Chapter 108 - The Down-and-Out Aviators

Chapter 108 - The Down-and-Out Aviators

The police station was right next to headquarters, so Charles reached it within a few steps. Expecting to introduce himself, perhaps saying why he was there, Charles prepared, since the military and police typically operated separately, even under Gallieni's wartime command.

But he soon realized introductions were unnecessary. The moment Charles entered the precinct, all bustling activity seemed to freeze, and every officer turned to stare at him. A collective gasp rose, followed by an excited scramble to get closer:

"My God, it's Charles!"

"We knew you were next door, but we couldn't go in—too many military guards!"

"It's an honor to meet you, Lieutenant! We've heard so much about you!"

Unlike the rigid military, the police operated with a more relaxed demeanor, their tasks being somewhat less urgent. Officers crowded around him, eager to shake his hand, practically overwhelming him until he managed to interject, "I'm here to see Eric…"

"Eric?" they responded, puzzled.

"The pilot," Charles clarified. "The one who flew me to Antwerp."

The officers suddenly understood and burst into chatter:

"Oh, that one! Always demanding wine!"

"He's practically made himself at home here. Can you believe he was asking for a drink after the trouble he caused?"

"Don't worry, Lieutenant. We'll keep him here until he's confessed every detail!"

Charles hoped they hadn't been too hard on Eric. Fortunately, Gallieni had intervened, ordering that they be treated properly. Gallieni likely knew they were innocent, having detained them for another purpose entirely.

Eric was held alone in a cell, curled up in the corner and snoring away. The officer unlocked the door, and Charles stepped in to rouse him. Eric blinked awake, groggy but quickly startled as he recognized Charles. "Hey, kiddo! Finally, you're here! They said I'd kidnapped you…"

"It's all sorted, Uncle Eric," Charles said with an apologetic smile. "I had no idea they'd detained you here."

Eric sighed, "So… I'm free to go?"

"Yes!"

Eric's gaze shifted behind Charles. "And what about them?"

Charles looked back, seeing several other cells filled with a motley assortment of disheveled, rough-looking men.

"Who are they?" Charles asked, puzzled.

"They're from the Carter Flying Club," Eric replied. "All brought in and questioned because of your mission."

"Flying Club? You mean, they're all pilots?" Charles looked at the bedraggled group in disbelief. They looked more like vagrants or gang members, with several sporting visible tattoos.

Were all aviators in such rough shape?

Charles had assumed Eric was an exception, but clearly, most were no better off.

To apologize for their trouble, Charles took them to the officers' mess hall and treated them to a meal. Compared to regular military fare, the officers' dining hall was luxurious. Sausages, bread, jam, and coffee were all freely available, though the aviators mostly ignored these, opting for the wine.

The main course of white bean stew with beef—a rarity for regular soldiers but served here daily—was accompanied by mashed potatoes, pizza, and fresh fruit.

The leader of the club, Carter, was a scruffy middle-aged man with a messy mane and beard, wearing a faded jacket that made him look a bit like a Viking. He was hunched over his plate, devouring his meal. As he raised his head, greasy stew dripped from his beard, shining under the lights.

Before swallowing, Carter raised his half-full wine glass and, slurring his words, toasted, "To Lieutenant Charles, cheers!"

The other aviators joined in enthusiastically:

"To Charles!"

"To the lieutenant—a true friend!"

"He's the savior of France!"

Carter, after a few sips, turned to Charles with curiosity. "Lieutenant, we heard you're planning to buy Eric's aircraft factory?"

"Yes," Charles replied.

Still full from breakfast, Charles could barely touch the food, but he sipped his coffee, considering the group's unexpected camaraderie.

His response triggered a wave of murmurs among the aviators, many of whom shot envious glances at Eric:

"Lucky guy!"

"I thought he was bluffing. It's true?"

"Eric's going to make a fortune!"

Eric, grinning, raised his glass to everyone with smug satisfaction.

Carter, however, offered a wry smile, gesturing at the men around him as he cautioned Charles. "I hope you're thinking carefully, Lieutenant. Look at us—if you buy that factory, we're the kind of customers you'd get."

Eric shot Carter an irritated glare, clearly displeased with his comment. The group chuckled, but the laughter held an edge of bitterness, revealing their hardships.

Charles paused, trying to piece together why aviators were struggling so much.

After all, what could pilots do in this era?

Transport cargo? Not very practical with such limited space and capacity; fuel costs alone would outweigh profits.

Passenger flights? Even assuming the safety risks, a two-seater plane could only carry one passenger.

And as for combat? Without machine guns or bombs, reconnaissance was all they could do. Even that was often overshadowed by cheaper, more durable observation balloons.

As a result, flying remained a passion rather than a viable profession—much like early writers pursuing careers before earning fees, investing time and resources without much return. Eventually, even those from middle-class families would fall on hard times, ending up like the men before him.

Charles couldn't resist asking, "How much do you all make each month?"

Carter chuckled, then pointed to the aviators, calling out names one by one: "Belmondo?"

"I earn about 20 francs a month," Belmondo replied, lifting his glass. "But that's only if I don't need repairs. If something breaks, I'll go hungry."

"Lucchini?"

"I'm a bit better off, Lieutenant," Lucchini said, standing up. "I make 25 francs a month, but only because I have a contract delivering urgent military dispatches."

"Cornelius?"

A skinny, frail-looking man, Cornelius stood up with a shaky grin, his belly now rounded from the feast. "I… I haven't had any income in two months—no money to repair my plane."

He hiccuped, then nodded gratefully at Charles. "Thank you, Lieutenant. It's been a long time since I've had a meal like this."

Charles felt a pang of sympathy for these men. In the future, they would be celebrated as the "darlings of the skies," yet now they were barely scraping by in poverty, their aircraft dreams grounded by hardship.

As he sat in contemplation, a messenger approached him.

"Lieutenant, the general requests your presence."

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