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

Chapter 5: Deserters Deserving Praise

Charles paid little attention to family feuds. To the Bernard family, Francis was a legend—a commercial prodigy who had time and again built his fortune from nothing, securing his place in France's high society. He was the family's "sky," an almost untouchable figure. Gaining his approval meant a lifetime of security and honor.

Yet Charles didn't dwell on any of this. To him, Francis was merely a stepping stone on his path forward.

He pedaled smoothly down the neat streets of the small town. Most of the residents had already fled, leaving only those who had nowhere else to go, or those like Francis, who couldn't bear to abandon their meager possessions.

Ahead, a few French soldiers appeared, wearing blue tunics, red flat-topped caps, and matching red trousers. Their rifles were slung over their shoulders, but most of them had abandoned their backpacks. Charles guessed they had discarded them to lighten their load during their retreat.

This confirmed his hopes: the Fifth Army was indeed retreating toward Dawaz.

Suddenly, a squad of soldiers blocked Charles's way—not politely, but by yanking him off his bike so abruptly that he nearly fell.

"Slow down, kid!" said the soldier in charge, a mustached major with a haggard expression and bloodshot eyes. His uniform bore dark red stains, likely either mud or blood.

"Can you tell me where the Sidaki machine-gun factory is?" the major asked.

"I was just headed there!" Charles replied. "In fact, I can take you there—I'm going to the factory next door."

Charles knew these were soldiers desperate to replenish their ammunition.

"Perfect!" The major glanced at him approvingly, then added with a reassuring tone, "Don't worry, kid. The Germans won't be here until tomorrow—if they even show up."

This was the major's way of repaying Charles for volunteering to guide them.

Charles pushed his bike along as they walked, asking, "Is it as bad as it seems?"

The major just grunted in response, not eager to recount the horrors of the front line to a teenager.

Charles glanced at the major and his men, saying, "You're brave soldiers."

The major seemed taken aback, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he shot Charles a sharp look. "Are you mocking us, kid? Watch your words…"

"No, Major!" Charles replied earnestly. "While others are out searching for food, you're looking for ammunition. And you've kept your formation intact—clearly preparing for battle."

The major looked around at his men, realizing that Charles was right. He had misjudged the young man.

"My apologies, kid."

"But, you shouldn't use the word 'brave' to describe deserters." The major's face showed a hint of embarrassment.

Charles held his ground. "In times of chaos and danger, the fact that you're still maintaining morale and formation is admirable."

Charles's words were a mix of truth and strategic flattery. Smart teachers know how to handle underperforming students—not through criticism, which only worsens their behavior, but by offering praise, which makes them strive to live up to it. Charles had received this type of praise himself from various teachers.

The major gave Charles a curious look, surprised at the boy's insight.

"What's your plan now?" Charles asked.

The major shrugged helplessly. "We'll get more ammunition, then decide on our next steps. Ideally, we'd have a good meal and some rest while we wait for orders."

"Oh, and I heard there's food here for us?" the major added.

Charles answered confidently, "Yes, there is!"

Then he added, "But are you sure you'll even get orders? Am I wrong?"

The major nodded, acknowledging the chaotic state of their forces. Even when orders arrived, they were vague, offering general instructions like "keep retreating," "hold your position," or "await further commands."

Charles seized the opportunity to make a suggestion: "Why don't you join me? I happen to need a squad of soldiers."

The major turned, momentarily stunned by the suggestion. Behind him, the soldiers chuckled.

"Oh, we're supposed to take orders from him now?"

"This kid's aiming to be a general—a fine young general, eh?"

"He's barely taller than our rifles! Let's hope he doesn't wet himself when the guns start firing!"

…

The major looked at Charles with amusement, a faint smirk forming on his face. "So, 'General,' what's your plan?"

Charles pointed toward the machine-gun factory in the open field up ahead. Without hesitation, he replied, "Defend the machine-gun factory. The Germans will target it in their attack."

"I believe the Germans have left their artillery and supplies far behind in their pursuit of you. They'll need the guns and ammunition from that factory just as much as you do."

"We can wait for them at the tractor factory nearby, and once they think they're in the clear, we'll strike."

Charles didn't mind showing a bit of tactical insight. After all, they couldn't exactly draft him into the army over a few words.

The major's expression changed; it was actually a feasible plan, with a sound strategy. He looked back at his men, and they, too, began to look serious.

Only now did they realize that the Germans, in their pursuit, had likely stretched their supply lines too thin. Just like them, the Germans would need that machine-gun factory's supplies.

One soldier muttered, "This kid's making more sense than Colonel Lyon ever did."

The soldiers fell silent.

Colonel Lyon had been killed in the first battle. A graduate of Saint-Cyr Military Academy, he had charged at the head of the formation, his gloved hand boldly pointing toward the enemy. His bright white gloves, blue coat, and red trousers had created a living image of the French tricolor flag.

With medals on his chest and his head held high, he had charged forward with a commanding shout: "Onward, boys! Wipe them out!"

He was shot to pieces in front of everyone just seconds later, leaving the Ninth Infantry Regiment leaderless to this day.

The major, his thoughts stirred by Charles's suggestion, issued an order: "Simon, Teddy, go gather the others and tell them to meet us at the tractor factory. We need as many men as we can get!"

"Yes, Major!" the two soldiers replied, running off in opposite directions.

The major quickened his pace to catch up with Charles, introducing himself, "I'm Major Bronny. And you?"

"My name's Charles."

Bronny shook Charles's hand and offered a word of advice, "Let me give you some advice, Charles. You should get your family out of here."

Charles gave a slight smile. "And I'll give you some advice, Major: you should start your counterattack here."

"Because there's nowhere left to retreat. Any further back, and Paris will be surrounded."

"If that happens, we'll see a repeat of the Franco-Prussian War, losing land and paying reparations once again."

Charles's words sent a wave of shock through the soldiers, including Major Bronny. They could hardly believe a boy so young could possess such courage and vision.

In contrast, their own thoughts kept drifting to the idea of retreat and self-preservation.

The atmosphere grew tense, tinged with shame and awkwardness. The soldiers walked with a newfound stiffness, their steps uncertain.

After a long silence, someone cleared his throat, finally breaking it by saying, "The boy's right. We can't fall back anymore. Paris cannot fall to the Germans."

Others quickly chimed in, "Yes, have we not suffered enough shame since the Franco-Prussian War? We've yearned for revenge for over forty years—is this what we call revenge?"

Another soldier added, "We must find a way to beat the Germans. If we continue like this, we'll live our whole lives in disgrace—birth to death."

Charles was pleased with the effect of his words. He had successfully rekindled the fighting spirit in these "deserters."

(End of Chapter)

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