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

Chapter 141: The Mechanic

When Charles found Mathieu, he was sitting in a chair, his crutches leaning against the corner of the wall, carefully threading spokes into a motorcycle wheel hub on the table in front of him.

Mathieu looked up, his grease-streaked face breaking into a grin. "Hey, Charles, Mr. Deyoka! It's great to see you both!"

Deyoka stepped forward and asked, "So, how are you adjusting to work here?"

Mathieu gestured around him with open hands. "It's great, Mr. Deyoka. I'm actually in charge of this area! We earn fifty centimes a day now—it's almost a real worker's wage. What more could I want?"

Charles skipped the pleasantries, cutting straight to the point. "Grab your crutches and come with me."

"Where are we going?" Mathieu asked, surprised.

"Your father wants to see you. He has something to tell you," Charles replied.

Mathieu looked incredulous. Now? Right at this moment?

But he didn't question it further. Picking up his crutches, he hobbled behind them, making small talk with Charles along the way. "I hear you gave the Germans a hard time again in Ypres, Charles. I bet they'll be shaking at the sound of your name from now on."

"Just luck," Charles said, brushing off the topic. He didn't want to dwell on the details of the war, knowing the heavy thoughts it could stir up.

Mathieu seemed to catch his tone, laughing softly as he let the subject drop.

The welfare center was set up between the motorcycle and tractor factories, which made it easy for both to send parts to the center for assembly. Once completed, these were transported back for use.

Before long, they reached the tractor factory.

As soon as Mathieu stepped inside, his eyes were drawn to a massive machine dominating the workshop: a large, diamond-shaped body with a wraparound tread and machine gun slots on either side.

In that instant, he forgot why they'd come. Propping himself up on his crutches, Mathieu limped closer, circling halfway around it, his eyes wide with amazement. "This is a tank? Your new tank model? Charles, this is amazing…"

"No, Mathieu," said Joseph, who appeared from the other side of the tank. "This one's yours."

"What… what do you mean?" Mathieu looked between Charles and Joseph, confused.

"Charles wants to hire you as a mechanic!" Joseph said, gesturing toward the tank. "So, it's yours now."

"But… my leg!" Mathieu turned to Charles, uncertainty written on his face.

"You don't need to use your leg to work on it," Charles replied calmly. "Unless you don't even have the strength to climb up."

Mathieu laughed like a man in disbelief. But soon, the laughter faded, and a shadow passed over his eyes. "But Charles, I can't press the accelerator or clutch pedals. And if I can't test-drive it, I can't repair it."

"Why don't you try it?" Charles said.

Mathieu looked at him, puzzled, before setting down his crutches and climbing inside. Joseph made a move to help, but Charles stopped him—Mathieu needed to accomplish this on his own.

Eventually, Mathieu managed to settle into the driver's seat, and as he looked down at the controls, his face lit up. Excitedly, he opened the hatch and called out, "You modified the pedals to work with the left foot? I can drive it with my left leg! Charles, this is incredible!"

It hadn't taken much—just a simple extended lever, allowing Mathieu to control the tank's pedals with his left foot. When someone else needed to drive or conduct a test, the lever could simply be removed.

Other crew members joined him in the tank, and soon its engine roared to life, rumbling across the test field. Watching the Mark I maneuvering as if it belonged there, Charles felt a surge of satisfaction—Mathieu was filled with life again, and Charles could even hear his friend's exuberant cheers from inside the tank.

"Thank you, Master Charles," Joseph said, his voice thick with emotion. "You've given Mathieu back his life."

"No, Joseph," Charles replied. "I just found the best mechanic for the job."

It was true. Mathieu had grown up around the factory; he'd been handling tractor parts long before he could read. No one knew these machines like he did.

After all, a tank wasn't so different from a tractor.

Hopefully, Mathieu wouldn't settle for this, content with the familiarity of tractors. Otherwise, Charles knew he'd have to look elsewhere in the future.

…

On a quiet, drizzly autumn night at the estate in Braid, Francis had once again gathered his associates for a secret meeting.

Armand was visibly annoyed at Francis's timing. The summons had disrupted his nightly "social" plans, and he grumbled as he lit a cigar, "Everything is already in place, Francis. What are you so worried about? Next time, check the time before calling us!"

Francis didn't bother to explain. Instead, he took a few photos from his inner jacket pocket and laid them on the table.

Armand and Grevy picked them up, exchanging bewildered looks.

"What are these?" Armand asked, raising the photos in question.

Before Francis could reply, Grevy's face grew grim. "These are tank photos—of Charles's tank."

Armand inspected them a little more closely, then chuckled. "No gun barrel. It doesn't even have artillery!"

He looked around, noticing someone was missing. "Where's Colonel Estienne? Was he unable to attend, or couldn't we reach him?"

It was the perfect time for Estienne to analyze the tank's potential performance.

Grevy answered, "I contacted him, but he's on holiday with his family."

Armand gave a knowing smile. "After all, he did just make fifty thousand francs—enough to let him enjoy himself for a while."

He tossed the photos back onto the table and turned to Francis, smirking. "So, are you seriously suggesting this artillery-free tank could be a threat to ours?"

"I'm not sure, Armand," Francis replied, meeting Armand's gaze. "I don't believe it's a threat to us, but Charles has already begun mass production of it."

"Mass production?" Armand was puzzled.

Francis elaborated, "If his tank were truly ineffective, why would he mass-produce it? Even at a modest cost of two thousand francs per unit, a hundred tanks would cost him two hundred thousand francs. Do you really think Charles would invest in a losing project?"

Francis shook his head, certain. "No, he's never taken on a venture at a loss. This isn't as simple as it seems."

Grevy, who had been studying the photos closely, finally spoke. "There's only one possible answer: Charles believes our tanks will fail, while his will succeed."

At first, Armand thought Grevy was joking, but seeing the seriousness in his expression, he quickly sobered.

Francis's face paled as he considered the implications. He'd invested all of his funds in the production of these new tanks. If Grevy was right, their order of four hundred tanks could be canceled, and any future orders would be out of the question.

For Francis, this would be nothing short of disastrous.

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