Axel
patreon
I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 104
🕑 Added 2025-03-23 02:57:45 +0000 UTCChapter 104: The Belated Draft Order
Francis only learned of Charles's return near noon from the butler. This news coincided with his recent significant reductions in workforce and production—he had dismissed most of his workers, many of whom left without being paid. As a result, Francis had become the enemy of the working class.
“How did he come back?” In his second-floor bedroom, Francis, dressed in his favorite pajamas, sat in his rocking chair, puffing silently on a pipe while gently rocking.
That man was surrounded by German forces and yet returned safely?
The military must have saved him, Francis thought bitterly. Lucky him.
However, Simon replied, “I heard that Master Charles defeated the Germans…”
The motion of Francis’s rocking chair abruptly stopped. The smoke that had been spiraling outward now dissipated into barely visible wisps. Time seemed to freeze.
After a long silence, Francis softly asked, “Defeated the Germans?”
The chair resumed its rhythmic creaking, though the movements were much smaller than before.
“Yes!” Simon confirmed. “Apparently, Le Petit Journal published everything. I’ve only heard part of the story.”
“Buy a copy!” Francis commanded.
“But, sir!” Simon hesitated, looking troubled. “It sold out this morning. Even second-hand copies are being resold at a premium…”
“Then pay more for one!” Francis interrupted angrily. “Are you telling me I can’t afford a few newspapers?”
“Yes, sir!” Simon responded quickly, his face showing a hint of relief—this was the response he had hoped for. Otherwise, purchasing several overpriced newspapers might have earned him a scolding.
Soon, the newspapers were brought to Francis. A paper that normally cost one sou had risen to ten sous. Francis had to spend thirty sous for three copies, all of which bore coffee stains.
Francis frowned. He usually only read Le Figaro to align himself with the aristocracy. Today, however, he was forced to lower himself to read such a newspaper—and one that was second-hand!
As he flipped through the pages and read quickly, Francis became increasingly alarmed. By the time he finished, his face was twitching uncontrollably.
Charles’s journey to Antwerp was far more than a simple defeat of the Germans. He had earned a rare medal and gained widespread fame.
Francis knew exactly what this meant. It meant that everyone, including the military, would believe in Charles’s tanks, not his.
Though both models of tanks had been invented by Charles, it would only take a single comment from Charles in front of the press—something as casual as, “The old tanks are outdated. We need new ones to bring victory and hope to the military…”—and no one would ever want to buy the tanks produced by Francis again.
Francis detested this feeling of his fate being controlled by someone else’s words. But what could he do to stop it?
His gaze shifted past the wide-open door to the room across the hall, where Pierre’s snores rumbled faintly. That son of his, lost in indulgence, was entirely unreliable. Pierre’s habit of sleeping during the day and carousing at night placed him in a parallel world to normal people.
At that moment, Simon entered in a panic. “Sir, two soldiers have arrived. They’re asking to see Mr. Pierre!”
“Damn it!” Francis cursed. “That idiot must have gotten himself into trouble again!”
As he descended the stairs, he instructed Simon, “Wake Pierre!”
“Yes, sir!” Simon replied with a troubled expression. Waking Pierre was no easy task.
Descending the staircase, Francis saw two soldiers standing in the drawing room. One of them, judging by his insignia, was a second lieutenant.
“What do you want?” Francis asked coldly, making it clear they were not welcome.
“We’re here to see Mr. Pierre,” the second lieutenant replied politely, presenting his credentials. “We’re from the recruitment office.”
Francis froze. He immediately understood what this was about. “No, no, there must be a mistake. Pierre manages my factory. He’s involved in tank production, so he’s exempt from military service…”
The second lieutenant interrupted coldly, “According to our investigation, Pierre does not manage your factory, Mr. Francis.”
“We interviewed twenty workers,” the second soldier added. “None of them have ever seen Mr. Pierre at the factory.”
The second soldier continued, “I also investigated Foley Trevis. Mr. Pierre is a regular there, nearly every night.”
He handed Francis a receipt, which listed Pierre’s expenses from the previous evening. “This is last night’s tab. We have more records. These should prove Pierre hasn’t had time to manage the factory.”
Francis was silent. The evidence was indisputable.
The second lieutenant straightened his posture and delivered his conclusion. “Given Mr. Pierre’s circumstances, we find him fully eligible for military service.”
“If he refuses to comply, you know the consequences.”
Francis’s face turned ashen, but he nodded silently.
In wartime, refusal to serve could result in a death sentence. Parliament had enacted such laws to deter cowards from choosing imprisonment over the battlefield. The law was initially meant for farmers and laborers—who could have foreseen this?
From upstairs came the sound of retching, followed by indistinct coughing and groaning.
“Is that him?” the second lieutenant asked, glancing upward.
“Yes,” Francis admitted, embarrassed. Pierre couldn’t even manage to come downstairs properly.
“Well then!” The second lieutenant handed the draft order to Francis with both hands. Straightening his cap, he saluted Francis. “It is my honor to inform you that Mr. Pierre will become a proud soldier of France. Honor to you as well, sir!”
Francis, expressionless, shook the lieutenant’s hand. Moving stiffly, he watched the two soldiers leave.
Pierre finally staggered down the stairs, clutching the railing for support. Seeing Francis’s expression, he froze. “What’s going on, Father?”
“Congratulations!” Francis sneered, holding up the draft order. “You’re going to be a soldier. Perhaps you’ll even be as outstanding as Charles!”
Still groggy, Pierre took a moment to comprehend the situation. When he did, his face went pale, and he sank onto the stairs, utterly drained of color.
Francis’s tone softened as he sighed. “Let’s hope you don’t end up under Charles’s command.”
Suddenly, a grim thought struck Francis. Charles was stationed at the Paris Defense Command, while Pierre, having been exposed as a draft dodger, wouldn’t even qualify to serve in Paris. Such a prospect was beyond hope.
Table of content - Next Chapter >>>
