With a loud "whirr," Guillaume pulled open the warehouse door and flicked on the lights. Though it was well into the day, the warehouse had poor natural lighting, so without the lights on, everything inside appeared shadowy and indistinct.
Under the lights, row after row of gleaming new motorcycles sat in neat lines, like troops waiting for inspection.
"To be honest, Young Master Charles," Guillaume said hesitantly, "you probably shouldn't have bought this motorcycle factory. It didn't sell well to begin with, and with the war, it's even harder to move stock. That's partly why the workers left; if the motorcycles don't sell, they don't get paid. They didn't want to stay here wasting their time."
Deyoka nodded in agreement. He'd never thought buying the motorcycle factory was a wise decision, even at a bargain price of 35% off. It was risky without guaranteed sales.
"How much inventory do we have?" Charles asked.
"Over 1,500 units," Guillaume replied. "But I'd have to check the records for the exact count."
"And how many can we produce each month?" Charles continued. The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the NoᴠᴇFɪre.nᴇt
Guillaume and Deyoka stared at Charles as if they'd seen a ghost. The existing stock couldn't even be sold—shouldn't he be figuring out how to sell them? But here was Charles, concerned about production capacity!
"We can produce around 300 units a month," Guillaume answered cautiously. "But I think…"
"Can we ramp up production?" Charles cut in. "Maybe by adding shifts—hiring three groups of workers for different time slots."
Deyoka couldn't hold back anymore. "Charles, shouldn't we be thinking about how to sell these first?"
Guillaume nodded in agreement. "Mr. Deyoka is right, Young Master Charles. You really should listen to your father."
Guillaume thought to himself that Charles was still just a child, treating business like a game.
Charles didn't confirm or deny this. He simply walked over to a motorcycle, gave the handlebars a slight tug, and turned back to ask, "Guillaume, can all these motorcycles run properly?"
"Of course!" Guillaume answered. "Just add fuel, and they're good to go. These are 'Victory' brand motorcycles from Britain, known for their reliability and easy maintenance."
("Victory" was also translated as "Triumph," known for its dependable performance. During World War I, the military nicknamed it the "trustworthy Victory.")
"Great," Charles said, stepping aside and pointing to the stand under the motorcycle. "We can extend a support frame here and add a wheel on the side for a more stable three-wheel structure. We could attach a post on the sidecar for a machine gun, and add some armor plating in front. Can we do that?"
Guillaume's eyes went wide. Transform it from two wheels to three? This setup could carry more gear and even more people!
It was a brilliant idea—why had no one thought of it?
After a long pause, Guillaume gulped and nodded eagerly. "Yes… absolutely, Young Master Charles! It's not difficult at all. In fact, I could have one modified in just a few hours."
Charles nodded. "Then get started."
Deyoka realized what Charles was aiming for, especially since he'd mentioned a machine gun. "Your plan is to convert these for military use?"
"Of course, Father," Charles replied. "Nothing's more profitable right now than military equipment. If the army needs it, they'll buy in bulk, and at any price."
Guillaume, who had just started pushing a motorcycle out, stopped in his tracks, his excitement evident. "You're right, Young Master Charles! If this works on the battlefield, we'll get more orders than we can count. These motorcycles could sell out in no time—maybe even fall short of demand!"
Guillaume suddenly understood why Charles had insisted on triple shifts to ramp up production. If this plan succeeded, then producing only 300 a month would be far too little. They'd need to churn out 3,000 a month!
"We could be onto a goldmine!" Guillaume exclaimed, pushing the motorcycle out of the warehouse at a jog, eager to test Charles's idea and see if it was feasible.
Deyoka and Charles followed, eager to watch the modification process and see Guillaume's skills firsthand.
The idea of adding a sidecar had been seen a few years prior, in a Canadian military exercise where a sergeant innovatively attached a sidecar to a motorcycle and mounted a machine gun on it. However, the setup had been extremely bumpy, making it impossible to aim accurately on the move. Officers had dismissed it with, "This is more likely to kill our own men than the enemy!"
Since then, nobody had seriously considered this design, and it had faded from memory without anyone bothering to file a patent. This was why neither Guillaume nor Deyoka had ever heard of it before.
"So," Deyoka asked, "is this another type of 'tank'?"
"Not quite," Charles answered. "A tank is meant to block bullets. This… this is for speed. On the battlefield, speed sometimes means victory."
Deyoka struggled to understand the concept. As a businessman, he knew nothing of military tactics, but he trusted Charles was right; after all, Charles had led France to victory twice in crucial battles.
"Do you know what the neighbors are saying about you?" Deyoka asked, suddenly smiling.
"What are they saying?"
"They're saying you're better than General Gallieni! They think you should be leading the French army yourself!"
Charles was startled by the thought—he had no desire to join the military.
"They're even making comparisons," Deyoka went on, still unaware of Charles's unease. "They say Gallieni led the Sixth Army against the Germans and lost. But you, with only a few hundred men, defeated the Germans twice—the same German force! What does that tell you?"
Charles lowered his voice. "Father, talk like that could get me a draft notice."
Deyoka's smile vanished, replaced by a look of alarm. "You're right, Charles. They mustn't say that! This… this is ridiculous. We've done no such thing! We're only inventors, nothing more."
Charles was silent for a moment. He knew that trying to ignore it wouldn't change anything; people would continue to spread the stories, and sooner or later, the military and government would hear them too.
After a moment's thought, he spoke thoughtfully.
"No, Father. I did do those things."
"Yes. I not only did them, but I also trained troops, forced deserters back to the front, and stopped the army from collapsing."
"They returned to the fight because they heard about the tanks."
Deyoka stared blankly at him. What on earth was Charles thinking?
After a pause, Deyoka finally understood.
If denying it wouldn't work, then exaggerating the story would make it sound even more like a wild "rumor," until it became a fantastical legend no one would believe.
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