I had a friend growing up whose dad had been killed in the Falklands and he never knew him; his mum was pregnant with him when it happened. Weirdly, the friend wanted nothing more than to join the Parachute Regiment, his Dad's unit. They're something between Airborne rangers and Green berets - 1 Para is basically special forces - and they're where most of the SAS come from. So hard bastards basically.
One day, we were messing around with bb guns and Tom, my friend, shot and killed a sparrow. When he picked it up he burst into tears. We were 13 or 14 at the time. Needless to say he didn't pass P company a few years later.
Sounds like a quite a few of you on here would be psychologically suited to slotting towelheads in Helmand though.