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

Chapter 89 - Proud to Owe the Bank

Eric wasn't actually a pilot by trade—he was a flying enthusiast who had been captivated by the dream of flight even before the Wright brothers' invention. He had attempted countless daring stunts that future generations would see as outright dangerous.

When the Wright brothers successfully built the first airplane in 1903, Eric felt his dreams had finally come true. He even spread his arms to the sky, tears streaming down his face, grateful that he'd been given the chance to soar.

Two years later, he sold everything he owned to start an airplane manufacturing company. Eric naïvely believed that many people shared his love of flying. "Who wouldn't want to fly freely like a bird?" he would say.

However, early airplanes were notoriously unsafe. While people were curious about flying, they weren't willing to risk their lives for it. Over the first three years, his factory sold just six planes—and even those were sold at barely a profit.

Like many dream-driven entrepreneurs, Eric soon fell deep into debt with the banks, unable to keep up with the accumulating interest.

Unable to bear the poverty any longer, Eric's wife left him, taking their two children. To survive, Eric took on whatever "dangerous assignments" he could get from the military.

When he learned that he was to "destroy Big Bertha," Eric's first reaction was, What's death, anyway? If I can clear my debts and leave something for my family, it'll be worth it.

"How much are you asking?" Charles asked.

"What?" Eric stared at him in disbelief. "You… you actually want to buy it? Even knowing what it's worth? You haven't even seen it!"

"Of course," Charles replied without hesitation. "We can sign the contract right now, if you have it with you."

Frantically, Eric searched his pockets until he pulled out a wrinkled document. Clearly, he had tried selling his factory before, unsuccessfully.

With trembling hands, Eric spread out the contract and cautiously handed it to Charles.

Charles glanced at it: 360,000 francs. The number surprised him. "So, after paying off the bank, you'd only have 10,000 francs left?"

"That's plenty," Eric replied.

For him, 10,000 francs was a small fortune. He intended to leave it all to his wife and children, whom he'd wronged in so many ways over the years. As for himself, he hadn't given it a thought.

Charles handed the contract back to Eric.

Eric's face fell, but he nodded in understanding. "I get it. No one would be foolish enough to take on that much debt."

"No, Uncle Eric," Charles said calmly. "Rewrite the contract. I'll give you 400,000 francs."

Eric's eyes widened. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Even Fisher, standing nearby, thought he'd misheard. Who pays 40,000 more than the asking price?

This wasn't just generosity—this was the kind of offer only the most foolish of capitalists would make.

40,000 francs was a huge sum. Most people couldn't earn it in a lifetime, and here was Charles, giving it away so casually.

"This… this is real?" Eric asked, standing up in shock.

"Absolutely," Charles said, "but there's one condition…"

Eric hesitated, then gave a sad smile as if to say, I knew there was a catch.

Charles continued, "You have to come back alive, Uncle Eric. I need you to help me manage my new airplane factory."

Eric was speechless, overwhelmed with emotion. He stared at Charles, wondering if he was dreaming. He opened his mouth to say something but couldn't find the words.

He'd thought this deal was about buying his life, about him flying straight into Big Bertha to take it out.

But Charles was saying he wanted him to come back—alive, to help run the factory?

Seeing that Eric hadn't answered, Charles asked again, "Are you willing?"

"Yes, of course!" Eric replied.

To secure a large sum of money and still get to be with his factory—what could be more perfect?

But…

Eric couldn't help but ask, "I… I can really come back alive?"

"Certainly!" Charles said confidently, then turned to Fisher. "Major, can you gather the pilots? We need to go over the operation plan."

"Yes, sir!"

As Fisher stepped out, a messenger arrived to report, "Sir, the Congreve rockets you requested have arrived."

Charles nodded. "Store the rockets in the warehouse, and assign guards to them."

"Yes, sir!"

Just as the messenger was about to leave, Charles added, "Sort out a batch of rockets in the best condition."

"Understood, sir!"

Hearing the mention of "Congreve rockets," Eric seemed to grasp Charles's plan and nodded, starting to believe that Charles wasn't trying to buy his life, though he knew the mission would still be risky.

"I don't know how to thank you, kid," Eric said, hesitating. "You're incredibly generous. People say you're a capitalist with a conscience. But… I don't think I'm worth this much. I'm just an old drunk—you don't need to do this…"

"No, Uncle Eric," Charles interrupted. "You're worth every bit of it. You just don't realize it yet."

He gestured to the contract in Eric's hand. "There's a typewriter in Major Fisher's office. Go ahead and type up the contract again. It won't take long to sign."

Eric looked down at the contract, deep in thought. A sudden realization struck him—if he died, wouldn't that debt to the banks simply vanish? Selling the factory would just transfer his burden to Charles, passing on his debt.

Eric slowly tore the contract into pieces, leaving Charles confused. He said, "There's no rush, kid."

"You have faith in me, so I'll put my faith in you too."

"If I make it back, we can discuss buying and selling. If I don't, I trust you'll take care of my family."

Charles started to protest. He did believe in Eric, but he also genuinely wanted the airplane factory. If Eric didn't sign the contract and failed to return, the factory would go to the bank.

"Uncle Eric…" Charles hoped he would change his mind.

But Eric was resolute. "That's the deal, kid. Now, tell me what I need to do."

"All right," Charles agreed, though reluctantly.

Eric, seeing the boy's insistence, was deeply moved. What a kind-hearted young man, he thought, he's eager to pay off my debt just to ease my mind before I go.

No, kid. If I die owing the banks, that's not something to regret—that's the only thing I'd feel proud of.

(End of Chapter)

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