I Became a Plutocrat in World War I: Starting with Saving France-Chapter 907: Young Master Shire
Even though it was a sunny day, the sky over Davaz Town remained gray and a foul stench lingered in the air, emanating from the factory fumes and wastewater discharged into the Seine River.
The car couldn’t avoid it either; as soon as the windshield wasn’t wiped for a moment, it would instantly be covered with a thin layer of dust.
Shire looked through the car window at the rows of factory buildings on either side of the road. The once sunny hometown no longer existed, even the snow had turned gray-black.
However, during wartime, factories were almost a matter of life and death for the country; at such times, no one would care about these things.
The car slowly stopped in front of Dejoka’s small house.
Across the street, a wounded soldier was undergoing rehabilitation training in the snow. He had lost a leg and was struggling forward on crutches with the help of his mother, leaving a line of footprints and small holes in the snowy ground.
When Shire stepped out of the car, the mother whispered, "Oh, God, it’s Shire!"
The soldier stopped, slowly turned around, stood straight, and saluted Shire from several meters away. He nearly fell over but his mother helped him regain his balance just in time.
Shire returned the salute, his gaze lingering on the soldier for a moment, nodding slightly as if in encouragement or praise.
The soldier’s eyes involuntarily blurred. He stood there for a long while and didn’t turn to leave on his crutches until Shire entered the house.
Camille welcomed Shire inside, glanced at the soldier’s figure outside the door, and asked Shire, "Didn’t you recognize him?"
"What?" Shire was taken aback. Did he know him?
"He was your classmate, Shire." Camille reminded him, "His name is Aleksey, just a year older than you. His father was the blacksmith at the end of the street."
Shire gave an "oh" of recognition.
As soon as the blacksmith was mentioned, Shire remembered. He always went there to get his bicycle repaired, and Aleksey usually didn’t charge him; he would always secretly tell Shire, "I’ll fix your bike, you help me with my homework, deal?"
"Deal!" Shire said, "But only once."
"But your bike broke two spokes," Aleksey protested.
"Alright, twice," Shire conceded reluctantly.
Their fists met with a tacit understanding; this wasn’t the first time.
...
Shire felt deeply ashamed for not recognizing Aleksey earlier, mistaking him for just another wounded soldier.
"Should I go see him?" Shire hesitated.
As a classmate, a neighbor, or a General?
Would his status as a General make Aleksey uncomfortable?
"No." Camille closed the door and walked towards the kitchen, smiling, "Don’t worry about them; they’re doing well."
"Doing well?" Shire asked, confused.
Camille came out carrying an apple pie, always worried Shire wasn’t eating enough while away: "You understand, not everyone gets to come back alive. Every day they are grateful and thankful."
Shire was stunned. He never thought to associate injury with "gratefulness" or "thankfulness."
But upon reflection, this might be the harsh reality.
Compared to families who only received a notification of death, they indeed were lucky!
The image of Aleksey on crutches lingered in Shire’s mind, even as he ate the apple pie, laden with a sense of sorrow and melancholy.
At that moment, there were two knocks on the door. Colonel Laurent, draped in his coat, returned. He stood outside in the snow, reporting to Shire through the door: "General, it’s the Minister of Military Supplies and the Minister of War; they wish to speak with you."
Davaz Town was a protected area, inaccessible without credentials; even the Minister of Military Supplies and the Minister of War were no exception.
Camille, slicing fruit in the kitchen, turned to Shire in surprise. Minister of Military Supplies, Minister of War? It seemed there were no such titles in France.
Shire explained, "It’s the English Minister of Military Supplies and the American Secretary of War, Mom."
The explanation only made Camille more puzzled.
The English Minister of Military Supplies and the American Secretary of War?
Rushing here to meet Shire?
As Camille was still processing it, Shire stood up, opened the door, and impatiently told Laurent, "Bring them to the office building; have them wait in the conference room for me!"
"Yes, General." Laurent took the order and left.
Shire closed the door and turned back, seeing Camille standing like a wooden statue in the kitchen, holding a fruit knife.
"What’s the matter?" Shire asked.
"You, they..." Camille stammered, "What urgent business do they have with you?"
"Nothing urgent," Shire replied calmly, seating himself again to continue enjoying his meal, or rather, his snack, having lost the habit of regular meals due to his military life.
"Shouldn’t you, you know, go see them first?" Camille asked again.
"No need," Shire protested, "I’m not full yet!"
He much preferred Camille’s apple pie to the savory pies from Lorraine.
"But they are the Minister of Military Supplies and the Secretary of War, Shire." Camille said in disbelief, "Can you really keep them waiting just like that? I mean, wouldn’t that be neglecting them..."
"Mom," Shire shook his cape, revealing his General’s uniform underneath.
"Alright!" Camille shrugged and returned to cutting her fruit.
It’s me who hasn’t adjusted to Shire’s status; he’s already a big figure now.
Give me some time, I’ll adapt!
But this is too fast, isn’t it?
Two years ago, Shire had just joined the military. What was his rank back then?
Lieutenant?
Yes, a Lieutenant.
Rising from a Lieutenant to a Vice Admiral didn’t seem difficult, and Shire had been a Vice Admiral for some time now!
...
The office building of the tractor factory had the conference room on the third floor, at the end of the corridor.
Upon hearing that the English Minister of Military Supplies and the American Secretary of War had arrived, Dejoka hurriedly went personally to host them.
"Would you care for something?" Dejoka asked cautiously, having never entertained officials of such rank before: "Coffee or wine?"
"Coffee, please." The Minister of Military Supplies sat down, rubbing his nearly frozen hands and glancing discontentedly at the fireplace.
"Sorry about that." Dejoka quickly explained, "The conference room is rarely used; the fire was just lit and will warm up soon."
As he spoke, he gestured for the staff to prepare hot coffee.
Beck nodded with interest, observing the surroundings: "Does the Vice Admiral usually have meetings here?"
"Oh, no." Dejoka responded nervously, "Shire is rarely here; he’s mostly in the office but doesn’t come by often either."
The sitting Minister of Military Supplies turned his head in confusion towards Dejoka: "What do you call the Vice Admiral?"
Dejoka didn’t understand what he meant by that. He hesitated before replying: "I call him Shire, is there a problem?"
The Minister of Military Supplies burst into laughter, "Is Shire always this casual with his employees?"
"Indeed, very casual," Dejoka nodded, "The staff always calls him Young Master Shire."
He suddenly realized: "I call him Shire because he’s my son!"
The Minister of Military Supplies and the Secretary of War were taken aback; in front of them was Shire’s father?
