[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/zcMtADa.png[/img][/center]

[center][h2]His Majesty's Governorate of Normandy[/h2]

[h3]Province of the Kingdom of Great Britain[/h3][/center]

[hr]

[center][h1][u]Operation: French Lion[/u][/h1][/center]

[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/TZAK4aU.png[/img][/center]

[center][h2][u]Phase Two + 1H[/u][/h2][/center]

[hr]


[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/WDJLagc.png[/img][/center]

[center][b]Capitaine Francis Desjardins, 1st Infantry Company, 1st Cherbourg Regiment.[/b][/center]

[center][b]The Road to St-Malo[/b][/center]

Capitaine Desjardins threw himself behind a decaying thicket of twisted and dying vegetation, narrowly avoiding the explosion that replaced the Warrior AFV with a smouldering ruin. 

"Bâtards!," he managed, just before tracer rounds from a Brittan machinegun nest tore through the thicket. He rolled to one side, trying to somehow escape the barrage of hot-lead. 

A couple of his comrades ran to his position, one carrying an anti-tank rifle, another a few cases of 40mm HE rounds for it. Both men were sliced in half before they'd even had a chance to duck down; the anti-tank rifle bounced over to the Capitaine. He gripped the tubular and crude weapon, throwing down his SA80 assault rifle in the process. More bullets tore at his cover, one of them nicking his left knuckles. 

"Merde!," he groaned aloud, fumbling for the weapon's firing mechanism as blood generously coated it. He pulled back the bolt, and felt a rush of relief flow through him when he saw the green coloured warhead inside. 

Rolling onto his front, he pushed the anti-tank rifle forwards, flipped up its sights and homed in on the mound of sandbags and muzzle flashes. His Ensign Battle Helmet, a pre-war relic issued only to frontline officers, started identifying the various heat signals of Brittan soldiers. There were six of them, two on the MG, one with an RPG, and the others with rifles. He depressed the trigger, and felt the harsh metal frame of the weapon smash against his right shoulder. More French profanity followed. 

The Brittain machinegun nest exploded into a brilliant firework display; the HE round literally engulfing the position in searing hot flame. He heard his men cheering, singing in French, and with that, the offensive restarted. Scores of Norman troops launched themselves from their entrenched positions, and stormed down the road. 

In the distance, Capitaine Desjardins eyed the pre-war town of St-Malo through the digital display offered to him by his helmet. From where he stood, it looked almost immaculate; untouched by the flames of nuclear warfare. But he knew that a couple of miles in that direction would tear down any illusion of peace that the seemingly sleepy French town offered. 

The 1st Cherbourg Regiment had made a lightning advance, taking the borderlands with barely a shot fired; the 1st Infantry Company was the regiment's vanguard, and had only just started running into stiff resistance. Still, so far they'd only captured a few hundred Brittans, and these men were pitiful - dressed in rags and using arms that resembled pre-war power tools, rather than weapons. 

St-Malo was almost certain to house a fully functional company, maybe even a battalion, of Brittan's best. 

And it fell to Capitaine Desjardins to lead the charge.