I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 108

Chapter 108: The Fallen Pilot

The police station was right next to the command center. Charles went downstairs and walked a few steps to reach it.

Charles initially thought he would have to introduce himself—something like, “I am so-and-so, here for such-and-such.” After all, the military and the police were two separate entities, each carrying out its own duties. Even during wartime, though both were under Gallieni's command, their operations were distinct.

But Charles quickly realized this wasn’t necessary. The moment he stepped through the police station's door, the previously bustling officers seemed to freeze in place, as if someone had pressed pause. All eyes turned to Charles, and in the next moment, a collective cheer rose up as they surrounded him.

“Good heavens, you’re Charles!”

“We knew you were right next door, but we couldn’t get in—that’s military territory!”

“It’s such an honor to meet you, Lieutenant! We’ve heard so much about you!”

...

The policemen were far more casual than soldiers, or maybe their work wasn’t as urgent as the army’s, so it didn’t matter if they left it unattended for a while. They crowded around eagerly, each vying to shake Charles’s hand.

After shaking so many hands that his arm grew sore, Charles finally found a moment to speak. “I’m here to see Eric…”

“Eric?” The policemen looked confused.

“The pilot!” Charles explained. “The one who flew me to Antwerp!”

The officers immediately understood, responding with a flurry of comments.

“That guy who keeps shouting for booze?”

“He’s made this station his home! Committed crimes like that, yet still wants a drink!”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. We’ll keep an eye on him until he confesses to everything and reveals whoever’s behind him!”

...

Charles couldn’t help but wonder if they had subjected Eric to harsh interrogations.

Fortunately, that wasn’t the case, thanks to Gallieni. He had ordered the police to conduct interrogations using standard procedures. Gallieni knew these individuals were innocent; he had other reasons for detaining them.

Eric was being held alone in a cell, curled up in a corner, fast asleep.

The officers opened the iron door, and Charles stepped forward to wake him. Eric groggily opened his eyes. When he saw Charles, he shot up like a spring. “Hey, kiddo, you finally showed up! They’re saying I kidnapped you…”

“It’s all resolved now, Uncle Eric!” Charles replied, an apologetic expression on his face. “I’ve already explained everything. I had no idea they locked you up here!”

Eric grunted a few times. “So, does this mean I can go?”

“Yes!”

Eric turned his gaze past Charles and asked, “What about them?”

Charles turned around in confusion. Behind him were several other cells with iron bars, housing about twenty unkempt, ragged young and middle-aged men.

“Who are they?” Charles asked, puzzled.

“They’re members of the Carter Flying Club!” Eric replied. “All dragged in for questioning because of you!”

“The flying club? You mean they’re all pilots?” Charles asked in disbelief, looking at the group.

They looked more like vagrants—or perhaps street gangsters. Many had visible tattoos on their necks.

Were all pilots of this era so destitute?

Charles had thought Eric was an exception. He hadn’t expected the others to be just as bad! Later, Charles realized he wasn’t wrong—pilots of this era were indeed down-and-out, and this was only the tip of the iceberg.

...

To express his apologies, Charles brought them to the officers’ mess hall for a proper meal.

Compared to ordinary rations, the food in the officers’ mess was excellent.

Sausages, bread, jam, and coffee were self-serve and unlimited, though none of the pilots touched them. Without exception, they all chose the house-made wine.

The highlight of the meal was the white bean stew with beef. It was a luxury for regular soldiers but a daily staple here. The menu also included mashed potatoes, pizza, and fruit.

The owner of the flying club, a middle-aged man named Carter, had a scruffy appearance with a full beard and a faded jacket. He looked like a Viking from a movie. He practically buried his face in his plate, devouring his food. When he finally lifted his head, his plate was spotless, and the juices on his beard glistened with oil.

Not waiting to swallow completely, Carter eagerly raised his glass, took a greedy sip, and then seemed to remember something. Raising his half-full glass, he shouted indistinctly, “To Lieutenant Charles, cheers!”

The others joined in.

“Cheers, to the Lieutenant!”

“To Charles! You’re a good man!”

“He’s the savior of France!”

...

Then Carter turned to Charles with great interest and asked, “Lieutenant, is it true you’re planning to buy Eric’s aircraft factory?”

“Yes!” Charles replied.

He was seated at the table with a cup of coffee. Having just finished breakfast, he had no appetite for more, and none of the food tempted him.

Charles’s response caused a stir among the pilots. Some even shot envious, jealous glances at Eric, exclaiming:

“Lucky guy!”

“I thought he was bragging. Turns out it’s true!”

“Eric’s about to strike it rich!”

...

Eric sipped his wine, squinting with satisfaction. He even raised his glass to toast the group, his expression practically a display of smugness.

Carter forced a bitter smile and gestured around the table, advising Charles, “I hope you’ll think this through carefully, Lieutenant. Look at us! If you buy an aircraft factory, we might end up being your customers!”

Eric grunted and glared at Carter, clearly displeased with the comment.

Everyone chuckled, but their laughter carried a tinge of bitterness, helplessness, and melancholy.

Charles thought for a moment, beginning to understand why they were in such dire straits.

What could airplanes of this era even do?
Cargo transport?

With the limited space and carrying capacity, the cost of fuel alone would outweigh the profits from multiple trips.
Passenger transport?

Leaving aside safety concerns, the planes were two-seaters, only capable of carrying one passenger.
Combat?

Without machine guns or bombs, they were relegated to reconnaissance missions—and even then, cheap and durable balloons often took their place.

Thus, flying in this era was mostly a passion project for enthusiasts, requiring immense dedication. Much like modern online writers earning no royalties, they poured time and effort into an empty endeavor, reaping no rewards. Over time, even a middle-class family would struggle to sustain such a hobby. The result was their current plight.

Charles couldn’t help but ask, “How much do you earn in a month?”

Carter smiled faintly and turned to the pilots, calling out names. “Belmondo?”

“I make 20 francs a month,” Belmondo said, lightly raising his glass. “But that’s if I don’t have to buy any plane parts. If something breaks, I go hungry.”

“Lucchini?” Carter pointed to another.

“I’m a bit better off, Lieutenant!” Lucchini stood and faced Charles. “I earn 25 francs a month, but that’s because I deliver urgent documents for the military.”

“Cornelius?” Carter looked at a gaunt man who had eaten until his belly was round.

“I…” Cornelius stammered as he rose, trembling. “I can’t afford to repair my plane. I’ve had no income for two months!”

He burped and nodded at Charles. “Thank you, Lieutenant. It’s been a long time since I had such a hearty meal!”

Charles felt a pang of sorrow. These pilots, hailed as the “pride of the skies” in modern times, were now reduced to such poverty because aviation hadn’t yet advanced.

As Charles reflected on the twists of fate, a messenger approached him and reported, “Lieutenant, the General has summoned you!”

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