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

Chapter 633 633: The "Charles B1" Tank

At the small town of Davaz, Charles awoke feeling thoroughly refreshed in his own bed.

After his late-night discussion with Gallieni about airbases and aircraft procurement, it had already been past eleven. Although accommodations at the City Defense Headquarters were always ready for him, Charles had asked Major Laurent to drive him back home.

Standing up, he drew aside a corner of the curtain and gazed outside through the frosty window.

The world outside was blanketed in white snow. Trees bent under the weight, their branches adorned with glittering icicles gently swaying in the breeze, occasionally dropping clusters of ice, sending soft sprays of snow powder into the air.

Several children, bundled in thick coats and woolen hats, played and laughed joyfully in the snow, their bright voices breaking through the chilly air, bringing warmth and vitality to the sleepy town.

This peaceful scene was perhaps why Charles preferred returning here, rather than staying overnight at the headquarters. It wasn't just the comfort of his own bed or his familiar home, nor simply being near Déroka and Camille; rather, it was because here he felt detached from war and turmoil—a tranquil paradise granting him moments of genuine relaxation.

After a few more minutes gazing outside, Charles shivered slightly from the cold, quickly retreating beneath his warm blankets.

Initially, he planned to spend the whole day comfortably in bed. After all, there was no greater luxury than indulging in laziness on a cold winter day.

Yet, soon his thoughts drifted toward the "Charles B1" tank Mathieu had been developing. It was supposed to be ready within a month, yet more than a month had passed, and Charles was curious about the progress.

Forget it, Charles thought, enjoying the warmth beneath the covers. The current "Charles A1" tanks were still adequate; there was no urgency.

But then again, the "Charles B1" wasn't merely for confronting German tanks; its 75mm cannon was particularly beneficial for coordinated infantry operations.

Then he reasoned: even if he checked now, what difference would it make? Would his visit accelerate development? Could he offer improvements? Probably not. Besides, the bed was too comfortable, and outside it was freezing cold!

…

He wrestled with these conflicting thoughts repeatedly, justifying and then dismissing his curiosity over and over. Ultimately, curiosity prevailed. He reluctantly left his bed, changed into a clean general's uniform from his wardrobe, straightened his general's cap in the mirror, and headed downstairs.

Camille was clearing away breakfast dishes when she saw Charles and looked at him in surprise. "Why didn't you sleep longer? Your father already left for work."

They had let him sleep, not wanting to disturb him.

"I'm heading to the factory, Mother," Charles explained.

Camille set a plate of warm apple pastries and milk in front of him, gently reproaching him, "You should rest at home, Charles, at least for one day."

"Today isn't my day off, Mother," Charles replied, taking a sip of milk and hungrily biting into the soft, warm pastry.

Food he previously found ordinary now tasted remarkably delicious.

"There will always be work waiting," Camille said, observing him closely. "You shouldn't put so much pressure on yourself."

Charles mumbled agreement but didn't share her perspective.

Many tasks demanded swift action; losing the advantage even briefly could mean falling permanently behind, requiring immense effort to catch up—or worse, becoming irrecoverable.

After finishing breakfast, Charles called Major Laurent to pick him up. Given the weather, he had no intention of walking, even though the factory wasn't far.

On the drive, Laurent mentioned something Charles hadn't yet heard.

"You probably haven't been told yet, General," Laurent began, cautiously glancing at the rearview mirror and back toward the road. "Pierre is dead."

Charles paused in surprise. Pierre? Who…? Then realization struck: his uncle, whom he'd personally sent to the front.

"Dead?" Charles looked at Laurent questioningly.

Soldiers rarely used the word "dead"; they typically honored fallen comrades differently. Yet Laurent's tone conveyed disdain.

"Yes," Laurent confirmed. "Last week, at Verdun. Apparently, he panicked under artillery fire, abandoned his weapon, and tried fleeing. He was executed by a military discipline squad."

Charles now understood Laurent's contempt—soldiers deeply despised cowardice.

"People in town rarely speak about it," Laurent added quietly. "They see it as disgraceful. I suspect your parents didn't mention it either."

Charles murmured acknowledgment. Likely another reason was that countless deaths made it easy to forget a deserter's ignoble fate.

The car entered the factory gates, crunching through fresh snow and leaving two long tire tracks. Guards bundled tightly against the cold hurriedly stood at attention, saluting Charles respectfully as he passed.

Charles casually returned their salute. Pierre's death stirred no particular emotion. If anything, he was mildly surprised the man had survived this long at all.

…

Inside the research building, Charles immediately saw several tanks—two parked aside and another occupying the central area, the air filled with the pungent odor of gasoline. Clearly, it had just undergone testing.

Charles inspected the tank briefly, recognizing the distinctive shape of the new "Charles B1," a more modern-looking vehicle.

"Hey, Charles!" Mathieu approached with a limp, smiling warmly. "How's everything?"

"Very well," Charles answered, puzzled by Mathieu's lack of surprise at seeing him. "You knew I'd come?"

Mathieu shrugged. "Your father mentioned you'd returned," he explained, nodding toward the tank. "I figured you'd want to see her."

Pride evident, Mathieu handed Charles the testing report he had prepared. Reviewing it, Charles noted the improvements—frontal armor increased to 60mm, easily sufficient against German tank cannons and even resisting direct hits from their 77mm infantry artillery at close range. Additionally, the tank reached a maximum speed of 28 kilometers per hour, notably faster than the earlier "Charles A1."

"Excellent," Charles remarked approvingly, flipping through the documents. Higher speed greatly favored breakthrough tactics. The only concern was its weight—31 tons—imposing more significant demands on bridges, roads, and terrain.

Returning the report, Charles walked around the tank, examining it thoroughly before suddenly tapping the back and suggesting, "Attach a sturdy log here, along with some high-strength steel cables."

Mathieu blinked, bewildered. "A log? Steel cables? What purpose do those serve?"

(End of Chapter 633)

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