As soon as Shire arrived at the airport, it caused quite a stir, with the soldiers instinctively gathering around.
Maybe someone notified him, as the major who had previously received and mocked Shire stumbled out of his command post and ran over to Shire, his voice stuttering with nervousness: "S-Sir... I apologize for my previous rudeness..."
Shire had long forgotten about the incident. When the major mentioned it, he recalled that there had indeed been an unpleasant episode right after he got off the plane.
However, Shire didn’t have time to discuss it. He asked directly, "You received the notification, didn’t you, Major?"
Shire was referring to the temporary command authority.
"Yes, of course!" The major stood up straight: "We are at your command, Sir!"
He was clever, using "Sir" instead of Lieutenant, as it would have been odd for a lieutenant to command a major.
"What’s your name?" Shire asked.
"Scheer, Sir!" The major had a hint of fear in his eyes. When he received the notice, he wondered if Shire wanted command of the airport to retaliate against him.
Now that Shire was asking for his name, it seemed he was right.
"How many planes do you have?" Shire asked again.
"Seven, Sir!" The major swallowed hard. It was just as he feared, Shire must be planning to send him into the sky to clash with the Germans.
"May I take a look at these planes?" Shire scanned the surroundings, seemingly looking for the planes.
"Yes, Sir!" The major stepped aside and then led Shire towards the hangar with some difficulty.
When Shire saw the planes in the hangar, he was greatly disappointed. Most of them were "Pigeon" monoplanes, with only two "Aphro" biplanes, making a total of three including the one Shire arrived on.
"Is this it?" Shire asked.
Shire paced a few steps and asked, "Where’s the pilot who brought me here?"
In the soldiers’ dormitory, Shire’s pilot was dead drunk, lying on the bed fully clothed and snoring loudly. A few bottles and a half-eaten piece of bread lay scattered around, and the air was filled with the stench of alcohol and sourness.
"Sir!" Major Fisher wrinkled his nose at the smell: "I recommend you choose another pilot, I can arrange..."
"No, that’s unnecessary!" Shire replied.
During the flight from Paris, Shire felt the skill of this drunken pilot. Others operated the plane, but this man enjoyed flying; Shire even felt he had become one with the plane, as if it had grown wings out of him, despite his constant drunken state.
"Uncle, Uncle?" Shire shook the pilot.
After some effort, the pilot wiped his mouth and opened his eyes. He stared blankly at Shire for a while before recognizing him, "Oh, it’s you, kid! Are we finally heading back?"
He then sat up, "Sorry, I’ll be ready in a jiffy!"
As he searched his pockets and then turned to the bottles and blankets.
"Are you looking for this?" Shire took a flask from the bed and shook it, making a slight sound from the remaining layer.
"Oh, yes!" The pilot took the flask, and without a word, unscrewed the cap and tilted his head back, drinking it dry before saying contentedly, "Alright, let’s head back to Paris!"
He seemed to be energized by the drink he just had.
"Sorry, Uncle!" Shire replied, "We’re not heading back to Paris for now!"
The pilot uttered an "Mm" sound and immediately returned to a drowsy state: "Then... when you... go back... let me know..."
Before he finished speaking, he began to fall back onto the bed.
"Uncle, Uncle!" Shire hurriedly held the pilot up, and Major Fisher came over to assist: "Can you do me a favor?"
The pilot seemed to wake up a bit, but he and Shire were not on the same page. He mumbled indistinctly: "I heard you’re Shire, kid? The famous one... who’s the asshole who sent you here?"
Shire replied, "It was you, Uncle."
The pilot’s reaction was delayed. After a moment, he suddenly opened his eyes and looked at Shire: "Hey, kid, that’s a serious accusation! I was just hired by the military to be your pilot, nobody else would take the job. They knew it was dangerous and weren’t willing to risk their lives for 20 francs..."
"Why did you take it?" Shire asked curiously.
The pilot chuckled and sat upright, "That’s not dangerous for me, I’ve done more dangerous things!"
"Have you been a soldier?" Shire asked.
Then he thought something was off, as being a soldier had little to do with the dangers of flying.
A trace of melancholy flashed in the pilot’s eyes. He seemed unwilling to answer and only gave a grunt, then asked: "Tell me, kid, what do you want me to do?"
"Do you know about ’Big Bertha’?" Shire asked.
"Didn’t know before, now I do!" The pilot pointed east, the direction of the German army’s main forces, where "Big Bertha" was bombarding Wavre Fortress.
The pilot complained, "Its shells always wake me up!"
Fisher rolled his eyes; the guy hadn’t been awake since arriving here.
"If you blow it up, it won’t wake you anymore!" Shire said, handing him a towel.
The pilot took the towel, wiped his face, then suddenly stopped as he realized something: "You don’t expect me to bomb ’Big Bertha,’ do you?"
Major Fisher was shocked, casting a surprised look at Shire. It wasn’t for vengeance but to bomb ’Big Bertha’!
Crash into it with a plane?
The pilot seemed to think so too. What else could destroy ’Big Bertha’ other than crashing a plane?
The pilot was silent for a moment, then let out a bitter laugh, his tone filled with sadness: "That’s a death sentence, kid! But I accept the task, on one condition!"
"What condition?" Shire asked.
The pilot raised his head and looked Shire in the eye, "Buy my airplane factory!"
"You have an airplane factory?" Shire looked at the pilot in disbelief.
The pilot nodded slowly, his voice filled with sorrow and helplessness:
"It’s nothing to brag about, Lieutenant! I’m thirty-five thousand francs in debt to the bank."
"It started with borrowing just one or two thousand, but no one wanted to buy my planes, so I borrowed more and more!"
"Now I can’t even pay the interest... knowing this, would you still buy it?"
This was a businessman oppressed by bankers, at the brink of collapse, willing to trade his life for some gain.