I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 88

Chapter 88: You Have an Aircraft Factory?

Charles’ arrival at the airfield caused quite a stir as soldiers instinctively gathered around him.

Perhaps someone had informed him, for the major who had previously mocked Charles stumbled out of his command post and hurried toward him. Nervousness made his voice stammer: “S-Sir… I deeply apologize for my earlier disrespect…”

Charles had long forgotten the incident and only recalled it when the major mentioned it. When he had first landed, the experience had indeed been unpleasant.

But Charles had no time for such matters. He went straight to the point: “You’ve received the notice, haven’t you, Major?”

Charles was referring to the temporary transfer of command.

“Yes, of course!” The major straightened up. “We are at your command, sir!”

He wisely used “sir” instead of “second lieutenant,” as it would have sounded odd for a second lieutenant to command a major.

“What’s your name?” Charles asked.

“Fischer, sir!” The major’s eyes betrayed a hint of fear. He had been worried ever since receiving the notification. Could Charles be here to exact revenge for their earlier encounter?

Now that Charles was asking for his name, it seemed inevitable.

“How many planes do you have?” Charles asked again.

“Seven left, sir!” Major Fischer swallowed nervously. It was just as he feared—Charles would likely send him up in one of those planes to crash into German aircraft.

“May I see them?” Charles’s gaze swept the surroundings as if searching for the aircraft.

“Yes, sir!” The major stepped aside and reluctantly led Charles toward the hangar.

When Charles saw the planes parked inside, he was thoroughly disappointed. Most were “Dove” monoplanes, with only two “Avro” biplanes. Including the plane Charles had arrived in, there were only three serviceable aircraft.

“Is this all you have?” Charles asked.

“Yes, sir!” Fischer confirmed.

Charles paced a few steps and asked, “Where’s the pilot who brought me here?”

...

Inside the soldiers’ quarters, Charles’ pilot was passed out drunk. Fully dressed, he sprawled on the bed, snoring loudly. Several empty bottles and half-eaten bread were scattered nearby, and the room reeked of alcohol and stale sourness.

“Sir!” Fischer wrinkled his nose at the smell. “I suggest replacing him with another pilot. I can arrange it for you…”

“No need!” Charles replied.

From the flight from Paris, Charles had gauged the drunkard pilot’s skill. While others merely controlled planes, this man embodied flying. Charles felt as if the pilot and the aircraft had fused into one, as though the plane were an extension of his body—despite his perpetual drunkenness.

“Uncle, Uncle?” Charles shook the pilot awake.

It took some effort, but the pilot finally rubbed his eyes and, after staring blankly at Charles for a while, recognized him. “Oh, it’s you, kid! Are we finally heading back?”

He sat up abruptly. “Sorry, I’ll be ready in a moment!”

As he rummaged through his pockets and around the bottles and blankets, Charles picked up a flask from the bedside and shook it lightly. A faint sound came from the remaining dregs. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

“Oh, yes!” The pilot grabbed the flask, unscrewed the cap, and downed the last drops in one swig. Satisfied, he said, “Alright, let’s get back to Paris!”

As he spoke, his energy seemed to return, as if the alcohol had rejuvenated him.

“Sorry, Uncle!” Charles replied. “We’re not heading back to Paris for now!”

The pilot grunted, then, in a slurred voice, said, “Well, then… let me know… when you’re ready…”

Before finishing, he slowly toppled back onto the bed.

“Uncle, Uncle!” Charles quickly held him upright. Fischer stepped forward to assist. “Sir, can you help me with something?”

The pilot seemed to regain a little clarity, though he was clearly not on the same wavelength as Charles. He muttered something unintelligible before sitting up with difficulty. Half awake, he squinted at Charles and asked, “You’re Charles, kid? The famous one… Who the hell sent you here?”

“It was you, Uncle,” Charles answered.

The pilot paused, then widened his eyes as realization dawned. “Hey, kid, that’s a serious accusation! I’m just a military contractor, hired to fly you here. Nobody else wanted the job. They knew it was dangerous and didn’t want to risk their lives for twenty francs…”

“Why did you take it?” Charles asked, intrigued.

The pilot chuckled bitterly and straightened up. “Because this isn’t dangerous for me. I’ve done riskier things!”

“Were you in the military?” Charles inquired, though he quickly realized the question didn’t quite fit. Flying planes wasn’t necessarily tied to military experience.

The pilot’s expression darkened, and he evaded the question with a gruff “Hmph.” Instead, he countered, “So, kid, what do you want me to do?”

“Do you know ‘Big Bertha’?” Charles asked.

“I didn’t before, but I do now!” The pilot gestured eastward, where the main German forces were stationed. “Big Bertha” was deployed in that direction to bombard the Fort of Wavre.

The pilot grumbled, “Its blasted noise always wakes me up!”

Fischer rolled his eyes. The man hadn’t been awake since he’d arrived.

“If you destroy it, it won’t bother you anymore!” Charles said, casually handing him a towel.

The pilot muttered a faint acknowledgment, wiped his face, then froze. He stopped mid-motion and stared at Charles. “You’re not… asking me to take down ‘Big Bertha,’ are you?”

Fischer was also stunned. He shot Charles a look of disbelief. So this wasn’t about revenge—it was about destroying “Big Bertha”!
But how?
Crash a plane into it?

The pilot seemed to think so as well. After a moment of stunned silence, he forced a wry smile. “That’s a death sentence, kid! But fine—I’ll take the mission. On one condition.”

“What condition?” Charles asked.

The pilot raised his head and locked eyes with Charles. “Buy my aircraft factory.”

“You have an aircraft factory?” Charles looked at the pilot in astonishment.

The pilot nodded slowly, his tone filled with sorrow and resignation.
“It’s nothing to boast about, Lieutenant. I owe the bank 350,000 francs.”

“At first, I only borrowed one or two thousand, but nobody wanted to buy my planes. The debts just piled up!”

“Now, I can’t even pay the interest… Knowing all this, do you still want to buy it?”

Charles understood.

This man was an entrepreneur crushed by capitalist bankers, driven to the brink of ruin—so desperate that he was willing to trade his life for some relief.

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