I Became a Plutocrat in World War I: Starting with Saving France-Chapter 105: After Modification - The Down-and-Out Pilot

Chapter 105: After Modification: Chapter 105 The Down-and-Out Pilot

The police station was right next to the command headquarters, so Shire only needed to walk a few steps downstairs to reach it.

Shire had initially thought he would need to introduce himself, explain who he was and what his purpose was, since the military and the police were two separate entities that function in their own respective domains, even though they were both under Gallieni’s command during wartime.

But Shire soon realized this was unnecessary. As soon as he walked through the police station’s door, the bustling officers seemed to freeze as if someone had pressed a pause button. All eyes turned towards him, and then with an exclamation, they all rushed over:

"God, you are Shire!"

"We know you’re just next door, but we can’t go in; it’s military territory!"

"It’s an honor to meet you, Lieutenant! We’ve heard a lot about you!"

...

The police were much less formal than the soldiers, or perhaps their work wasn’t as urgent as the military’s, so putting it off for a little while wouldn’t make much difference. Thus, they crowded around, each eager to shake Shire’s hand.

Shire’s hand was starting to ache from all the shaking. He finally found the opportunity to speak: "I’m here looking for Eric..."

"Eric?" The police looked puzzled.

"The pilot!" Shire explained. "The one who flew me to Antwerp!"

The officers immediately understood and responded boisterously:

"The one who’s always demanding alcohol!"

"He treats the police station like his home, and despite committing such offenses, he still wants to drink!"

"Rest assured, Lieutenant, we’ll keep a close watch on him until he confesses all his crimes and reveals the mastermind behind them!"

...

Shire wondered if these guys would use torture on Eric.

Fortunately, that hadn’t happened, thanks to Gallieni. He ordered the police to interrogate with standard procedures. Gallieni actually knew these people were innocent; he had another purpose for detaining them.

Eric was held alone in a detention room, curled up in a corner, sound asleep.

The police opened the iron door, and Shire walked in to wake him. Eric groggily opened his eyes, saw Shire, and flipped over to sit up: "Hey, little buddy, you finally came! They said I kidnapped you..."

"It’s all sorted now, Uncle Eric!" Shire replied apologetically. "I’ve explained everything to them; I didn’t know they had detained you here!"

Eric grunted a couple of times and asked, "So, I can leave now?"

"Yes!"

Eric then glanced behind Shire and asked, "What about them?"

Shire turned around confusedly to see several other detention rooms with iron bars, filled with twenty or so disheveled, ragged young and middle-aged men.

"Who are they..." Shire asked Eric, puzzled.

"They’re from the Carter Flying Club!" Eric replied. "They were brought here for questioning because of your matter."

"Flying club? Are you saying they are all pilots?" Shire looked at the men incredulously.

They looked just like homeless people, or street gangs, outcasts. Many still bore visible tattoos on their necks.

Were pilots really this down-and-out at this time?

Shire thought Eric was an exception, but they were all similar!

He later found out he was right; pilots during this age were indeed destitute, and this was just the tip of the iceberg.

...

To apologize, Shire took them to the officers’ mess hall at headquarters to give them a hearty meal.

Compared to regular meals, the officers’ mess hall had excellent fare.

Sausages, bread, jam, coffee—these common foods were all self-serve, with unlimited supply. Yet hardly anyone touched them; they unanimously opted for homemade wine.

The most important dish was white bean beef stew, a treat for regular soldiers though served almost daily, along with mashed potatoes, pizza, and fruit.

The club owner was a middle-aged man named Carter. He had tangled hair, a beard, and a worn-out jacket, somewhat resembling a Viking from the movies!

He practically dove into his plate, gobbling up the food. When he raised his head again, his plate was wiped clean, and broth glistened in his beard.

Without waiting to swallow completely, Carter eagerly raised his wine glass. After taking a greedy sip, he seemed to recall something and raised his half-empty glass, mumbling, "To Lieutenant Shire, cheers!"

The others responded enthusiastically:

"Cheers, to the Lieutenant!"

"To Shire, you are a good man!"

"He is France’s savior!"

...

Then Carter turned with interest to Shire at the neighboring table and asked, "Lieutenant, we hear you’re planning to buy Eric’s aircraft factory?"

"Yes!" Shire replied.

He was sitting at the table, drinking coffee; having just had breakfast, he didn’t crave more food, and none of it appealed to him.

Shire’s answer immediately drew gasps from the pilots. Some even cast envious, jealous glances at Eric and lamented:

"What a lucky guy!"

"I thought he was bragging, but it’s true!"

"Eric is going to be rich!"

...

Eric, meanwhile, continued drinking, squinting contentedly and even proudly raised his glass in a circle toast, as if showing off!

Carter forced a smile and waved his hand to advise Shire, "I hope you think it over carefully, Lieutenant. Look at us! If you buy the aircraft factory, we could be your clients!"

Eric sneered and glared at Carter, seemingly displeased with his words.

The others all chuckled, but the laughter brimmed with bitterness, helplessness, and desolation.

Shire pondered briefly and seemed to understand why they were in such a state.

What could airplanes do in this era?

Transport goods?

With the limited space and carrying capacity of airplanes, several trips might not even recoup the fuel costs!

Transport people?

Safety issues aside, the few seats in a biplane could only carry one passenger!

Combat?

No machine guns, no bombs, only reconnaissance missions could be done, while cheap, durable balloons snatched the market...

Thus, most who flew planes during this period did it out of passion, and had to be quite dedicated, akin to most web fiction writers who kept going despite no earnings, investing extensive time and effort yet gaining nothing!

Over time, even a well-off family couldn’t sustain it; ultimately, each one ended up as destitute as they were now.

Shire couldn’t help but ask, "How much income do you make each month?"

Carter smiled briefly and turned his gaze to the pilots, calling out names one by one: "Belmondo?"

"I earn 20 francs a month!" Belmondo lightly raised his wine glass. "But that’s if I don’t buy any plane parts; if any part breaks, I’ll have to go hungry that month!"

"Luqini?" Carter called the next name.

"I’m a bit better off, Lieutenant!" Luqini stood up and faced Shire. "I earn 25 francs a month, though that’s because I regularly deliver urgent documents for the military!"

"Conelius?" Carter turned his gaze to a pale, skinny man who had been eating until he was bloated.

"I..." Conelius trembled as he stood up. "I don’t have money to fix my plane; I haven’t had any income for two months!"

He burped, nodded to Shire and expressed gratitude, "Thank you very much, Lieutenant; it’s been a long time since I’ve had such a satisfying meal!"

Shire’s heart sank in melancholy. These pilots, hailed as ’children of the sky’ and widely admired in the modern age, were now impoverished due to the lack of advancement in aviation.

As Shire mused about the vicissitudes of fortune, a communications officer approached him and reported, "Lieutenant, the General requests your presence!"