OK, kiddies. Go grab the popcorn and sodas, 'cause gramps is gonna tell a war story again.
So there I was.* Somewhere out in the boonies 'round-about aught-mumblety-something, just north of somewhere, up on a hill overlooking some terrain feature. Or was it the time we was in the city/village/hamlet/town/shell-hole of Whachmacallit? Anyhoo, there we all was, humping up/down/around/towards/away from the terrain feature previously so lovingly described when these two itty-bitty little kids - couldn't have been more than (mumble) years old, came walking/running/skipping up to us holding out something enticing and obviously non-threatening, jabbering away about giving them cigarettes/candy/buying their female relative/farm animal/taking them back home with us, and some dumb FNG newbie goes and squats down and holds up the whole division/regiment/battalion/company/platoon/squad/fire team to jibber-jabber with the little tykes who really were as cute as a button when suddenly those two rug rats do something nefarious and underhanded to shoot/blow up/poison him/some of us/the whole darned group.
I first heard this story from Og, who said his great-grandfather used to bore them with it every time they stopped to try and build a fire. His great-grandfather probably heard some olde phart tell it 'cause Og's great-grandfather never served a day in his life.
The point being that little kids, children, youts [sic], and minors have been killing people in war and when committing crimes since probably the third kid was born. And if I have my Bible stories down right, the first kid killed the second kid but not until they were both pretty much grown up.
If the imminent threat of death or serious bodily injury comes from someone 5 years old or 95 years old, that threat is still the same one. You will get just as killed by some infant pulling the trigger as if some doddering old codger pulled it, or some punk in the prime of his life. In God we trust - everybody else show me your hands! Cognitive dissonance will get you killed.
So, yes, I'd rather explain to 12 men good and true just why I shot the little altar-boy on his way home from Bibble study to give his poor crippled granny a foot massage because when he came up to me he had something that made me reasonably fear he was going to kill me/seriously wound me and there was no other way to make him stop, than to burden folks with trying to say nice things about me without laughing while shoveling dirt over me.
*Mandatory beginning of a war story, as opposed to the mandatory beginning of a fairy (not ferry) tale. If you doubt me you can go look it up.