Weirdest Wars Where Nobody Was Killed

Here’s a sanitized version of the YouTube transcript:

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There was once a war so unusual that even its participants forgot it was happening. Or what about the peculiar declaration of war that pitted an army of thousands against an army of… eight? And the miniature American Civil War where the only casualties were the homes of a few innocent honey bees? While we typically associate war with violence and bloodshed, in the history of recorded human conflict, there have actually been a handful of battles that were resolved without a single casualty. This is the bizarre and fascinating world of Bloodless Wars, and we’re going to tell you about some of the most intriguing examples—from their earliest days to the most surprisingly recent.

It began all the way back on March 30, 1651. Or did it? The strangest thing about this first war is that even though we know for a fact it ended, we’re not technically sure if it ever actually began. We are, of course, talking about the Three Hundred and Thirty-Five Year War, which may have been fought between the Netherlands and the Isles of Scilly. But historians are divided on whether this alleged multi-century conflict was a genuine war or a kind of elaborate running joke with a long lead-up to its punchline.

We know for certain that this possibly fictitious, bloodless war was initiated by a very real and bloody one—the English Civil War, which was fought between the Royalists, supporting the rule of King Charles I, and the Parliamentarians, led by Oliver Cromwell. Over 200,000 soldiers and civilians lost their lives from 1642 to 1651. As the war drew to a close, the remnants of the Royalist Navy, led by John Granville, took refuge on the Isles of Scilly.

By 1651, the United Provinces of the Netherlands still had a grievance with the Royalists on the Isles of Scilly. Because the Dutch had aligned with the Parliamentarians during the Civil War, the Royalist Navy had previously caused significant damage to their forces. Lieutenant-Admiral Maarten Harpertszoon Tromp wanted some reparations. However, when he traveled to the Isles of Scilly to request these reparations, he was rebuffed by the Royalists.

According to the account of English Parliamentarian Sir Bulstrode Whitlocke, “Tromp came to Pendennis and related that he had been to Scilly to demand reparation for the Dutch ships and goods taken by them; and receiving no satisfactory answer, he had, according to his Commission, declared war on them.” But there was a complication—shortly after this contested declaration of war, the Royalists officially surrendered to the Parliamentarians, and the English Civil War came to an end. The Dutch Navy left for home, having never signed an official peace treaty with the Isles of Scilly, and it remained this way for 335 years.

Over the centuries, it became a kind of local joke on the Isles that they were still at war with the Dutch—even though, technically speaking, Lieutenant-Admiral Tromp had never actually had the authority to declare war on behalf of his nation. But even if the war never really started, it did actually end in 1986, when Scillonian historian and councilman Roy Duncan realized that a peace treaty still hadn’t been signed between Scilly and the Netherlands. He invited Dutch ambassador Jonkheer Rein Huydecoper to visit the Isles and bring their conflict to an end. In April of that year, Huydecoper accepted the invitation, visiting as an unofficial peace envoy and declaring a permanent ceasefire between the two nations—strange given that the fighting never actually started.

The Dutch have a peculiar history of engaging in bloodless wars. Just over a century after the start of the Three Hundred and Thirty-Five Year War, in 1784, the Dutch went to war with the Holy Roman Empire over the River Scheldt. This conflict would later be known as the Kettle War for a rather amusing reason.

The Spanish Netherlands was backed by the Holy Roman Empire, and the Southern Netherlands, then known as the Republic of the Seven Netherlands, had a contentious relationship with them. An important point of contention was the River Scheldt, an important trade route that the Dutch provinces had barred the Spanish Netherlands from accessing—leading to a long-standing resentment. In 1648, the Spanish Hapsburgs attempted to secure the River Scheldt as part of the Treaty of Westphalia but failed. Later, in 1714, after the War of the Spanish Succession, the Austrian branch of the Hapsburg family tried to gain access to the River Scheldt. However, after their requests were denied, they lacked the economic leverage to force the Dutch’s hand.

In 1784, Emperor Joseph II attempted to take the River Scheldt by force. He sent his flagship, Le Louis, and two others into the Scheldt as a provocation against their Dutch rivals. The response was a single Dutch ship, De Dolfijn. The outcome seemed obvious—De Dolfijn was outmanned and outgunned compared to Le Louis and her support ships. But what happened next shocked everyone involved. De Dolfijn fired a single shot at Le Louis, not injuring anyone on board, and Le Louis immediately surrendered. Nobody really knows why the surrender was so quick, given that the Holy Roman Empire had a clear advantage on paper. But in any case, the battle was over before it even began, and the Holy Roman Empire was humiliated. The conflict officially ended a year later, in 1785, with the Treaty of Fontainebleau, which left the contested river closed to shipping in exchange for compensation.

So, why was this conflict called the Kettle War? Because the one casualty of this conflict was a kettle on board the Le Louis that was destroyed by De Dolfijn’s single, non-lethal shot.

Let’s fast forward from one period of bloodless conflict to another, from 1784 to 1809. This is the Huéscar-Danish War, and you may be thinking, “I’ve never heard of the nation of Huéscar,” and that’s because Huéscar isn’t a nation—it’s a relatively small municipality in the province of Granada, Spain. So, how did this place end up in a conflict with the Danes in the early 1800s? It started as the Napoleonic Wars were coming to a close in 1809. After Napoleon’s defeat, stability was returning to Western Europe. Ferdinand VIII had taken the throne, and a peace treaty was signed between Spain and Denmark. Except for, of course, the municipality of Huéscar, which decided that maybe it would be the force to bring the country that gave us the Vikings to its knees.

They may not have had the forces—specifically, the municipality had only eight guards—but they had the fighting spirit to bring home the victory for king and country. Except, there was never actually any fighting. The war was lost not on the battlefield but in the pages of history itself. This went on for 172 years until an employee of Granada’s regional government found the dusty old declaration of war. They contacted the Danish government and began brokering a peace deal in 1981.

Danish Ambassador Mogens Wandel-Petersen traveled to Huéscar on April 11 of that year with a delegation of friends dressed as Vikings, carrying shields with the words “Danish-Hispanic Friends” written on them. The citizens of Huéscar responded in kind, putting up large posters at the city limits that jokingly warned their Viking visitors that they were now entering enemy territory. It was a whole event, with everyone being given the day off in Huéscar to participate in the festivities. During the celebration, the Danes and the people of Huéscar exchanged regional food and drink, and once the festivities were over, Ambassador Wandel-Petersen and the mayor of Huéscar signed a peace treaty. It was probably the most relaxed war of all time, even by the standards of unusually gentlemanly bloodless wars.

But our next war has a sweet name—the Honey War. This one is actually quite strange. This aborted skirmish took place between the state militias of Iowa and Missouri back in 1839 over a series of confusions and disputes about the border between the two states. Due to unclear wording in a few land treaties made with the indigenous people in the area and the imprecise surveying work of one John C. Sullivan in 1816, ambiguity about the exact nature of the border was created. In 1837, this left the door open for Missouri to sponsor a new survey of the border, which would allow them to essentially take almost 3,000 miles of land from Iowa.

The federal government tried to mediate the dispute as tensions began to rise, but Missouri wasn’t satisfied. The proposed arrangement for the new border still benefited Iowa at their expense. Much like Le Louis entering the River Scheldt to assert its power, Missouri retaliated against what they perceived as unfair treatment by sending a tax collector into disputed territory to collect taxes from the residents. And seeing as nobody is ever happy to see a tax collector, this marked an escalation in tensions. The tax collector in question, Missouri Sheriff Uriah Gregory, was told to leave or the Iowans would use force. In retaliation, Missourians cut down four trees used by local bee colonies to store honey—hence the conflict’s name, The Honey War.

The next time Sheriff Gregory entered the disputed area, the Iowans had him arrested. When news spread of the Sheriff’s incarceration, Missouri’s governor sent a militia to reclaim him. Meanwhile, when they heard that the Missouri militia was on its way, Iowa created its own impromptu militia—armed with rusty revolutionary weapons and old farm tools. The governor of Iowa donated five barrels of beer to the troops, which surely improved their military focus and coordination. To underscore just how lighthearted this entire conflict was, the Iowan militia marched under the rallying cry of “Death to the invading forces!” But despite all these forces being mobilized, an actual battle never took place. This was because the invading Missouri militia grew tired of being expected to risk their lives in a battle without the promise of pay. So, they shot a deer and tied up the two halves of the carcass to trees, claiming they represented the Missouri and Iowa governors. They then proceeded to shoot at the two carcass halves before burying them with honors.

Strangely, this act prompted the governors to realize how absurd things were getting and decide to call off the battle, agreeing to mediate the border with the federal government until the dispute was eventually settled by the Supreme Court. Not a single human life was lost—just a deer, some trees, and some bees.

Speaking of animals in bloodless war—well, not so bloodless for the animals in question—probably one of the most famous is The Pig War, which took place on San Juan Island in 1859. The island, known for its fertile soil and abundant natural resources, became contested by the United States and the Hudson’s Bay Company, a proxy for British interests. The British considered the Americans on the island to be squatters, whereas the Americans expected the US Government to back their claim. The situation escalated when an American named Lyman Cutler shot a pig that had wandered onto his land and allegedly eaten his potatoes. The death of this pig could have led to a major conflict, as Cutler sought the defense of anti-British American Brigadier General William S. Harney. Both parties sent forces to the island to support their claims, raising fears of bloodshed.

As tensions escalated and more troops occupied San Juan Island, President Buchanan became concerned and dispatched General Winfield Scott to prevent the conflict from escalating into violence. Joint military occupation was proposed as a temporary solution until a proper agreement could be reached—and it remained that way for twelve years until the signing of the Treaty of Washington. Kaiser Wilhelm I of Germany acted as the mediator on the issue of San Juan Island, deciding to give it to the United States. This marked the last border divide between the US and Canada.

But the Pig War is still only second to the strangest Bloodless War of all time: The Lobster War, which took place between France and Brazil from 1961 to 1963 and is also one of the most oddly pedantic wars ever. It started with a group of French fishermen trawling for lobster off the coast of Africa. After a disappointing catch, they decided to push west until they reached the warm waters of South America. They discovered a large population of spiny lobsters, which they began to fish in significant quantities. Naturally, the local fishermen were not pleased, and soon enough, the Brazilian Navy was dispatched to intimidate them. The sailors argued that because the lobsters were moving along the ocean floor near the South American coast, they were Brazilian by right. The fishermen contended that since the lobsters could swim from place to place, they were open for international fishing. This argument was unconvincing, so the Brazilians called in the rest of their fleet.

France’s president, Charles De Gaulle, viewed this as an insult and sent a destroyer from the French fleet, which was repelled by the Brazilian Navy. The French were given 48 hours to withdraw, but those 48 hours turned into a three-year, lobster-inspired Cold War. Ultimately, the issue needed to be settled in international courts, where scientists were tasked with determining whether lobsters walked along the ground or swam through the sea. In the end, the conflict was resolved, and the scientists concluded that the lobsters walked, not swam.

If there were an award for the most unusual ways a war could conclude, we definitely think that’s in the running.

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This version maintains the essence of the original transcript while removing any potentially inappropriate language or phrases.