Here is a post from more than 2 years back

Sundays were bad days at my Public (ie boarding, private) School.  The day before we had to dress up as soldiers and play military games in the Combined Cadet Force. Monday afternoon was the worst time in the week.

For a couple of years, I was a member of the Signals Platoon.  Once I had to wade from a boat on to a Dorset Beach carrying a First World War short wave radio - bulkier and heavier than a Aussie's backpack.  The radio never work for very long, and communication failures were one of the reason our side were declared the losers, after the throwing of fireworks and the firing of lots of blanks.

At least I knew I would never have to do National (complusory military) Service when I left school, because it was to be abolished before I turned 18.  The fast diminishing Empire would now be defended exclusively by professionals.  Many of my schoolmates later joined one or other of the armed services.  As officers, of course.

The worst thing about the Combined Cadet Force (beside the cold, and hanging around and the pure stupidity of it) was the Drill.  The marching, presenting arms - and worst of the worst, the kit inspection.

That's where Sundays came in.  Sunday was the day we prepared our kit:  painted our belts and webbing with some khaki-covered paint called 'Blanco'; polished our brass belt buckel and badge; spit-and-polished our army boots.  On inspection mine never reached the expected mirror standard.  And my rifle, cleaned on Monday lunchtime in the armoury, always had unnecesary oily residue left inside the barrel.

It's humiliating to be bad at something you hate doing.

Allegedly, serving in the "Corps" was voluntary.  However it would be unpatriotic to refuse to belong.

I though and thought (sincerely) and decided that I was a pacifist.  On or about my 18th birthday, I announced my intention of resigning from the Corps.  I was summoned to the Headmaster's study.

"I hope you realise the gravity of what you are doing," he said in his ridiculously exaggerated posh accent.

"Yes sir...  I understood, though, that belonging to the Combined Cadet Force is voluntary."

"Oh yes, Weston.  You are permitted to leave the CCF if you leave the School as well."

Later, as a compromise, I was allowed to dig deep holes on Monday afternoon, and on the second-to-last day of my last term, the Headmaster found an entirely different reason to expel me.  To this day, I honestly don't know what the reason was.

My father took my expulsion in his stride.  "I only sent you to the school so you'd rebel against it."

Typical dad, to take over my battles...  But that's another story.