p. 177) notes of British children's books, but it is equally true of their Australian counterparts, "it follows that they will also contain similar events and actions. The scope for alternative views of war is therefore restricted". There is also the issue of historical detail. Bogle has his protagonist serving on Gallipoli in 1915 in a 'tin hat', whereas helmets were not distributed until the following year. His reference to Suvla Bay is odd given that it was not an Australian battle. At a broader level, even the lost generation rhetoric that is included in <emph>The House that Was Built in a Day: Anzac Cottage</emph> has been largely refuted (Winter, [<reflink idref="bib51" id="ref72">51</reflink>]). In spite of these restrictions, Fox ([<reflink idref="bib14" id="ref73">14</reflink>], p. 130) sees the enormous potential of war literature without quite acknowledging that it is not always compatible with historical accuracy:</p> <p>If war is a fruitful context for literature, as it has been since the dawn of writing, many of these books provide children with a rich and entertaining, as well as challenging way to learn about the past, the present and the future, to discover the roles and characteristics of different genres, to learn about the biographies and stories of ordinary people, to consider ethical issues of all kinds, to explore different cultures and to find out how nations and groups characterise themselves. They can extend children's ability to read, for the authors of war fiction have to be particularly resourceful, using inference, suggestion, and reading between and beyond the lines, in order to re-present material that is both sensitive and potentially traumatic.</p> <p>Unlike the other books discussed in this article, <emph>The House that Was Built in a Day: Anzac Cottage</emph> (Everett and McGuire, [<reflink idref="bib13" id="ref74">13</reflink>]) is a non-fiction work although it conforms to a similar thematic pattern. It documents the construction of a cottage in Mt Hawthorn, Western Australia for the first wounded Gallipoli veteran to return to the district. As the title conveys, it was built in a single day by 200 volunteers to house Private John Porter and his family. The descriptions of the fighting on Gallipoli include more detail of battle than the other books combined, reflecting that it was intended for readers in mid primary who would be eight to nine years of age. The site of the landing at Gallipoli is described in rather lurid terms—"this stretch of sand, red with Australian blood, became known as Anzac Cove". The trauma of war is also foregrounded as "Australians were proud of their soldiers, but casualties had been high. The young nation mourned for a lost generation who would never return to the land where the stars of the Southern Cross shine". For all their pervasiveness, notions of a lost generation, either in Australia or the other Allied nations, have long been refuted (Winter, [<reflink idref="bib51" id="ref75">51</reflink>]). Porter, the chosen recipient of the cottage, was "disabled for life [and] never fully recovered from his terrible experience at Gallipoli". Yet again, though this is in keeping with the cultural rather than historical understanding of the war, Winter ([<reflink idref="bib50" id="ref76">50</reflink>], p. 227) argues quite convincingly that the "waste and pity" style of First World War writing is "both untrue to the events of the war and a profoundly inaccurate account of the mentality of the trench soldiers".</p> <p>The building of the cottage, despite recognising the maimed soldier it is to house, is celebrated within an overtly militaristic paradigm. The volunteers move toward the vacant land past "cheering crowds lining the street" whereupon the decision is made to commence work at 4.30 am, the time of the landing. Like the soldiers who waited to land on Gallipoli on 25 April 1915, the volunteers "rolled up their sleeves and waited, their bodies silhouetted against the fading night sky". Once the designated time is reached the men begin digging trenches, and as the foundations are laid "the earth tremble[s] with each thump of stone into trench". The builder demands that the workers give it their best "like our soldiers gave theirs on the shores of Gallipoli". Dozens of women serve hasty meals, but at different times, the community "paused, to remember". Once the task was complete "a proud community gazed upon its achievement .... The Australians who fought and died would live on in hearts and memories through the passing of generations". Yet again, this shows an author trapped between pity and respect, seeing the war in terms that Rhoden ([<reflink idref="bib41" id="ref77">41</reflink>]) characterises as the ruins of civilisation versus the foundations of a nation.</p> <hd id="AN0136404731-7">Conclusion</hd> <p>Any author seeking to address the Australian experience during the First World War in any format or genre treads on challenging mythic territory. Each of the children's picture books chosen for the purposes of this article would find a worthy and uncontested place on any library shelf. They are creative, entertaining and skilfully executed. Nevertheless, each author and illustrator was challenged by the perceived need to balance a respect for a national foundation story grounded in war with an awareness that they were writing for a society that has nevertheless emphatically rejected the martial nationalism of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. To do this, each of them, to a greater or lesser degree, produced work that conforms to the broader trends in Australia's reimagining of the conflict. In that sense, they are ideologically conservative, acceptable to mainstream sensibilities yet make a suspect contribution to historical understandings of the period. 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Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning. 1995: Cambridge; University of Cambridge Press</bibtext> </blist> </ref> <ref id="AN0136404731-9"> <title> Footnotes </title> <blist> <bibtext> Anzac Day is celebrated on 25 April and commemorates the landing of Australian troops on Gallipoli in 1915. It has become an unofficial national day, more celebrated than Australia Day and seemingly less contentious.</bibtext> </blist> </ref> <aug> <p>By Martin Charles Kerby; Margaret Mary Baguley and Abbey MacDonald</p> <p>Reported by Author; Author; Author</p> </aug> <nolink nlid="nl1" bibid="bib18" firstref="ref1"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl2" bibid="bib23" firstref="ref2"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl3" bibid="bib24" firstref="ref4"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl4" bibid="bib19" firstref="ref7"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl5" bibid="bib38" firstref="ref8"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl6" bibid="bib43" firstref="ref9"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl7" bibid="bib27" firstref="ref14"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl8" bibid="bib21" firstref="ref15"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl9" bibid="bib49" firstref="ref16"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl10" bibid="bib25" firstref="ref21"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl11" bibid="bib20" firstref="ref22"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl12" bibid="bib16" firstref="ref23"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl13" bibid="bib41" firstref="ref25"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl14" bibid="bib12" firstref="ref26"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl15" bibid="bib30" firstref="ref27"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl16" bibid="bib11" firstref="ref28"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl17" bibid="bib37" firstref="ref29"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl18" bibid="bib45" firstref="ref30"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl19" bibid="bib34" firstref="ref32"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl20" bibid="bib17" firstref="ref33"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl21" bibid="bib46" firstref="ref34"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl22" bibid="bib42" firstref="ref36"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl23" bibid="bib29" firstref="ref38"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl24" bibid="bib39" firstref="ref40"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl25" bibid="bib40" firstref="ref42"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl26" bibid="bib22" firstref="ref44"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl27" bibid="bib35" firstref="ref46"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl28" bibid="bib31" firstref="ref50"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl29" bibid="bib36" firstref="ref51"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl30" bibid="bib26" firstref="ref55"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl31" bibid="bib33" firstref="ref56"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl32" bibid="bib28" firstref="ref58"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl33" bibid="bib48" firstref="ref59"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl34" bibid="bib10" firstref="ref60"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl35" bibid="bib32" firstref="ref64"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl36" bibid="bib44" firstref="ref65"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl37" bibid="bib14" firstref="ref67"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl38" bibid="bib47" firstref="ref68"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl39" bibid="bib51" firstref="ref72"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl40" bibid="bib13" firstref="ref74"></nolink> <nolink nlid="nl41" bibid="bib50" firstref="ref76"></nolink>
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  Data: And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda: Australian Picture Books (1999-2016) and the First World War
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– Name: Author
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  Data: <searchLink fieldCode="AR" term="%22Kerby%2C+Martin+Charles%22">Kerby, Martin Charles</searchLink><br /><searchLink fieldCode="AR" term="%22Baguley%2C+Margaret+Mary%22">Baguley, Margaret Mary</searchLink><br /><searchLink fieldCode="AR" term="%22MacDonald%2C+Abbey%22">MacDonald, Abbey</searchLink>
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  Data: <searchLink fieldCode="SO" term="%22Children's+Literature+in+Education%22"><i>Children's Literature in Education</i></searchLink>. Jun 2019 50(2):91-109.
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  Data: Springer. Available from: Springer Nature. 233 Spring Street, New York, NY 10013. Tel: 800-777-4643; Tel: 212-460-1500; Fax: 212-348-4505; e-mail: customerservice@springernature.com; Web site: https://link.springer.com/
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  Data: 19
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  Label: Publication Date
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  Data: 2019
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  Data: Journal Articles<br />Reports - Descriptive
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  Data: <searchLink fieldCode="DE" term="%22Foreign+Countries%22">Foreign Countries</searchLink><br /><searchLink fieldCode="DE" term="%22Picture+Books%22">Picture Books</searchLink><br /><searchLink fieldCode="DE" term="%22War%22">War</searchLink><br /><searchLink fieldCode="DE" term="%22World+History%22">World History</searchLink><br /><searchLink fieldCode="DE" term="%22Trauma%22">Trauma</searchLink><br /><searchLink fieldCode="DE" term="%22Military+Personnel%22">Military Personnel</searchLink><br /><searchLink fieldCode="DE" term="%22Conflict%22">Conflict</searchLink><br /><searchLink fieldCode="DE" term="%22Ideology%22">Ideology</searchLink><br /><searchLink fieldCode="DE" term="%22Authors%22">Authors</searchLink><br /><searchLink fieldCode="DE" term="%22Nationalism%22">Nationalism</searchLink>
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  Data: <searchLink fieldCode="DE" term="%22Australia%22">Australia</searchLink>
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  Data: 10.1007/s10583-017-9337-3
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  Data: 0045-6713
– Name: Abstract
  Label: Abstract
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  Data: Over the past two decades children's picture books dealing with the Australian experience during the First World War have sought to balance a number of thematic imperatives. The increasingly sentimentalised construct of the Australian soldier as a victim of trauma, the challenge of providing a moral lesson that reflects both modern ideological assumptions and the historical record, and the traditional use of Australian war literature as an exercise in nation building have all exerted an influence on the literary output of a range of authors and illustrators. The number of publications over this period is proof of the enduring fascination with war as a topic as well as the widespread acceptance that this conflict has been profoundly significant in shaping Australian public and political culture and perceptions about national character and identity (Beaumont, 1995, p. xvii). As MacCallum-Stewart (2007, p. 177) argues, authors and illustrators must therefore balance notions of 'respect' for a national foundation myth with a 'pity of war' approach that reflects modern attitudes to conflict. Whatever their ideological commitment, many authors and illustrators respond to this challenge by adopting an approach that serves to indoctrinate readers into the Anzac tradition (Anzac refers to the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps raised for war in 1914. It has become a generic term for Australian and New Zealand soldiers. The Anzac tradition established at Gallipoli, Australia's first major military campaign, has been traditionally viewed as the nation's founding moment.).
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      – TitleFull: And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda: Australian Picture Books (1999-2016) and the First World War
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