I Became a Plutocrat in World War I: Starting with Saving France
Chapter 137: Modified - 137 Mechanical Division

Chapter 137: Modified: Chapter 137 Mechanical Division

When Shire sought out Matthew, he was sitting in a chair, a pair of crutches stacked together against the corner of the wall. On the table in front of him was a motorcycle wheel hub, into which he was threading spokes one by one.

Matthew looked up and smiled when he saw Shire walk in, his face smeared with grime: "Hey, Shire, Mr. Dejoka, it’s so good to see you both!"

Dejoka stepped forward and asked, "Are you adjusting well to the work here?"

Matthew waved a hand around: "Oh, this is great, Mr. Dejoka, they’ve even put me in charge! We earn 50 centimes a day, which is almost the wages of a worker; what more could I ask for?"

Shire didn’t waste words and said directly, "Grab your crutches, come with me!"

"Where are we going?" Matthew asked, puzzled.

"Your father wants to see you; he has something to tell you!" Shire replied.

Matthew was incredulous, at this time?

But Matthew didn’t say anything, he grabbed his crutches and followed behind them, making jokes with Shire as they walked: "I heard you gave the Germans a good thrashing again in Ypres? I bet they’ll tremble at the sound of your name from now on!"

"Just luck!" Shire responded.

He didn’t want to talk much about this, as war easily brings unpleasant associations.

Matthew seemed to understand Shire’s reluctance, smiled, and said no more.

The orphanage was set between the motorcycle factory and the tractor factory to ease the transportation of parts that could be processed there, and returned after completion.

It didn’t take long for Shire’s party to enter the tractor factory.

Matthew’s attention was immediately drawn to a colossal machine: a massive rhomboid body, tracks encircling it, and machine gun ports protruding from its sides.

For a moment, Matthew even forgot why he came; he hobbled around it on his crutches, head full of astonishment. He turned to Shire and asked, "Is this a tank? The new tank you developed? Amazing, Shire, it’s incredible..."

"No, Matthew!" Joseph crawled out from the other side of the tank: "This is your tank!"

"Wha...what?" Matthew looked at Joseph in confusion.

"Shire intends to hire you as a mechanic!" Joseph gestured towards the tank: "Now it’s yours!"

"But...my legs!" Matthew turned to Shire with a questioning look.

"You don’t need legs to repair or replace parts, do you?" Shire asked, "Unless you don’t even have the strength to climb into this tank!"

Matthew laughed foolishly, but his smile quickly vanished, and the light in his eyes dimmed with helplessness: "I can’t step on the gas and clutch, Shire, if I can’t test drive it, I can’t repair it!"

"Why don’t you give it a try?" Shire said.

Matthew looked at Shire skeptically, then set down his crutches and attempted to climb up. Joseph wanted to help, but Shire stopped him.

Matthew didn’t need help; he needed to accomplish everything independently!

Finally, Matthew struggled into the tank and sat in the driver’s seat. When he looked down, he enthusiastically opened the hatch, stuck out half of his head, and shouted to the outside world: "You actually thought of extending the controls to the left foot? I can drive using my left foot... Amazing, Shire! Simply amazing!"

It wasn’t complicated, just required an extension rod, allowing Matthew to drive with his left foot.

When actually used or someone else tested the vehicle, the extension rod could simply be removed.

Other crew members entered the tank one after another; it rumbled to life and then noisily started moving.

Watching the "Mark I" fish through the test grounds like a fish returned to water, Shire felt Matthew’s vitality revive as if he could hear Matthew’s loud cheers inside the tank!

"Thank you, Young Master Shire!" Joseph looked at Shire, his eyes moist with tears, his voice choked: "You saved Matthew once again!"

"No, Joseph!" Shire replied, "I couldn’t find a more suitable mechanic than Matthew!"

It was the truth. Matthew had practically grown up in the tractor factory, tinkering with tractor parts as toys before he even started school. Nobody knew tractors better than he did.

And the current tanks weren’t much different from tractors!

Shire hoped Matthew wouldn’t become complacent and stagnate at the tractor level, or soon he might have to fire him.

...

At Brad Manor, autumn winds wafted through the shallow night, and a fine drizzle fell.

Once again, Francis urgently gathered a few people for a secret meeting.

Arman was quite displeased with Francis for choosing such an unseemly time; it disrupted his plans for a night "gathering." Frustrated, he lit a cigar and complained: "Everything is already settled. What are you still worried about? Next time, mind the time!"

Francis didn’t explain. He pulled out a few photos from his inner garments and threw them on the table.

Arman and Grevy picked up the photos, strange expressions dawning on their faces.

"What’s this?" Arman waved the photo at Francis.

Before Francis could speak, Grevy gravely answered, "It’s a tank. Shire’s tank!"

Arman took another look at the photos, then chuckled: "No gun barrels, it indeed lacks cannons!"

Then Arman glanced around and puzzledly asked, "Where’s Colonel Estiny? Is he not here or have you not contacted him?"

This should have been the moment for him to analyze the tank’s performance.

Grevy replied, "I contacted him. I heard he’s on vacation with his family!"

A smile of understanding spread across Arman’s face: "After all, he just made fifty thousand francs; that should be enough for him for a while!"

He tossed the photos back on the table and turned to Francis, slight scorn on his lips: "So, you think this tank without a cannon poses a threat to our tanks?"

"I’m not sure, Mr. Arman!" Francis met Arman’s gaze: "Although I don’t believe it poses a threat, Shire has already started mass production!"

"Mass production?" Arman didn’t understand what Francis meant.

Francis had to clarify further: "If his tank is entirely useless, why mass-produce it? Even at two thousand francs per tank, producing a hundred would cost two hundred thousand francs. Do you think Shire would engage in a loss-making venture?"

Francis shook his head decisively and continued: "No, he’s never made a losing deal, so this is not so simple!"

Grevy, eyes fixed on the photos, quietly listened to Francis’s analysis before concluding: "There’s only one possibility: Shire doesn’t believe our tanks can win; he believes his tank can!"

Arman thought Grevy was joking, but seeing Grevy so serious made him start to reconsider.

Francis’s face paled; he had invested all his funds into producing the new tanks. If Grevy was right, the order for four hundred tanks might cease production, with no further orders...

This would be a catastrophic blow for Francis!