The book was called "Tig's Crime" and not "Tig's War".  I found this out after searching for a while on a used book search engine.  There are a number of lessons here for me, if I feel the inclination to pay heed to them.

The first is that the book didn't mean nearly as much to me as I might like to imagine, given that I can't even remember the correct title (mind you its been over 30 years).

The second is that I tend to romanticise everything.  This children's book looks like it was probably a mediocre read at best.  I have a lifetime habit of adding special meaning to things that don't really matter.  I do this so that everything seems special and so my life becomes a story filled with beautiful meaning and purpose.  Contrarily though, when something or someone really does mean something, I have an inbuilt ability to shut them (or it) out because of their ability to inflict damage to me.  I can nonchalantly deride the impact on my life and even create a joke of it in my mind.  Then, years later, when its all dead and no damage can be done, I pick over the bones of what's left and lament it all dearly.

We all pick the bits that fit our pleasant narrative.  We make round pegs fit in square holes and we plod on, making the best of it.  Our chins remain up and we keep our gaze fixed firmly ahead.  We smile at the right times, laugh when we ought to, and say all the right things to all the right people.  This is all how it should be, because otherwise the world would be in chaos.  It still sad though, that dreams are smothered with the pillows we dream on and blown out like a weak candle, lest they break the uniformity of the familiar dark.