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I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 7
🕑 Added 2025-01-31 05:54:13 +0000 UTCChapter 7: From Tractor to Tank
Charles strolled leisurely through the tractor factory.
The Francis Tractor Factory was considered a large enterprise in France. According to French records, there were only 257 companies with more than 1,000 employees, and most were small operations with fifty or sixty workers.
The Francis Tractor Factory, however, employed over 2,000 workers. This success was largely thanks to Francis’s significant investment two years ago in importing the British “Holt 60” tractor, the world’s first track-laying tractor powered by an internal combustion engine, developed in 1911.
After introducing this tractor, Francis decisively outcompeted all rivals, securing 70% of the market share and becoming the leader in French agricultural tractors. As a result, the factory grew to its current scale.
The entire town of Davaus benefited, with everyone finding work at the factory. Many workers came from other regions, and some even traveled from Paris. This influx drove up the cost of living and rent in the town.
The assembly workshop was massive, with a dozen partially assembled tractors parked in the center. Workers moved busily up and down, hammering metal and pulling chains as the sounds of clanging iron and grinding machinery filled the air. The atmosphere was one of intense activity.
However, Charles could tell that the workers were distracted. Their pace was noticeably slower than usual.
This wasn’t due to a slump in tractor sales or inventory piling up in the warehouse, but because the German army was expected to arrive soon. The workers doubted whether their efforts still held any purpose.
As Charles pondered his next move, a familiar voice called out his name.
Turning toward the sound, he saw Matthew stepping out from behind a tractor. Matthew, wearing an oil-stained work uniform, waved a wrench at Charles with a bright smile on his face.
Charles returned the smile and quickly walked over.
Matthew was Joseph’s son, two years older than Charles. They had been classmates until middle school.
Perhaps because of Joseph’s connection to the Bernard family, Matthew had always looked out for Charles.
Over the years, Charles had endured frequent bullying.
Most of Charles’s classmates were children of farmers and laborers exploited by capitalists. Some resented labor disputes or injuries that left them without adequate compensation, while others were burdened by bank loans with exorbitant interest rates of 5% to 10%. These loans were the handiwork of the country’s two hundred elite banking families, though they often had no direct connection to the Bernard family.
Unable to seek justice, these families vented their frustrations on Charles, the “capitalist.”
Charles was given many nicknames: “Bastard,” “Vampire,” “Hypocrite,” and so on.
At such times, Matthew would always step forward, shielding Charles and shouting at the bullies with raised fists:
“Want to try my fists? Bring it on, you scoundrels!”
Matthew never reasoned with them—he always settled things with his fists.
It worked. Thanks to Matthew, Charles had managed to survive. Even in high school, where Matthew wasn’t around, few dared to bully Charles.
Matthew put down his wrench and warmly embraced Charles, disregarding the oil stains on his uniform.
“I heard you’re taking over the tractor factory?” Matthew’s sincerity shone through his eyes. “I’m so happy for you. It seems Francis is finally recognizing you!”
Charles chuckled self-deprecatingly. “It’s only temporary. I don’t care about that.”
“I’ve been thinking about something,” Matthew joked, glancing around. “If you’re in charge here, does that make me your employee? What should I call you, then?”
Feigning seriousness, Charles puffed out his chest, clasped his hands behind his back, and adopted a lofty tone:
“Master Charles? Sir Charles? Or maybe Lord Charles…”
“Get lost!” Matthew laughed heartily, clapping Charles on the shoulder and shoving him aside.
After a moment, Matthew turned serious. “But you might not have the chance.”
“Why not?” Charles asked, puzzled.
Matthew shrugged. “Don’t forget—I’m already nineteen.”
“You’ve received your draft notice?” Alarm flickered in Charles’s eyes.
Matthew nodded. “They need more manpower. If all goes as planned, I’ll head to Paris for training the day after tomorrow.”
Although the legal draft age in France was twenty, wartime rules were different. No one cared about such regulations—just as no one objected to the underage workers scattered throughout the factory.
Charles fell silent. A grim thought crossed his mind: Would Matthew lose three-quarters of his body? Or a quarter? If three-quarters, would it be a hand, a leg—or both?
Matthew seemed to sense Charles’s concern. He lifted his chin casually and said with a grin:
“Don’t worry, Charles! By the time I finish training, the war will be over. I’ll be fine!”
Everyone believed the war would end soon—one way or another, victory or defeat, within a month or two.
But Charles knew better.
“Master Charles!” Joseph appeared before them, glaring at Matthew as if to scold him for his lack of decorum.
Matthew rolled his eyes at his father’s overreaction, then turned to the partially assembled tractors and shouted theatrically:
“Come on, ladies! Who still needs to get dressed?”
Ignoring his son, Joseph escorted Charles out of the workshop and said apologetically:
“My apologies, Master Charles. Matthew is always so irreverent!”
Joseph continued, “Master Charles, perhaps you should visit the engine production line. It’s the heart of the factory—”
“No, Joseph,” Charles interrupted. “I need twelve fully functional tractors.”
“Tractors?” Joseph asked, puzzled.
“And some steel plates,” Charles added. “Do we have any?”
“Of course,” Joseph replied. “This is a tractor factory. Many parts are pressed from steel plates.”
“How thick are they?” Charles asked.
Joseph listed them like an expert: “Two millimeters, three millimeters, five millimeters, and nine millimeters.”
The nine-millimeter plates were used for making tracks.
“Nine millimeters will do,” Charles said. “Also, prepare a workshop, welding tools, experienced workers, and some paper and pens. Can you manage that?”
“Certainly!” Joseph replied. “I’m happy to help.”
Joseph was baffled. Was Master Charles planning to improve the tractors—or just treat them as toys?
Joseph wanted to caution Charles: This was a critical time. Francis would base his decision on Charles’s performance, so he couldn’t afford to mess around.
But Joseph held his tongue. In Charles’s eyes, he saw resolve.
Maybe he knows what he’s doing, Joseph thought.
While Joseph made the arrangements, Charles sat in his office, sketching.
With a ready-made tractor chassis, converting it into a tank wouldn’t be too difficult.
Strictly speaking, it wouldn’t even be a tank—more like an armored vehicle. The design simply added steel plates around the tractor and left a few firing ports for machine guns. No need for cannons; they’d add unnecessary weight and complexity. Machine guns would suffice.
The only issue was that the nine-millimeter steel plates were too thin. At around 100 meters, German Mauser rifles could easily penetrate them.
Charles considered welding two layers of steel plates onto the chassis, but he doubted the “Holt 60” could handle the extra weight.
A simpler solution was to angle the front armor. This would increase the chance of deflecting bullets and enhance the “effective thickness” of the armor.
For the machine guns, the Hotchkiss would do. Its main drawback was the use of stripper clips, which limited its rotation range.
The crew would consist of two gunners and a driver—three people in total. This weight should be manageable.
As long as it could move, speed and maneuverability wouldn’t matter.
After all, this was humanity’s first tank, improvised in a single day. Good enough was good enough. There’d be plenty of time for improvements later.
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