I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 52

Chapter 52: This is Called a "Small Problem"?

Djoka had no idea where Charles had gotten his information. All he knew was that after the telegram was sent to Joseph, a reply came back shortly thereafter:

“The other party agrees to sell for 250,000 francs. Should we purchase?”

Djoka promptly responded with a firm “Yes” and then jumped into a car bound for Paris to handle the bank transaction for the cross-border payment.

(Note: Cross-border payments in Europe began developing in the mid-19th century, utilizing a correspondent banking model that remains in use today.)

As Djoka hesitated momentarily before signing at the bank counter, he couldn’t quite understand why Charles was willing to spend such a fortune—250,000 francs—on a technology and product that was soon to become obsolete!

Still, given that Charles was well aware of the situation yet insisted, Djoka assumed he must have his reasons. Finally, Djoka signed the paperwork and transferred the funds.

Charles, indeed, had his reasons. His purchase of the Holt 75 was not intended to produce tractors but rather to produce tanks and armored vehicles.

What he truly needed was the engine technology. In this respect, the Holt 120 didn’t offer significant advantages over the Holt 75. The former simply enlarged the engine for greater output through physical scaling.

This was why the Holt 75 wasn’t officially retired and discontinued until ten years later.

Djoka spent the entire afternoon shuttling back and forth between Davaus and Paris, only returning home after nightfall.

Charles had been confined to his room the entire day. Even when he asked to accompany Djoka to Paris, Camille firmly refused.

“There’s no need for you to get involved, Charles!” Camille said. “Your father can handle this on his own!”

Then Camille joked, “Don’t worry, Charles! Djoka has to grow up sometime—it’s about time we let him handle a few things!”

Djoka snorted in protest, his head held high, but inside, he couldn’t help feeling a pang of bitterness.

Camille was at least partly correct: he did rely on Charles’ decisions.

But that was Charles—his own child, the one he had raised. Seeing Charles surpass him in ability was a source of pride, too!

...

The next day, Charles was finally allowed to accompany Djoka to the factory.

After a simple breakfast and bidding farewell to Camille, they got into their Ford and set off for the factory.

As the car drove through the streets, neighbors kept waving and greeting them. Madame Élisa, who sold croissants, waved enthusiastically:

“Young Master Charles, would you like a croissant? It’s on the house!”

“I just had breakfast, but thank you, Madame Élisa!” Charles called back, turning to express his gratitude as the car drove past.

“She’s making good on her promise,” Djoka said from the driver’s seat, glancing back briefly.

“What promise?” Charles was puzzled.

Djoka explained:

“Madame Élisa’s son is a wounded soldier. A shell fragment severed part of his hand, and he can no longer serve. She hoped I could find him a job at the motorcycle factory, and I agreed.”

“She said we could have her croissants for free as long as we wanted!”

Charles let out an “Oh” as he recalled the promise he’d made to find jobs for injured soldiers at the field hospital.

Djoka asked curiously, “How do you plan to handle those wounded soldiers? Many of them won’t be able to adapt to work at the motorcycle factory. Some even require assistance for daily life.”

Charles replied without hesitation: “We can establish a rehabilitation center for wounded soldiers. By concentrating them in one place for management, we can assign simple parts and machinery for them to process, paying them by the piece.”

Djoka hesitated but then nodded. “That’s a good idea. It will encourage them to support themselves through hard work.”

“Exactly,” Charles said. “It doesn’t cost us much—or at least, not significantly. This way, it’s sustainable. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have the resources to support so many wounded soldiers. And there will be countless more who need our help in the future.”

Djoka agreed. “They’ll be grateful for this, Charles. You’ve given them the chance to earn their own living.”

Unconsciously, Charles thought of Matthew. Would he accept such a “self-sufficient” life?

To him, wouldn’t it feel like just another way of waiting to die?

At that moment, the car suddenly slowed down. Djoka glanced ahead through the windshield, his voice tinged with alarm.

“What’s going on?”

Charles followed Djoka’s gaze and saw a group of French soldiers in red trousers and caps stationed in front of the factory. Armed and ready, they had set up a checkpoint, inspecting vehicles and workers entering the factory.

“What are they looking for?” Djoka scanned the surroundings. “German spies?”

Initially, Charles was just as confused. Then, he spotted a bruised and battered officer.

“That’s Laurent, Father!” Charles said. “They must’ve been sent by General Gallieni!”

Gallieni had introduced Laurent to them that evening, assuring them of his reliability.

Djoka let out an “Oh” as he also recognized Laurent.

Shortly after, a trace of concern crept into Djoka’s voice. “Shouldn’t he be keeping his distance from us? Why is he sending trusted men here?”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “This is only logical, Father. This is where tanks and motorcycle sidecars are produced. The military must be worried about German spies infiltrating and stealing our technology!”

Djoka nodded, agreeing with Charles’ reasoning.

Laurent soon noticed Djoka and approached the car, his expression stern. “Your identification, sir!”

Djoka took out his identification and handed it over.

(Note: France was one of the first countries to use identification cards, originating during the French Revolution to verify citizenship and prevent tax evasion. However, they were paper-based and easy to forge.)

Laurent took the document, his peripheral vision carefully scanning the area. Once he confirmed no one was nearby, he whispered:

“Don’t worry, sir. We’re here under orders to protect you. However, there might be... some minor attitude issues.”

Straightening his back and raising his voice, Laurent suddenly shouted:

“So you’re Djoka? The one selling motorcycles to us for 550 francs each?”

“You capitalists only ever think about making more money! Never about the hardships of ordinary people!”

With that, Laurent angrily threw the documents at Djoka’s face.

“You bloodsuckers! I’m warning you—don’t try any tricks!”

As he finished, he spat on the ground for emphasis. Nearby soldiers erupted into jeers.

What Laurent failed to notice was the murderous glares from the surrounding workers.

When Laurent tried to say something else, one of the workers shouted:

“Hey, watch your tone, you bastard!”

“They’re heroes saving France—show some respect!”

“Drop your arrogance, you ignorant, pompous fool!”

...

The workers’ shouts grew louder and more agitated. Before long, they surged forward, shoving the soldiers. A burly man lunged at Laurent, knocking him to the ground, his hat flying off in the process.

The soldiers, unwilling to use their firearms against the workers, hastily grabbed Laurent and retreated under a barrage of curses.

The workers erupted in triumphant cheers.

Djoka and Charles exchanged glances.

Did Laurent really call this a “small problem”?

Or had he never anticipated this outcome at all?!

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