I Became a Tycoon During World War I: Saving France from the Start

Chapter 121: The First Flying Squadron

The "machine gun synchronization gear" was actually invented in 1915 by a French pilot named Garros. Originally called the "machine gun deflector system," it was rudimentary—using triangular steel plates affixed to the propeller blades, paired with a simple device connected to the engine shaft to minimize bullets hitting the propeller. If a bullet did strike, it would deflect off the steel plate, essentially stopping bullets with brute force.

When Garros's aircraft was later captured by German forces, they improved upon his system, shifting from "engine shaft synchronization" to "propeller synchronization" for greater precision. This refinement marked the true beginning of aerial combat in World War I.

As a businessman, Charles might have been wiser to invent the original "deflector system" instead of jumping straight to the more advanced "synchronization gear." However, bullets deflecting off steel plates could still ricochet, potentially damaging the engine or killing the pilot. Since pilots were a rare resource, Charles opted for the safer, more advanced solution.

Back at headquarters, Charles resumed his usual duties alongside Colonel Fernand, organizing intelligence—a routine part of his role. But he had barely settled in when Gallieni issued a surprising command: "Fernand, your team will help Charles establish an independent command center."

"Yes, General…," Fernand responded, his voice slowing with disbelief. "Assist Charles?" He glanced over at Charles, who appeared equally puzzled.

"Did you not hear me?" Gallieni repeated firmly. "Charles needs his own command center."

"But, General…," Charles asked, uncertain, "who am I supposed to command?"

"The flight club," Gallieni answered without missing a beat. "If I recall, you're the one who recruited those pilots. You know them best."

"But I'm only a lieutenant…" Charles objected.

"I don't care about rank, only ability," Gallieni interrupted, not lifting his eyes from the papers in front of him.

"I—I don't have command experience, General," Charles stammered.

This time Gallieni looked up, a glint of humor in his eyes. "No experience? Are you not the only person to have successfully commanded air combat operations? Or did I remember that wrong?"

Charles remembered: in Antwerp, he had indeed led the Belgian air squadron to down a Zeppelin and destroy a "Big Bertha." That was technically the first instance of air combat in this era, even if it hardly felt like an official battle to him.

Gallieni ignored his discomfort and turned to the assembly of officers. "If anyone has any objections, now is the time to raise them."

Each officer responded, one by one:

"No objections, General!"

"Charles has the ability to command."

"We will follow his orders."

Gallieni raised an eyebrow at Charles. "War doesn't give us time to prepare, Lieutenant. The First Flying Squadron has been established, and you are its commanding officer. They deploy to Ypres this afternoon."

Charles stood frozen, struggling to process it all. As a lieutenant, he was now tasked with leading Paris's newly formed First Flying Squadron, made up of fresh-faced lieutenants and ensigns. His staff would include Colonel Fernand and several other officers, including a major, three captains, and two lieutenants—alongside a dedicated radio and three communications specialists. The weight of his role struck him fully, especially with Colonel Fernand now as his subordinate.

"Relax, Lieutenant," Colonel Fernand said quietly, sensing Charles's unease. "This isn't unusual in the army. I've been preparing for this day for a while now."

Fernand's reassurance was partly true. He had indeed anticipated that Charles, with his skill and acumen, would one day rise above him—a prospect he embraced with pride. However, he had never expected it to happen so quickly.

"Yes, Colonel," Charles replied, though his mind was still whirling.

As Charles struggled to adjust, a pair of firm hands clapped down on his shoulders and pushed him forward to the map spread out on the table. It was Gallieni, speaking in a low, steady voice:

"Forget about ranks, officers, and titles—they don't matter here. You only need to focus on one thing: you're on the battlefield, with planes at your command. Figure out how to defeat the enemy."

Charles's mind clicked into place. What mattered was the battlefield itself—not Colonel Fernand or the other officers with higher ranks. His real adversary lay outside.

Regaining his composure, he laid out his plan: "I need a location about 30 kilometers from Ypres, with flat terrain and good access."

Colonel Fernand immediately directed the task: "Gérard, find that spot!"

"Yes, sir!" Gérard scanned the map and found it within two minutes. "Roesbrugge. It's 35 kilometers from Ypres and two kilometers from a train station."

"Roesbrugge it is," Fernand repeated the name, sealing the decision.

"Deploy an engineering unit," Charles continued. "They'll need to set up a temporary airfield there and mark it clearly on the map."

Fernand assigned the task, coordinating with confidence. "Michael, coordinate with the engineers."

Charles moved smoothly to his next requirement. "I need Vickers machine guns—at least 100, with 2,000 rounds per gun."

Fernand pointed at another staffer. "Contact the British. Make it quick!"

"We'll also need Congreve rockets and fuel—enough for 30 aircraft for three days. Send 200 rockets and detonators to…" Charles hesitated, unfamiliar with the foreign name.

"Roesbrugge," Fernand filled in, quickly marking the location. "Our temporary airfield."

"Yes," Charles affirmed, "and ensure it's transported covertly so the enemy isn't alerted."

Fernand repeated the order, taking detailed notes. "Covert transport. Understood."

Gallieni watched, clearly pleased. He had always known that Charles was a natural leader.

Just then, a radio operator interrupted, addressing Gallieni: "General, Parliament is requesting your presence for a special session this afternoon."

Gallieni's expression soured. "Those fools! Do they think France has already won the war? They choose this moment to question us?"

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