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

Chapter 29: The Power of Money

Fortunately, France had won the battle, and Charles's plan had succeeded. The Fifth Army crossed the Marne Bridge and penetrated the German Army's vulnerable flank, forcing the First German Army into full retreat before reinforcements could arrive.

Unfortunately, Matthew was injured. It was Major Bronn who brought Charles the news.

"Matthew was incredibly brave!" Major Bronn said. "He drove his tank along a back path to bypass the enemy's defenses, then charged directly into the German command post. It was the first domino to fall, sparking a full-scale German retreat and securing our victory."

"How badly is he hurt?" Charles asked anxiously. He cared far more about Matthew's safety than the victory itself.

"I'm not entirely sure," Major Bronn replied. "I only know that his right leg was injured. A bullet pierced the side armor and struck his leg on the gas pedal. By the time I learned of his injury, he had already been taken to the field hospital."

"Where's the field hospital?" Charles pressed, feeling a cold sweat on his face.

"About two kilometers in the direction of Thierry," Major Bronn answered. "The wounded from the Fifth Army are being treated there."

Before he could finish, De Yoka was already heading toward the Ford, beckoning to Charles. "Come on, we're going there right now!"

…

The field hospital was essentially a cluster of tents on a grassy area, providing the wounded with minimal shelter from the elements.

But the tents were far from enough. Wounded soldiers lay on the ground awaiting treatment, some with abdominal wounds, others with missing limbs, and still others unconscious with head injuries, their heads swathed in bandages.

The wounded were divided into areas: a section for minor injuries, one for serious injuries, and another for those beyond saving.

In the "beyond saving" area, no one attended to the soldiers left there to die, while the critically injured lay nearby to allow easier transfer if they too were deemed beyond help.

Cries of pain filled the air, mixing with the smell of carbolic acid, blood, and pus. Flies buzzed incessantly, hovering over the wounded. Occasionally, a nurse would emerge from a tent carrying a bucket filled with severed limbs and dump it into a pit nearby.

Charles felt his stomach turn, barely managing to keep from vomiting, while the nurses moved through the carnage with numb expressions, long accustomed to the sight.

De Yoka had to ask several people before locating Matthew, who lay in a solitary tent. Inside, a simple wooden cot held his pale form, a bloodstained blanket covering him. Joseph sat at his bedside, his head lowered, his expression one of grief and helplessness.

Matthew's face was pale, streaked with traces of blood, his hair matted and stiff with dried blood. Upon seeing Charles, he forced a weak smile, trying to sound unfazed. "Hey, Charles! That was a great plan—it helped us... win the war!"

His voice was faint, trembling with the effort, and Charles could see he was holding back pain.

Ignoring Matthew's bravado, Charles turned to Joseph. "How is he?"

Joseph's eyes showed his anxiety. "The doctor said it's not too serious... just needs some rest."

But Charles and De Yoka both sensed that Joseph was hiding something.

Once they stepped outside, Joseph revealed the truth. "They amputated his leg. His right leg... it's gone."

"What?" Charles stared at Joseph in shock. "He's only just arrived here…"

"They have to make quick decisions and perform surgeries immediately," Joseph explained.

Charles understood. With too many wounded to treat, doctors were forced to work as fast as possible. Even injuries that might not require amputation often led to it.

If doctors spent too much time on a single complex surgery, it could mean leaving others untreated and possibly costing more lives.

For that reason, battlefield surgeons opted for amputation at the slightest sign of complications.

Charles couldn't bring himself to blame the doctors. They had valid, even urgent reasons for their choices. But the frustration he felt pressed down on him like a weight he couldn't shake.

Charles returned to Matthew's tent and lifted a corner of the blanket, shocked to see that Matthew's stump was wrapped in a soiled, blood-stained bandage that had already been used.

No longer able to hold back, Charles stumbled out of the tent, shouting angrily, "Doctor! Where is the doctor?"

A man in a white coat, his hands covered in fresh blood, emerged from a nearby tent. His face, partially hidden behind a mask, looked worn and emotionless.

"What's wrong?" he asked wearily. "Does someone need emergency care?"

Charles stormed over to him, pointing back toward Matthew's tent. "The man in that tent is a hero! He drove his tank into the enemy's command post and won this battle for France. And you're treating him with used bandages—are you trying to kill him? Is this how you treat heroes?"

The doctor met Charles's glare with a calm expression. "Everyone here is a hero, including us. If you have a complaint, go shout at the capitalists who haven't provided us with enough medicine, supplies, or personnel. We're short on everything. What do you expect us to do?"

Charles was taken aback.

The doctor was right—this was not their fault. The blame lay with those capitalists who cut corners and made decisions that led to these conditions.

A battlefield hospital was not a profitable venture; in peacetime, it was almost useless. But the moment war broke out, the need for it skyrocketed.

No capitalist would sink resources into maintaining such an operation year-round when it was only needed during war, and even then, its main function was to reassure soldiers enough to get them to the front lines.

But these were human lives—living, breathing men who had sacrificed for France.

Anger tightened Charles's throat, and he forced out his response: "Put it on my tab. Tell me what you need, and I'll fund it."

The doctor scoffed, turning away. "Where'd this kid come from, thinking he can fund a whole battlefield hospital? Does he know we have over ten thousand wounded here?"

A nurse walking nearby slowed down. "Dr. Heblay, I recognize him. That's Charles, the one who invented the tank that saved France. I think he can afford it."

The doctor stopped, looking stunned, and quickly turned back to Charles. His voice shook with emotion. "You… you're serious? Master Charles, you're really offering to fund us?"

"Of course," Charles replied firmly.

"Wonderful!" The doctor looked as if he wanted to shake Charles's hand but noticed his bloodied fingers and quickly withdrew.

"Thank you, Master Charles, on behalf of the wounded soldiers. You've saved their lives! You're a good man, Master Charles!"

"Including Matthew," Charles emphasized. "I want him to be well cared for."

"Absolutely!" the doctor assured him. "I'll check on him immediately!"

With that, he and the nurse hurried toward Matthew's tent.

This was the power of money.

Though it might seem unfair to the other wounded, Charles didn't have the luxury of thinking that far. Right now, his friend's life came first.

(End of Chapter)

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