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

Chapter 15: A Promise Made

In the 6th Army Command Post in Paris, General Gallieni paced like a caged animal.

All the intelligence he'd received so far was grim:

"The Germans have reached Dawatz and launched a fierce assault."

"A German special unit crossed the river last night, striking from both sides to seize the Marne Bridge."

"Our defensive lines have collapsed, and General Gard has already withdrawn with his command staff!"

"Damn them all!" Gallieni cursed. "The second a fight breaks out, those cowards are the first to flee! 'Withdrawing'—more like abandoning their troops to save their own skins!"

Gallieni had half a mind to order General Gard's execution to stop the retreat. But as Paris's military governor, he could command only the 6th Army and the police. The 5th Army was under Joffre's command.

And Gallieni knew Joffre would do nothing about it. High-ranking officers often had close ties to powerful families and capitalists; many were even descendants of the "200 Families." They'd rather spend their time in comfort and flee when danger loomed.

"The 5th Army cannot be allowed to fail!" Gallieni muttered, pacing back and forth. His voice grew more tense with each step. "They're our only force in Dawatz. If they're entirely routed, Paris and the French main forces will be severed, and Paris itself will effectively be under siege."

Gallieni suspected this was precisely what the German 1st Army planned: punch through the 5th Army's defenses and split French forces, effectively surrounding Paris and eliminating the French fighting force.

He stopped in front of the map, his voice turning steely. "What is Joffre doing?"

"We're losing our advantage by the minute. We need to launch a counteroffensive immediately to shore up the 5th Army's defenses!"

"Otherwise, it's over. All of it!"

Gallieni slammed his fist down on the map over Dawatz, as if hoping he could strike down the Germans himself. He silently prayed, Give the order, Joffre! For God's sake, we cannot lose this battle!

Just then, a staff officer on the phone froze, his face shifting from astonishment to pure elation. Forgetting protocol, he shouted across the command room, "General! We've won! We've won!"

Gallieni looked over, bewildered. "What did you say? Who won?"

Others in the command room stopped what they were doing, all equally mystified. Every defensive line was collapsing; how could there be a victory?

Even the army's general had fled with his staff. Who could possibly have won?

The farmers, armed with shovels and pitchforks?

The staff officer stammered in excitement. "It was a Major Browning, but…no, actually, the key was a man named Charles. He…he invented a weapon…"

Gallieni puffed up, irritated. "Explain clearly, Major! Or I'll throw you out of here!"

"We've received confirmation," the officer finally managed. "A young man named Charles used tractors to create a piece of equipment. Major Browning and his 300 men turned the tide of battle using this equipment and claimed victory!"

The command room fell silent, even the typists lifting their heads, mouths agape as if this was some kind of novel they were hearing.

Gallieni's mustache trembled slightly with excitement, but he could hardly believe it was true. "Is this report confirmed?"

"It's been confirmed," the staff officer said, holding up the phone, nodding firmly. "The Germans were driven to the north bank of the Marne. We estimate they've lost over 5,000 men."

Cheers erupted across the command post, with one of the signalers tossing his papers into the air, sending a flurry of documents around the room.

Gallieni asked, "What kind of equipment could allow 300 men to defeat thousands of Germans?"

"They didn't go into much detail, General!" replied the staff officer. "They described it as something like 'iron barrels'—they called it a 'tank.'"

Gallieni blinked. "A tank?" The word was foreign to him; he couldn't begin to imagine what it looked like.

For now, Gallieni set the thought aside. In a tone of relief, he asked, "And the man who invented it—his name was…?"

"Charles, sir."

"Charles," Gallieni repeated, nodding thoughtfully. "What unit does he serve in? We must reward him richly."

"No, General," replied the staff officer. "He's only seventeen and doesn't belong to any unit."

Gallieni froze. A seventeen-year-old boy had invented this tank…and saved France…

How surreal.

"Oh, right!" the staff officer added. "He's the grandson of Francis, the businessman who's been helping us. The same one who financed the supplies that brought the 5th Army to Dawatz."

Gallieni stood still. The financing of the 5th Army, the rumor that lured the Germans to Dawatz, the invention of this 'tank' that defeated them—were these really all coincidences?

If they weren't…

Gallieni had a strange feeling that the real commander of this battle might be an invisible hand pulling the strings from behind.

...

As Gallieni's staff marveled over the news, Charles finally made his way home, barely escaping the soldiers' cheers and applause.

Upon reaching his house, he was greeted by a large crowd.

When they saw him, a murmur of excitement rippled through the group.

"It's Master Charles!"

"Charles is back!"

They opened a path for him, leading all the way to the small front yard, where his parents, Derek and Camille, were busy greeting their neighbors. Gifts of flour, eggs, cheese, and fruit piled around them.

"Charles!" Camille called, standing on tiptoes and waving over the crowd, her face filled with pride and joy. "The neighbors have brought these gifts to thank you. They're so kind!"

Charles removed his cap, humbly nodding and thanking people as he made his way through the crowd.

"Such a well-mannered boy!" someone said approvingly.

"No, thank you, Master Charles! You saved us all!"

"We're proud of you—you're our hero!"

A hefty boy was pushed forward by his parents. Charles recognized him immediately: Teddy, his classmate, who used to bully him. If it hadn't been for Matthew standing up for him, Charles might not have made it through school.

"Apologize to Master Charles!" Teddy's father barked, gripping his son's collar as if he were a prisoner.

Teddy looked terrified, but not because of his father.

Eyes downcast and jaw trembling, he stammered, "Charles…you won't…use that 'iron barrel' thing…on me, will you?"

Charles laughed. "Of course not, Teddy! It's for enemies, not friends."

Then, turning to the crowd, Charles lifted his head high. "Our guns will always be aimed at our enemies, never at friends."

A new round of cheers rose up. "Well said, Master Charles!"

"Good man, Master Charles!"

Teddy relaxed, glancing at Charles with gratitude. "So…we're friends?"

Charles nodded with assurance. "Of course!"

"Thank you, Charles," Teddy said, his eyes watering. "Thank you so much!"

Then, his eyes brightened as he leaned closer and whispered, "I could introduce you to Ada."

Ada was Teddy's older sister, three years his senior, known for her lively personality and admired by many, including Charles and his peers.

Unfortunately, Teddy's suggestion didn't go unheard. Ada, who had overheard her brother, gasped, pushing her way through the crowd with an embarrassed but fiery look in her eyes. She shot Charles a quick glance, a mix of shyness and alarm.

Realizing his predicament, Teddy broke free from his father's grip and fled, calling back to Charles, "See you around, Charles—I keep my word!"

Charles called back in jest, "It's a promise!"

The crowd burst into laughter, while Ada blushed and playfully pretended to chase after her brother.

Happy New Year friends, thank you for your support this year, I hope to continue counting on your support this new year.