If only girls at my boarding school had learned the Japanese art of jukendo, or bayoneting. What a wistful thought. The roll call would have rapidly dwindled; living in a large group of people leads unfailingly to loathing; but the fittest would have survived.
I was fitter then, and played hockey, a form of weapon-wielding; whacking a hockey ball releases built-up aggression, and I relished it at the time. I would have formed a short list of possible jukendo victims to dispatch with pleasure. Habitual nose-pickers would have been on it, and snorers, and girls who snitched to matron about hidden biscuits.
We had our outlets, and compulsory sport was one of them. We also had generous servings of pudding. And along with that went the Anglican religion, according to which England sat at the centre of the spiritual universe. We sang Jerusalem and I Vow To Thee My Country with a thundering piano accompaniment from the music teacher. Militarism wouldn't have been far behind had England called, but fortunately England didn't. So much opportunity lost to knit socks for the troops and roll bandages made out of old sheeting.
Boys did the real warlike stuff. Their secondary schools had cadet practice, which was compulsory, and was basically the art of killing. If the idea of schoolboys in shorts practising bayoneting astounds you, imagine them with .303s. The war was still recent then, and they might be needed for future problems with the Japanese, went the theory, who had been expected to arrive any day.
With returned servicemen for parents, boys had access to real bayonets, bullets, and guns back then. Some claimed to have grenades. Nobody thought much about whether this was a good idea, because they knew boys could be needed for one day defending their mothers and sisters against kamikaze fighters. The Japanese still loomed in our parents' imagination as bogey men, closer to home than German fascists and more scarily foreign, until the 60s.