I Became a Tycoon During World War I: Saving France from the Start

Chapter 88 - You Own an Airplane Factory?

As soon as Charles arrived at the airfield, his presence caused a commotion, with soldiers gathering around him. Perhaps someone had notified him, as the major who had previously mocked Charles stumbled over to him, nervously stammering, "S-Sir… I'm very sorry for… my earlier disrespect…"

Charles had long forgotten about the incident, but the major's mention reminded him of the unpleasant experience he'd had upon his initial arrival.

There was no time to discuss it, so Charles got straight to the point: "You've been informed, I assume, Major?"

He was referring to the temporary transfer of command over the airfield.

"Yes, of course!" the major replied, standing at attention. "We are under your command, Sir!"

Smartly, he addressed Charles as "Sir" instead of "Lieutenant," avoiding the awkwardness of a lieutenant commanding a major.

"What's your name?" Charles asked.

"Fisher, Sir!" The major's eyes held a hint of apprehension. Ever since he received the command transfer notice, he'd wondered if Charles had taken control of the airfield just to get back at him. Now, being asked for his name seemed to confirm his fears.

"How many planes do you have?" Charles continued.

"Seven, Sir!" Fisher swallowed hard. So it's true… he must be planning to send me on a collision course with the Germans.

"Mind if I take a look?" Charles asked, scanning the area as if searching for the planes.

"Yes, Sir!" The major stepped aside and, somewhat reluctantly, led Charles toward the hangar.

When Charles saw the planes inside, his disappointment was clear. Most were "Taube" monoplanes, with only two "Avro" biplanes, including the one Charles had flown in—making a total of three.

"This is all of them?" Charles asked.

"Yes, Sir."

Charles paced back and forth before asking, "Where's the pilot who flew me in?"

...

Inside the soldiers' quarters, Charles's pilot lay sprawled on a bed, dead drunk. Bottles and half-eaten bread lay around him, and the air reeked of alcohol.

"Sir!" Fisher wrinkled his nose at the smell. "May I suggest a different pilot? I can arrange someone more suitable…"

"No, that won't be necessary," Charles replied.

From their flight from Paris, he'd sensed that this drunken pilot wasn't just skilled—he seemed to be one with the plane, flying as if it were his own set of wings, even in his inebriated state.

"Hey, wake up!" Charles shook the pilot.

After a struggle, the pilot opened his eyes, blinking at Charles in confusion. When he finally recognized him, he mumbled, "Oh, it's you, kid. So, we're heading back?"

He sat up, muttering, "Sorry, I'll be ready in a sec…" He fumbled through his pockets and then checked the bottles and blankets nearby.

"Looking for this?" Charles asked, holding up a flask with a slosh of liquid at the bottom.

"Oh, yes!" The pilot took it, unscrewed the cap, and downed the last bit. With a satisfied sigh, he perked up. "All right, let's get back to Paris!"

"Sorry, sir," Charles said. "We're not returning to Paris just yet."

The pilot grunted, his energy already fading. "Well, when you're ready to go, let me know…" He slumped back toward the bed.

"Hey, stay with me!" Charles held the pilot up, and Fisher moved in to help. Charles asked, "Can I count on you for something?"

The pilot, still groggy, seemed to focus for a moment. But he was on a different wavelength, muttering, "So you're Charles, huh? That famous one… Who the devil sent you out here, anyway?"

Charles replied, "You did, sir!"

The pilot took a moment to process this, then turned back to Charles, his eyes narrowing. "Now, don't pin this on me! I was just hired to be your pilot. No one else wanted the job—they figured it was too risky to risk their lives for 20 francs…"

"Then why did you take it?" Charles asked curiously.

The pilot chuckled as he straightened up. "This doesn't count as risky for me. I've done much worse."

"Were you a soldier?" Charles asked, though he quickly realized it was probably unrelated to the risks of flying.

A flicker of sadness crossed the pilot's face, and he let out a sigh. "Enough about me, kid. What do you need?"

"Do you know what Big Bertha is?" Charles asked.

"Didn't before, but sure as hell do now," the pilot replied, nodding east toward the German front lines, where Big Bertha was positioned to shell Fort Wavre. "That monster wakes me up every time it fires."

Fisher rolled his eyes. As if this guy has been awake for more than a moment since he got here.

"All you need to do is blow it up, and it won't wake you up anymore," Charles said, handing him a towel.

The pilot took the towel, wiped his face, then froze, suddenly realizing what Charles was implying. "You're not… asking me to bomb Big Bertha, are you?"

Fisher was stunned, casting Charles a look of disbelief. It was true—this wasn't revenge, it was a plan to destroy Big Bertha! But how?

By crashing the plane into it?

The pilot seemed to think so, too. After a brief pause, he let out a bitter laugh. "You're talking suicide here, kid. But I'll take the job—on one condition."

"What's the condition?" Charles asked.

The pilot looked him squarely in the eye. "Buy my airplane factory."

"You… own an airplane factory?" Charles asked, astounded.

The pilot nodded slowly, his voice heavy with sadness and resignation. "It's not something I'm proud of, Lieutenant. I owe the bank 350,000 francs."

"It started as a loan of a few thousand, but no one would buy my planes, and the debt kept growing." He sighed. "I can't even pay the interest anymore… Knowing all that, would you still buy it?"

Charles understood then. Here was an entrepreneur crushed by the banks, on the verge of ruin, willing to risk his life to gain some leverage.

(End of Chapter)

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