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I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 5
🕑 Added 2025-01-31 05:53:59 +0000 UTCChapter 5: Deserters Deserve Praise
Charles paid little attention to family feuds.
Francis was a legend in the Bernard family, a business prodigy who repeatedly rose to the upper echelons of French society from nothing.
He was the pride of the Bernard family, an unsurpassable figure. Gaining his approval meant not only a life of comfort but also a great honor.
But Charles didn’t care about any of this. To be precise, Francis meant little to him. In Charles’ eyes, he was merely a stepping stone on his path forward.
The bicycle glided smoothly along the town’s flat streets. Few townsfolk were visible; those who could flee had already done so. The ones who remained either had nowhere to go or, like Francis, were unwilling to abandon their meager holdings.
Ahead, Charles spotted a group of French soldiers. They wore blue military jackets paired with bright red flat-topped caps and trousers. Their rifles were slung over their shoulders, but most carried no backpacks.
Charles guessed they had discarded their packs to lighten their load during their retreat.
This confirmed that things were progressing as he had hoped—the Fifth Army was retreating toward Davaus.
Suddenly, a group of soldiers ahead blocked Charles’ path.
Rather than stopping him politely, they rudely grabbed his bicycle, nearly causing him to fall.
“Slow down, kid!” the leading soldier, a mustachioed major with a weary face and bloodshot eyes, barked. His uniform bore dark red stains, indistinguishable as mud or blood.
“Can you tell me where the Sidachi Machine Gun Factory is?” the major asked.
“I’m heading there now!” Charles replied. “Actually, I’m going to the building next to it. I can take you there!”
Charles understood these soldiers were in desperate need of ammunition.
“Excellent!” The mustachioed major gave Charles a cursory glance before reassuring him: “Don’t worry, kid. The Germans probably won’t arrive until tomorrow—if they come at all!”
This intelligence was offered as a token of appreciation for Charles’ willingness to guide them.
As Charles pushed his bicycle, he asked, “Things are pretty bad, aren’t they?”
The mustachioed major grunted in acknowledgment, seemingly reluctant to describe the horrors of the frontlines to a teenager.
Charles observed the major and his men, then remarked, “You are brave soldiers.”
The major’s expression darkened, his reddened eyes glaring at Charles. In a low voice, he asked, “Are you mocking us, kid? Watch your words…”
“No, Major,” Charles answered earnestly. “While others are scavenging for food, you’re seeking ammunition. And you’ve maintained your formation, which means you’re preparing to fight!”
The major glanced at the other soldiers. Indeed, they were still in formation. Realizing he had misjudged the boy, he softened his tone.
“Sorry, kid.”
“However, you shouldn’t use the word ‘brave’ to describe deserters,” he added, his face tinged with embarrassment.
Charles stood by his statement. “In the most dangerous and chaotic times, maintaining morale and discipline is praiseworthy in itself.”
Charles’ comment was half-true. He employed the art of praise—a technique wise teachers used to handle troublesome students. Criticism only made them more rebellious, but a little praise inspired them to live up to it.
Charles often received such praise from his own teachers across various subjects.
The major studied Charles curiously. This boy seemed to know a lot.
“What’s your plan?” Charles asked.
The major shrugged helplessly. “Resupply our ammunition, eat a good meal, get some rest, and wait for orders.”
“By the way, I heard there’s food available here?”
“Indeed,” Charles affirmed confidently. Then he asked, “Or is it that you won’t receive orders at all? Am I right?”
The major nodded. The army was in disarray. Even if orders were issued, they were vague at best, offering directions like “keep retreating,” “stay put,” or “wait for instructions.” They couldn’t even locate their commanding officers, let alone know who was in charge.
Charles seized the moment to make a suggestion.
“Why don’t you follow me? I could use a squad of soldiers!”
The major stared at Charles, stunned into silence. Behind him, the soldiers burst into laughter.
“Oh, we’re taking orders from him now!”
“This kid wants to be a general—a fine general, don’t you think?”
“He’s not even taller than our rifles! Are we sure he won’t wet himself at the sound of gunfire?”
…
The mustachioed major looked at Charles with amusement, a trace of a mocking smile on his lips.
“Well then, ‘General,’ what’s your plan?”
Charles pointed to a factory building in the open fields ahead. Without hesitation, he answered, “Defend the machine gun factory. The Germans will focus their attack on it.”
“I believe the Germans, in their pursuit of you, have stretched their supply lines thin. They’ll need the machine guns and ammunition from the factory too.”
“We can position ourselves at the tractor factory nearby. When they think victory is within reach, we hit them hard!”
Charles didn’t mind showing a bit of tactical insight. It wasn’t as if they could conscript an underage boy into the army based on a few remarks.
The major’s expression shifted. The plan was feasible and well-thought-out.
He glanced at his men. Their faces had grown serious.
They realized the boy was right. The Germans, stretched thin from their pursuit, also lacked ammunition and needed the factory’s resources.
A soldier muttered under his breath, “He seems more reliable than Colonel Lyon.”
The soldiers fell silent.
Colonel Lyon had been killed in the first battle.
A graduate of Saint-Cyr Military Academy with stellar grades, he had led the charge at the head of his unit, standing five meters ahead of the line. Wearing conspicuous white gloves that contrasted sharply with his blue coat and red trousers—forming the French tricolor—he had been a gallant figure.
With medals adorning his chest and his head held high, he had waved his saber and shouted, “Onward, boys! Kill them all!”
The next moment, he was riddled with bullets in full view of his men. The Ninth Infantry Regiment lost its commander immediately and had yet to regain its footing.
The mustachioed major, reminded of this by Charles’ words, issued a command:
“Simon, Teddy, go round up the others. Have them meet us at the tractor factory. We’ll need more men!”
“Yes, Major!” Two soldiers responded and sprinted off in different directions.
The major quickened his pace to catch up with Charles and introduced himself:
“My name is Browning. And you are?”
“I’m Charles.”
Browning shook Charles’ hand and said, “Here’s a piece of advice, Charles. You’d best get your family out of here.”
Charles smiled faintly. “And here’s a piece of advice for you, Major. You should start the counterattack here.”
“Because you have nowhere left to retreat. One more step back, and Paris will be surrounded.”
“When that happens, the tragedy of the Franco-Prussian War will repeat itself. We’ll lose the war again, cede territory, and pay reparations!”
Charles’ words shook the soldiers, including Major Browning.
They couldn’t imagine how a boy, barely out of childhood, could possess such courage and insight.
In contrast, they were instinctively fixated on retreating to save their lives.
An awkward, shame-filled silence descended. The soldiers walked stiffly, their posture betraying their unease.
After a while, someone coughed lightly and said, “He’s right. We can’t retreat anymore. Paris mustn’t fall into German hands!”
Another soldier quickly chimed in, “Yes, haven’t we endured enough humiliation from the Franco-Prussian War? For over forty years, we’ve dreamed of revenge. Is this how we achieve it?”
Yet another added, “We must find a way to defeat the Germans. We can’t let this go on. Otherwise, we’ll live in disgrace for the rest of our lives—from birth to death…”
Charles was pleased with their reactions. He had successfully rekindled the fighting spirit of these deserters!
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