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I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 29
🕑 Added 2025-02-04 17:01:01 +0000 UTCChapter 29: The Power of Money
Fortunately, France was victorious. Charles’s battle plan succeeded as the Fifth Army crossed the Marne Bridge and exploited the German flank, leading to the First German Army’s complete collapse before reinforcements could arrive.
Unfortunately, Matthew was injured, as Major Browning informed Charles.
"Matthew was brave!" Major Browning said. "He drove a tank along a narrow path to outflank the enemy's defenses, broke into the German command post, and toppled the first domino that led to the German retreat. The victory expanded from there!"
"Is he seriously hurt?" Charles asked anxiously. Compared to the victory, he cared more about this.
"I'm not entirely sure," Major Browning replied. "I only heard he was injured in his right leg. A bullet penetrated the steel plate and hit the leg he used to press the accelerator. By the time I got detailed information, he’d already been sent to the field hospital."
"Where is the field hospital?" Charles asked again, feeling a chill on his face.
"Two kilometers in the direction of Thierry," Major Browning answered. "All the wounded from the Fifth Army are being sent there."
Djoka was already heading toward his Ford car. Turning back, he waved at Charles. "Come on, let’s head there."
...
The field hospital was essentially a cluster of tents set up on the grass, offering minimal shelter from the wind and rain.
But the tents were far from enough to house all the wounded. Patients were scattered on the ground, waiting for treatment. Some had abdominal wounds, others had lost limbs in explosions, and some lay unconscious with bandages wrapped around their heads.
They were divided into zones: a light injury area, a critical injury area, and an untreatable area.
No one tended to those in the untreatable area—they were the abandoned, left to await death. The critical injury area was placed nearby for convenience, as some of its occupants would inevitably be transferred to the untreatable zone.
Screams and moans filled the air. The atmosphere reeked of carbolic acid, pus, and blood, with flies buzzing incessantly. Occasionally, nurses emerged from the tents carrying buckets filled with severed limbs. They dumped the contents into a nearby pit with practiced indifference.
Charles’s stomach churned, and he nearly vomited, while the nurses looked detached, their eyes dull, seemingly accustomed to such sights.
Djoka asked several people before finding Matthew’s location. It was a small individual tent with a simple wooden bed inside. Matthew lay there under a bloodstained blanket, with Joseph sitting by the bedside, head drooped, looking despondent.
Matthew's face was pale, with streaks of blood still visible. His once-flowing hair was matted with clotted blood.
Upon seeing Charles, Matthew forced a weak smile, pretending to be fine as he called out, "Hey, Charles, great plan. It helped us... win this... war!"
His voice trembled and grew weaker, shaking uncontrollably by the end. Charles knew he was enduring immense pain.
Ignoring him, Charles walked directly to Joseph. "What’s the situation?"
Joseph looked flustered. "Nothing serious. The doctor said he needs rest."
However, both Djoka and Charles saw through the lie.
Once outside, Joseph revealed the truth. "They amputated his leg. His right leg is gone."
"What?" Charles stared at Joseph in shock. "He just got here..."
"They had to make quick decisions and finish surgeries as fast as possible," Joseph explained.
Charles understood. The sheer number of casualties made it impossible for doctors to take their time. They had to work against the clock, even if that meant unnecessary amputations.
It wasn’t hard to imagine the reasoning. Spending too much time on one patient could mean leaving others to die unattended.
To prevent such scenarios, doctors opted for amputation for any severe injuries, even if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
(Note: During World War I, out of every 500,000 wounded soldiers, approximately 20,000 underwent amputations, many of which were not strictly required.)
Charles couldn’t blame the field doctors. They had valid and compelling reasons.
But he felt as though a heavy weight was pressing on his chest, suffocating him.
Back in the tent, Charles lifted a corner of the blanket and was shocked to find Matthew’s stump wrapped in a reused, bloodied bandage.
Charles could no longer contain his rage. Stumbling out of the tent, he shouted, "Doctor! Where’s the doctor?"
A man in a bloodstained white coat and mask emerged from a tent a dozen feet away. Holding up his bloodied hands, he asked wearily, "What’s wrong? Does someone need emergency care?"
Charles stormed over, pointing toward Matthew’s tent. "That patient lying there is a war hero! He drove a tank into the enemy command post and won this battle for France. And yet you’re using old bandages on him? Are you trying to kill him? Is this how you treat heroes?"
The doctor glanced at Charles calmly. "Everyone here is a hero, including us. If you’re unhappy, go yell at the capitalists. They didn’t give us enough medicine, equipment, or staff. We’re short of everything. What do you expect us to do?"
Charles froze.
The doctor was right. It wasn’t their fault. The blame lay with the capitalists who cut costs, committing these crimes.
Field hospitals weren’t profitable—worse, they were a money pit.
In peacetime, they were virtually useless. But during wartime, their demand skyrocketed exponentially.
Capitalists would never invest significant funds to maintain field hospitals in peacetime. Their existence served only to offer soldiers a false sense of security and drive them to the front lines.
But these were people—individuals with lives and families—brave warriors sacrificing themselves for France!
Charles’s face turned pale with anger. "Blame it on me. Tell me what you need, and I’ll fund it."
The doctor let out a light laugh as he walked away, grumbling to a nurse, "Who’s this kid? He thinks he can afford a field hospital. Does he know there are at least ten thousand patients here?"
The nurse slowed her pace. "Doctor Sibrel, I recognize him. That’s Charles, the one who invented the tank and saved France. I believe he can fund the hospital."
The doctor abruptly stopped, stunned. Then he turned and ran back to the bewildered Charles, his voice trembling with excitement. "You… You mean it? Master Charles, you’ll fund us?"
"Of course," Charles replied.
"Wonderful!" The doctor, realizing his bloodied hands, stopped short of shaking Charles’s. "Thank you, Master Charles. You’ve saved their lives. You’re a good man!"
"Including Matthew," Charles emphasized. "I want Matthew well taken care of."
"Of course!" the doctor assured him. "I’ll check on him immediately!"
With that, he and the nurse headed toward Matthew’s tent...
This was the power of money.
Though it was unfair to other patients, Charles could no longer afford to care.
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