I Became a Plutocrat in World War I: Starting with Saving France-Chapter 29 The Power of Money

Fortunately, France had won. Shire’s battle plan was a success. The Fifth Army cut into the German Army’s weak flank through the Marne Bridge, leading to the complete collapse of the German First Army Group before reinforcements could arrive.

Unfortunately, Matthew was injured. This is what Major Brownie told Shire.

"Matthew was very brave!" Major Brownie said, "He drove the tank through a small path around the enemy’s rear defenses and charged into the German command post. This knocked down the first domino that led to the Germans’ retreat, and the victory expanded from there!"

"Is he badly hurt?" Shire asked anxiously.

Compared to victory, Shire was more concerned about this.

"I’m not sure!" Major Brownie replied, "I only heard that he injured his right leg. The bullet pierced through the steel plate from the side and hit the leg he uses to step on the gas. By the time I knew the details, he had already been sent to the field hospital!"

"Where is the field hospital?" Shire asked again, feeling his face go cold.

"Two kilometers in the direction of Thierry!" Major Brownie answered, "The wounded from the Fifth Army were all sent there!"

Dejoka was already heading to his Ford car. He turned his head slightly back and waved to Shire. "Come on, let’s go there!"

...

The field hospital was really just a cluster of tents set up on a grassy field, meant to provide shelter from the wind and rain for the wounded.

But the tents were far from enough to accommodate all the wounded. The injured were placed randomly on the ground, waiting for doctors to attend to them. Those with abdominal wounds, others who had lost limbs from explosions, and those with bandaged heads lying unconscious.

They were divided into several areas: the slightly injured area, the critical injury area, and the untreatable area.

No one took care of those in the untreatable area; they were the abandoned ones left there to die. The critical injury area was right next to it to facilitate moving some of them to the untreatable area.

Screams and cries of pain could be heard one after another, the air was filled with the smells of carbolic acid, pus, and blood. Flies buzzed everywhere, and occasionally a few nurses would come out of the tents with buckets full of severed limbs and skillfully dump them into a nearby pit.

Shire almost vomited as his stomach churned, but the nurse was indifferent with a numb look in her eyes, as if she had long since become accustomed to all of this.

Dejoka asked quite a few people before finding Matthew’s location. It was a single-person tent with a simple wooden bed inside. Matthew lay on it, covered with a blood-stained blanket, Joseph sitting by the bedside with a helpless look.

Matthew’s face was somewhat pale, with some bloodstains hanging on his face. His once flowing hair was now tangled with clots of blood.

Upon seeing Shire, Matthew forced a smile, pretending to be okay. "Hey, Shire, great plan. It helped us... win this... war!"

His voice was weak, and by the end, he was trembling uncontrollably. Shire knew he was enduring the pain.

Shire ignored him and walked straight to Joseph: "How is he?"

Joseph looked a bit flustered: "Nothing serious, the doctor said he needs some time to recuperate!"

However, both Dejoka and Shire could tell that this was not the truth.

Joseph led Shire and Dejoka outside the tent and then told them the truth: "They amputated his leg. He lost his right leg!"

"What?" Shire stared at Joseph in shock: "He was just brought here..."

"They had to make a quick decision and complete the surgery!" Joseph replied.

Shire understood. It was because there were too many wounded to handle. The doctors had to race against time to treat the injuries, even if some of them did not necessarily require amputation.

It was easy to imagine that if a doctor spent too much time on a major surgery for one patient, it might lead to the death of more wounded as they were left untreated.

To avoid this situation, doctors would choose to amputate whenever the injuries were severe.

(Note: During World War I, out of every 500,000 wounded soldiers, 20,000 underwent amputations, many of which were not necessarily required.)

Shire couldn’t blame the battlefield doctors. They had their reasons, and they were legitimate.

But then he felt a surge of anger building in his chest that he couldn’t release.

Shire returned to the tent and uncovered a corner of the blanket, shocked to find that the bandage on Matthew’s amputated leg was an old, stained one.

Shire couldn’t hold it in any longer. He stumbled out of the tent and shouted loudly in a questioning tone, "Doctor, where is the doctor?"

A doctor in a white coat, wearing a mask, hurried out of a tent a few dozen feet away. With his bloodstained hands half-raised, he asked in a tired but calm voice, "What happened? Does someone need emergency care?"

Shire, furious, ran up to him and pointed in the direction of Matthew’s tent. "The patient lying there, he is a war hero. He drove the tank into the enemy’s command post and won this victory for France, yet you used an old bandage on him. Do you want to kill him? Is this how you treat heroes?"

The doctor in the white coat gave Shire a calm look and replied, "Everyone here is a hero, including us! If you have a complaint, go shout at those capitalists. They haven’t given us enough medicine and equipment, nor enough manpower. We’re short of everything. What can we do?"

Shire was stunned.

The doctor in the white coat was right. This wasn’t their fault; it was the fault of those capitalists who committed these crimes to save money.

The field hospital was an unprofitable, or rather, a loss-making business.

In peacetime, it was almost useless, but in wartime, its demand would increase thousands or even tens of thousands of times.

Capitalists couldn’t possibly spend a lot of money in peacetime to maintain the scale of a field hospital. Its existence was merely to provide the French soldiers with a bit of psychological comfort to push them onto the battlefield!

However, these were people, each one a living life, warriors who sacrificed themselves to defend France!

Shire was so angry that his face turned pale. He said, "Put it on my account. Tell me what you need, I will provide the funds!"

The doctor in the white coat laughed lightly and turned to leave, complaining to the nurse beside him as he walked, "Where does this kid come from, thinking he can bear the cost of a field hospital. Doesn’t he know there are at least tens of thousands of wounded here..."

The nurse slowed down. "Dr. Hebra, I recognize him. He’s Young Master Shire, the one who invented the tank and saved France. I believe he has the ability to fund this place!"

The doctor in the white coat suddenly stopped, stunned for a moment, and then rushed back to the bewildered Shire, trembling with excitement. "You... Is what you said true? Young Master Shire, you will provide us with funds?"

"Of course!" Shire nodded.

"Fantastic!" The doctor in the white coat wanted to shake Shire’s hand but quickly pulled back upon realizing his hands were covered in blood.

"On behalf of the wounded, thank you, Young Master Shire!" The doctor in the white coat said incoherently. "You saved their lives. You are a good man, Young Master Shire!"

"Including Matthew!" Shire emphasized. "I want Matthew to be well cared for!"

"Of course!" The doctor in the white coat replied. "I’ll go check on his condition right away!"

He said, walking towards Matthew’s tent with the nurse in tow...

This is the power of money.

Although it’s unfair to the other wounded, at this moment, Shire couldn’t care less!