Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. No money is made from this. Any original characters, however are mine.

AN: Drawing on elements from I'll Be Back Soon and other tales. Not necessary to have read them, I think, but might help contextualise things if you have.

To the Victor Go the Spoils of War

Father and son catharsis. Reflections on a time he would rather forget. A snippet of his time in the Air Force.

They say time heals all wounds.

It doesn't.

Believe me, it doesn't.

They say we have to make peace with all the decisions and choices we make over our lifetime.

It's a near to impossible task. Some choices aren't really choices. Some 'choices' are forced down onto you, from a higher being; someone located further up in the chain of command. Being a lowly Lieutenant, you have no choice but to comply, unless you want your ass hauled over hot coals for disobeying a direct order from a superior officer.

I'd know. You can trust me on that. I've had first-hand experience of it. More times than I can count on all my fingers and toes, all twenty of them. I've even had the threat of a court martial for trusting my gut and not heeding orders that have been passed down the military hierarchy.

People view me as some sort of national hero. I wish they wouldn't. I've heard little kids say that I'm their role model; that they want to be just like me when they grow up, and that makes what's left of my heart – which is near to non-existent now - sink and contort painfully in my gut. They shouldn't view me as an idol; they don't know, don't understand what we went through out there, and don't know the lows I sunk to just to survive.

They don't know that the awards, the so-called mementos, the damned Medal of Honour just lies in a cut-out underneath the floorboards of my room. The maxim out of sight, out of mind, doesn't quite work. The public never witnessed the full effects of the Peace Wars; they did not see the destruction, the desolation the war caused, still caused.

It's kind of ironic, isn't it, that the Peace Wars were needed to establish and maintain peace. We needed fighting to stop the fighting, especially in Bereznik, where I was stationed. We needed death to light up the way for peace. We needed calamity to foster harmony. It's a bit of a paradox. It's kind of sad, too, when you realise that Man can be cold and callous to take away another Man's life, without a blink of an eye. To them, killing is a casual thing, something they can do without blinking an eye.

I know what you're thinking, and yes, maybe I am being hypocritical. After all, I was a fighter pilot with the USAF; there had been times when I had been locked onto by a target and we had engaged in a dogfight. There had been missiles fired in that exchange. The difference, though, is that my wingman and I only fired them as a last resort, when all other viable options had been exhausted.

But in this instance, it wasn't like that. In true, peacekeeping-troop style, the United Nations had created a composite of troops from varying countries to provide as much humanitarian aid as possible.

I can remember each and every day of my tour of duty, despite my brain protesting against it.

I can remember every horrifying, heart-stopping moment.

Every bullet ricocheting through a human body. Every blunt, dull thud as the body hit the floor. Every clanging sound the shell casing made after the bullets were fired.

I remember it all.