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

Chapter 30: The Will of the People

They replaced Matthew's bandages with fresh ones, administered a shot of morphine, and assigned a nurse to attend to him on call.

In exchange, Dr. Heblay handed Charles a long list detailing the supplies and staff the field hospital desperately needed: tents, beds, blankets, bandages, medical cotton, tourniquets, hemostatic powder, morphine, and more. Alongside doctors and nurses, they also needed cleaners, care aides, cooks, and laborers.

Seeing the list, Charles finally understood why the field hospital was on the verge of collapse. They were essentially trying to hold up a hundred-pound weight with a single thread.

Charles instructed Joseph to go to Paris to procure supplies, while De Yoka volunteered to organize the necessary staff.

Despite his reluctance to leave Matthew, Joseph knew these supplies were just as vital to his son's recovery. With newfound determination, he accepted the task.

"Don't worry, Master Charles!" Joseph promised. "I'll bring back everything on that list—nothing left out!"

De Yoka wrote Joseph a check for one hundred thousand francs, adding, "Take my car, and if the money isn't enough, I'll give you more."

"Thank you, Mr. De Yoka. Thank you so much!" Joseph accepted the check with heartfelt gratitude, lightly tipping his hat to De Yoka and Charles. He patted Matthew's pale hand gently.

"Don't worry, Father," Matthew reassured him. "I'll be fine here with Charles."

Nodding, Joseph then left with De Yoka and Charles, heading toward the car.

"Wait!" De Yoka called, catching up with them. "First, take me to the village so I can find some help."

When the tent was empty except for Matthew and Charles, Matthew heaved a sigh, his feigned cheer fading into pallor and exhaustion. "I know they amputated my leg, Charles."

Only in front of Charles did Matthew allow his guard to drop entirely.

Charles was surprised. Joseph had been careful to hide the truth from Matthew, fearing that he might not be able to accept it.

Matthew smiled faintly. "Of course I know, Charles. It was my leg. I can feel its absence."

"So you were pretending? To keep your father from worrying?" Charles asked.

Without answering, Matthew's gaze grew distant and tinged with bitterness. "Sometimes, I wonder if it would have been better to die on the battlefield."

"That's what you think?" Charles retorted, his eyes flashing with anger. "You'd give up that easily?"

Matthew let out a wry laugh, his look toward Charles full of scorn.

"You capitalists can never understand people like us," he said. "Do you know how much they're compensating me for my leg? One hundred and thirty francs, Charles. Just one hundred and thirty francs in exchange for my leg."

He was referring to the compensation France provided: two hundred and sixty francs for fallen soldiers, half of that for the disabled.

"One hundred and thirty francs won't go far," Matthew continued bitterly. "Maybe enough to scrape by for a year or two, but then what?"

Charles finally understood. Matthew had calculated the economic cost. He worried about his father and his family's livelihood. From that perspective, death indeed seemed more profitable than disability. Death meant more compensation, and no lingering aftermath to burden his family. But as an invalid, he'd be left with less money and a host of difficulties.

"Matthew…"

"No," Matthew interrupted, his eyes hard. "I don't want your pity, Charles."

It was as though he could already sense what Charles would say next: Come, Matthew. Work in my factory. I'll give you a job. He didn't need anyone's sympathy, not even from Charles.

Charles didn't offer pity. Instead, he pulled up a stool beside Matthew's bed, his face resolute.

"I won't pity you, Matthew. In fact, I despise you."

"What?" Matthew couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Charles laid out the truth. "I asked Dr. Heblay about it. Your leg didn't need to be amputated. They did it because they lacked staff. To save time for other patients, they cut it off."

"What?" Matthew's eyes widened, his face paling. "They took…my leg, just like that?"

For the doctors, it was a matter of saving precious minutes. But for Matthew, it was his entire future.

Charles pressed on, ignoring his reaction.

"Do you know who's really to blame?"

"It's those capitalists who wouldn't spend a single cent on this field hospital. With just a few more doctors, a little more medicine, a few more hands, your leg might have been saved."

Charles's tone hardened. "They've destroyed your life, and all you can think about is how you'll manage with a measly one hundred and thirty francs."

"And you want me to pity you, to feel sorry for you?"

"No, Matthew. I despise you. They defeated you—completely and utterly."

Matthew gritted his teeth, beads of cold sweat forming on his brow. "But what can I do?"

"Get up!" Charles interrupted, his voice resolute. "Fight back. Hold them accountable. Make them pay for what they've done!"

Matthew's breathing grew heavy, his chest heaving as he lay there, beads of sweat trickling down his face. Though he was in agony, a faint spark flickered in his previously vacant eyes, slowly growing brighter.

Noticing the commotion behind him, Charles turned to see a crowd of nurses and wounded soldiers gathering outside the tent, Dr. Heblay among them.

The tent's thin walls provided little privacy, and Charles's words had spread throughout the field hospital, inspiring even the most badly injured soldiers to rise to their feet and cluster around him.

"Master Charles is right!" one soldier declared. "They can't treat us like this. They send us into battle but won't give us even basic medical care!"

"Meanwhile, they're living in luxury!" another cried out. "They use money wrung from us to live in comfort while we protect them!"

"We're sick of it! Master Charles, lead us to those capitalists and help us get justice!"

"Yes, Master Charles, you're a true capitalist with a conscience. We're ready to follow you!"

Charles was taken aback. What he'd said had been mostly intended to stir up Matthew's spirit, but now the wounded were rallying, seemingly ready to rise up against the capitalists.

This was mutiny, and the capitalists would undoubtedly send in troops to crush it. Revolts like this weren't uncommon in these times.

With their current strength, it would be nothing short of suicide.

Quickly, Charles raised his hands to calm them.

"Listen to me, gentlemen!" he called out. "The most important thing now is to recover. Only when we're strong again can we stand up to those who've wronged us."

"If we act rashly now, we'll only end up hurting ourselves."

The soldiers fell silent, knowing Charles was right. But soon enough, most of them would be destitute, possibly left to die on the streets. How could they hope to fight back?

Charles seemed to read their thoughts, and he added, "As it happens, I've just bought a motorcycle factory. Many of the workers have left, so if any of you wish, you can come work for me when you're ready."

The wounded soldiers were both shocked and overjoyed, though some remained uncertain.

"But many of us…are missing hands or feet…" one soldier hesitated.

"Don't worry," Charles assured them. "I'll make sure each of you finds a suitable role. You're heroes of France. You deserve to be treated with respect."

Moved to tears, the soldiers saluted Charles, braving their pain to express their gratitude. To them, Master Charles was nothing short of a savior. Even Matthew and the doctors and nurses looked on with moist eyes.

Only Charles knew that his intentions went beyond helping Matthew or the injured.

No one understood better than he did the importance of winning people's hearts; it was the key to fighting back against the capitalists.

And when it came to winning loyalty, "a hand extended in times of need" was always more powerful than "support after the fact."

(End of Chapter)

Thank you for the support, friends. If you want to read more chapters in advance, go to my Patreon.