A few days ago, before Russia invaded Ukraine, author/illustrator Sergio Ruzzier posted a photo on social media, showing some 1970s plastic army men made by the Italian company Atlantic – they came in one of those plastic moulded sheets, still attached to a long central piece, which you’d have to detach them from. The theme of this particular box was, essentially, casualties: dead soldiers, wounded soldiers, stretchers, and a chaplain to boot. The explicit horrors of war made into fun, lightweight plastic – you can see them here (Atlantic 9017 1/72 H0).  

I thought of searching for some good examples of this kind of toy soldier for my 51st portrait, though I doubted I would find others more thought-provoking than this particular ‘casualties’ box. I looked for different brands aside from Atlantic, and for different styles and countries of manufacture. It is not surprising to find many examples of these mass-produced plastic toy soldiers, which, of course, are directly connected to the Toy Knight from 14th C France I drew for Portrait No. 36 . My eyebrows worked especially hard when I came across this special women’s unit currently being produced in the USA – naturally, in pink.

In my little searches I find it curious to see how I frequently take a journey that leads me, in a circle, right back to where I started, having acquired some information along the way. When I came across the expression ‘little green men’ to describe these plastic soldiers, the first page of results also pointed me to 2014 conflicts between Russia and Crimea, and Russia and Ukraine. The Russian soldiers sent “unofficially” to both of these regions came to be known by many as ‘little green men’ – it felt rather strange reading about it, as though the real parallels between war and play shouldn’t be, couldn’t possibly be, that plain and clunky.

This week, in between working and doomscrolling from the safety of my own home, I have of course thought about war, in Ukraine and in countless other places, and how children live through it all. Specifically, I thought a lot about the role toys and playing might have in processing life as it happens.

While I browsed through pictures of toy soldiers, old and new, in search of something that might catch my eye especially, I came across the figure for this week’s portrait, and for the first time in a while I smiled. It was none other than my dear Good Soldier Švejk! It felt fitting to do his portrait, as he seems to encapsulate so many things about war in general, and specifically war in Europe – whether waged more than 100 years ago or right now.

Given how this figure closely resembles Josef Lada’s wonderful artwork (see more further below), even if the description says it is ‘probably’ the Good Soldier Švejk, it seems safe to say it is. For anyone unfamiliar with the character, The Good Soldier Švejk (also sometimes spelt Schweik) is a black satire about WWI written by Jaroslav Hašek (1883-1923) – you can take a look at the Penguin Classics blurb for the book here.  

This particular incarnation of Švejk is, quite perfectly, a squeaky toy, and it was one of a set of auctioned items from the estate of the late English playwright Arnold Wesker. There is no information about how, when or where Wesker came to acquire it. If you look at the photograph you will see it was auctioned together with a dog (huge in comparison with Švejk), but I kept that out of the drawing, as there is very little information about these figures, and it cannot be assumed that they originally came as a duo. However, in the book, Švejk – who describes himself as an idiot (‘I was discharged from the army for idiocy and officially certified by a special commission as an idiot. I'm an official idiot’) – is a dog dealer/thief in his civilian life, forging pedigree documents for ugly mutts and trying to sell them.

I looked for other Švejk toys, and came across some old wind-up toys, marionettes, and other little figures (as well as cushions, fridge magnets etc). I was also able to confirm that there are manufacturers still making little figures intended as toys for kids – one of them says “Seznamte Vaše děti s vojákem Švejkem již v útlém věku!”  (Introduce your kids to soldier Švejk from an early age!).

A long time ago, I spent a summer travelling a little around Central Europe. One thing I did when I arrived in the each of the cities was to go to a bookshop and look for local authors I hadn’t read. In Brno, I wolfed down I Served the King of England, by Bohumil Hrabal – perhaps it was suggestion, but the book tasted especially wonderful in Hrabal’s place of birth. In Prague, I bought The Good Soldier Švejk, which I was not previously acquainted with. It came as an unexpectedly delightful treat, and again, reading it in the Czech Republic made everything seem funnier, sharper and – why on earth had I not come across it before? The illustrations by Josef Lada are also particularly perfect (you can see some of the artwork produced by Lada here, if you scroll down). Just take a look at Švejk’s face – it occurs to me that he would look quite at home interacting with Space Dog, which he would undoubtedly try to pass off as some sort of exotic new breed that required no food.

It feels like having a disastrously ‘bad’ soldier as a symbol, often pictured beer in hand, might provide a grounding of some sort – it’s a satirical take that comes from having seen the real horrors of war repeat themselves over and over, having witnessed people die due to sheer incompetence and/or the petulance and ruffled feathers of some man or other who is, invariably, far removed from the plastic battalions he commands.

There is knowing humour, self-deprecation, a mistrust of anything that presents itself as personal glory, an awareness of the role of chance, and a solid survivor’s instinct — and that’s quite a list for a squeaky toy.