I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 65

Chapter 65: The Cunning Little Fellow

Charles was assigned a private dormitory. Although it was small, only seven square meters, and simply furnished with just a bed, a desk and chair, and a small bookshelf, it was a privilege reserved for colonels. Majors and officers of lower rank had to share dormitories with two or even four people, cramped spaces outfitted with bunk beds.

Charles had been granted the rank of second lieutenant—a standard rank for officers graduating from military academies, though Charles had never attended one.

Gallieni had explained, “This guy invented the tank and the sidecar. Both have proven immensely effective on the battlefield. Honestly, giving him the rank of colonel wouldn’t be excessive!”

Then he added, “If anyone else could provide us with similarly useful inventions, I’d grant them a rank too!”

No one objected. Thus, Charles received the full set of equipment that came with the second lieutenant rank:

• Two sets of military uniforms, with a gold stripe on the cuffs for distinction.

• A binocular case with a strap for easy shoulder carry.

• A whistle, used for issuing orders to soldiers, or at times for communication or signaling between officers.

• An M1892 revolver, designed for both command and self-defense.

• An M1845 infantry officer’s saber. Charles was particularly fond of this exquisitely crafted sword, which he couldn’t put down when he first received it.

The saber was beautifully designed with a brass hilt and a blade of single-forged steel. It featured two grooves, one wide and one narrow, and the manufacturer’s stamp was etched into the guard. However, the blade was 87 centimeters long. When Charles wore it on his belt, it almost dragged on the ground.

Charles understood that carrying such a weapon onto the battlefield was practically suicidal. It served no purpose and would only hinder his movements. In the end, he reluctantly set it by his bedside as a decoration.

After changing into his uniform, Charles couldn’t resist admiring himself in the mirror.

There was no denying that the French military uniforms of this era were quite dashing. Unfortunately, the elegance of these designs often clashed with battlefield practicality. The more vibrant and striking the attire, the more likely it was to draw enemy fire—essentially, an invitation to a quicker death.

...

Opening the door and stepping out of the dormitory, Charles found Adrian, his assigned orderly, waiting at the door. Gallieni had appointed Adrian to take care of all Charles’s daily needs.

Adrian gave Charles a once-over and suddenly panicked. “My apologies, Lieutenant! It’s my fault—I forgot to bring you boots with spurs. I’ll rectify this immediately!”

“Spurs?” Charles stopped Adrian. “No, they’re unnecessary. I don’t ride horses.”

“But…” Adrian hesitated before explaining, “Every officer must know how to ride. Even if you can’t now, you’ll need to learn eventually!”

Charles paused for a moment, then understood.

At this time, horses were crucial for officers. They often needed to ride into battle, wielding sabers as they led charges, or quickly circle their troops, shouting orders to ensure everyone heard them.

Even staff officers like Charles, who didn’t need to engage in direct combat, frequently had to deliver documents, convey intelligence, or issue temporary commands. All of this required riding.

But commanding infantry from horseback on a battlefield? The thought made Charles shiver. He would never do something so foolhardy—not now, not ever!

“There’s no need, Adrian!” Charles glanced at his boots and firmly reiterated, “These are perfectly fine.”

“Adrian!” someone called out from nearby. “Did you forget the lieutenant owns a motorcycle factory? He’s producing motorcycles for our army, yet you want him to wear spurred boots and ride a horse?”

Hearing this, Adrian finally relaxed. A motorcycle might indeed be a better choice.

However, Charles couldn’t ride a motorcycle either.

...

At that moment, Gallieni approached. He gave Charles a once-over, his gaze tinged with a hint of satisfaction.

But his words were cutting: “No wonder you’re a capitalist, Lieutenant! You’ve taken good care of yourself. I wonder, though, if this delicate hothouse flower can withstand the hardships of army life!”

“Yes, General!” Charles could only respond in this way.

Gallieni turned and called out to someone in the distance. “Fernand!”

“Yes, General!” A major came jogging over and stood at attention in front of Gallieni.

“He’s yours now!” Gallieni waved his white gloves at Charles. “Tell him what to do, and before that, teach him how to salute!”

“Yes, General!” Fernand replied, then turned to Charles. “Come with me, Lieutenant. We’ll head downstairs.”

...

The training ground was in the courtyard behind headquarters. It was lined with flower beds and low shrubs, with a statue of Gilbert du Motier at its center.

Gilbert was the drafter of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the designer of the French tricolor flag. He had also fought in both the American War of Independence and the French Revolution, earning the title “Hero of Two Worlds.”

Fernand chose the open space in front of the statue to train Charles. Charles suspected Fernand wanted to use the statue to remind him, a capitalist, of the revolutionary ideals.

As an instructor, Fernand was competent. He took Charles’s training seriously, as if he were a raw recruit. He taught him to salute, march, and even how to hold a rifle while on guard duty.

Charles, however, was not an ideal student. He found the drills dull but feigned enthusiasm and diligence.

“If this were formal training, it would take months!” Fernand frowned at Charles’s subpar posture. “But the general has only given me one day. God help us—what can you learn in one day?”

Charles wanted to suggest: Major, have you considered that perhaps General Gallieni didn’t assign you only a day to properly train me, but simply didn’t want to waste more time? But he said nothing.

He suspected Gallieni was waiting for him to slip up. This was likely the true purpose of the drill.

Charles was right. Upstairs in the operations room, Gallieni was keeping a close watch, hoping to catch Charles defying orders or clashing with Fernand.

Only then could Gallieni stride out confidently, reprimanding Charles with righteous indignation:
“Do you think the army is some kind of playground?”

“Do you believe that inventing tanks and sidecars exempts you from military discipline? That you can rise above others and ignore orders?”

“This is the army! A place of discipline and obedience!”

“No matter who you are, what you’ve done, or how many merits you’ve earned, you’re just a second lieutenant now!”

But Gallieni never got the chance. This left him with a peculiar sense of frustration, as if he’d punched a pillow.

He had prepared his lines, rehearsed his gestures, and even envisioned Charles’s crestfallen expression—yet none of it came to pass.

Gallieni grew increasingly irritated as he paced the operations room. He would occasionally steal glances through the window, hoping to catch something, but Charles remained diligently engaged in his training, albeit not very skillfully.

Suddenly, Gallieni stopped pacing. After a moment of reflection, he let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “That cunning little fellow… He’s figured it out. Everything is playing out just as he planned!”

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