I Became a Tycoon During World War I: Saving France from the Start Chapter 43 43: I Want to Meet Someone

The afternoon in Paris was shrouded in a gray haze, despite sunshine likely gracing other parts of the city.

General Gallieni lay alone on a bed in the command post's rest area, staring out through the fogged window and muttering with a self-deprecating smirk, "Unbelievable. Why would the Germans love this city? What's there to like?"

He winced as a dull pain flared in his abdon—an old injury from the Franco-Prussian War. He could still recall his days as a young lieutenant, leading a unit of 200 soldiers into battle against the Prussians, ard only with Chassepot rifles.

Focused too intently on taking aim at a Prussian colonel, Gallieni hadn't noticed he himself was within soone else's sights. The mont he pulled the trigger, felling his target, a sharp pain tore through his abdon. His legs gave out, and he collapsed, unable to stand again.

Gallieni beca a prisoner, convinced he'd spend the rest of his days in pain within a POW camp, as he didn't expect the Prussians to waste precious dicine on captives.

But fate is strange. Not long after, France surrendered, and the Prussians released prisoners under the terms of the peace. Gallieni was one of the lucky few who survived. Over the following decades, he rose to beco a French general.

Gingerly clutching his abdon, Gallieni struggled to sit up, muttering, "I should be grateful the Germans were using paper cartridge rounds. Otherwise, France would have one less general."

There was a light knock on the door. Gallieni composed himself, not wanting his officers to see any sign of weakness. "Co in."

The adjutant entered, his face alight with good news.

"What is it? Have we advanced another step?" Gallieni's tone was tinged with sarcasm.

To him, advancing through a tide of bloodshed was hardly worth celebrating. He even suspected the Germans might be baiting the French forces into advancing at great cost.

And yet the command center officers never tired of reporting and exaggerating their victories. The newspapers, too, constantly touted tales of success.

"No, General," the adjutant replied, handing him a docunt with excitent. "It's the 5th Army's 3rd Infantry Battalion—the one that drove the Germans out with tanks. They've won another significant victory!"

"Oh?" Gallieni took the report calmly, adjusted his glasses, and asked without emotion, "They took tanks again, did they? Strange; I thought we were still haggling over the price."

"No, General!" the adjutant clarified. "Not tanks this ti. They used a modified motorcycle."

"A motorcycle?" Gallieni's curiosity piqued as he looked over the docunt, which outlined the 5th Army's reported achievents.

"Estimated enemy casualties—more than 4,000 dead or wounded, over 40 artillery pieces destroyed, with only 23 of our own casualties…"

Gallieni murmured as he read, his voice rising with disbelief.

He glanced up at the adjutant, his gaze growing intense and skeptical. "Do I look like a fool to you, Alex?"

The adjutant stamred, "No, of course not, General…"

"Then why bring such a ludicrous report?" Gallieni flung the docunt onto the table, his voice cold. "Have we really co to falsifying our victories just to comfort ourselves?"

"General—"

"Do you realize the damage this kind of report does?" Gallieni's anger mounted as he rose to his feet, eyes blazing. "This is shaless deception. Other units will start faking their own victories, Alex! Soon, everyone will be content with false glory and stop doing their duty. It'll ruin us—no amount of troops can save us!"

"General…"

"Do you even know how to exercise basic judgnt anymore? Bringing this? You're enabling this trend! This is no different from fabricating accomplishnts. You're complicit. You're an accomplice!"

Gallieni's face was pale with fury, his mind already set on rooting out and dismissing everyone involved in this farce.

Only then, he believed, could France's army have a shot at real, lasting victory.

"It's true, General!" the adjutant blurted in desperation. "They used a vehicle that Charles invented—the sidecar motorcycle! That's why two hundred n could achieve what they did, almost like with the tanks!"

Gallieni stopped, processing this with a stunned expression. After a mont, he asked, half-disbelieving, "A battle motorcycle? What is that?"

The adjutant hesitated, caught off guard. "I'm…not quite sure, sir. They say it's a motorcycle with three wheels, with a Maxim gun mounted on the sidecar, so it can fight while moving. We couldn't believe the report either, but we've double-checked, and the details hold up."

Gallieni was still skeptical. After a long pause, a mory resurfaced, and he asked, "Did you say Charles, the boy who invented the tank?"

"Yes, that's him!" The adjutant suspected that it was Charles's reputation, more than anything, that had won Gallieni over.

If Charles could invent a tank that had helped 300 soldiers turn an unwinnable battle into victory, perhaps he had indeed created another weapon that allowed 200 n to inflict such heavy losses.

Just then, another adjutant entered, delivering a report: "General, the Germans are retreating. Our forces have advanced seven kiloters, and we've found abandoned artillery and nurous bodies. The Germans didn't even have ti to recover their dead!"

This confird the third battalion's reported results. The abandoned artillery and bodies were ironclad proof.

Gallieni's eyes brightened instantly. His anger was gone, replaced by joy. This ant that the German advance was collapsing, with no counterattack in sight.

He returned to the table, picking up the docunt again, though his hands were trembling with excitent.

After a mont, Gallieni gave his order, "Alex, I want every detail of this incident, as thoroughly as possible!"

"Yes, General!"

The adjutant was about to leave when Gallieni added another command: "Send in Laurent."

"Yes, General!"

Laurent was Gallieni's personal guard.

Perhaps "guard" wasn't entirely accurate; Laurent was more of a trusted confidant, one of the few people Gallieni could trust without reservation. Even during Gallieni's retirent, Laurent had stayed by his side, volunteering to protect him.

No one had imagined that the Germans would one day attack France and that Gallieni would be called back to serve.

For Laurent, this loyalty ant giving up everything—fa, rank, and a high salary.

A short ti later, Laurent entered, knocking lightly on the door.

"Sir, you called?" he asked quietly.

In private, Gallieni preferred that Laurent address him simply as "Sir."

Gallieni motioned toward the door, and Laurent understood, turning to close it. Then he approached Gallieni, leaning in slightly.

Gallieni lowered his voice. "I want to et soone. No one else can know. Arrange it."

"Yes, sir."

Laurent's mind raced with questions. With Gallieni's current position, eting anyone should have been as simple as giving an order.

So why such secrecy?

And why did no one else need to know?

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