LIFE ENTRENCHED.
Ranma Saotome, age 26; husband to Akane Tendo, father of three. It was a shame he had to go, off to war that is. He had tried to stay out of it, but as troops ran low, conscription came into effect. Previously, Ranma had lived in a decent sized tenement located in Glasgow. Now he stood, mud up to his knees, in a trench along the center of France.
Shivering in the chill, he stood to attention, his commanding officer taking role call. When it came his turn, he shouted as the others did;
"Present Sir!"
Once the morning routine was complete, he sat back in his small dug-out, waiting for breakfast to come from the supply trench. Ranma pulled out his wallet, three centimes falling into the mud.
'Some use they were." He thought. 'In a place like this, rags nor riches makes any bloody difference."
Ranma opened the dirty leather item and rummaged around. He pulled out a small photo, the only one he had time to get developed before being sent off, of his wife.
After an eternity the food came, soup and a bacon sandwich. Underfed, they were not, but they were bored of the monotony of the food.
Ranma looked down at his wrist watch, noticing only fifteen minutes had passed since role call.

The year is 1917, war is devastating Europe. Many a man lost, many a bad decision made. Swathes of men, torn to pieces by shrapnel and explosions, maimed by barbs and blades, ripped open by streams of metal flying through the air. It is a brutal time. A group of immigrants to the United Kingdom from Japan in 1823 most obviously have descendants, and those descendants are fighting in this bloody war...

Chapter: 1. A small-big push.
The unit Ranma served in had received orders recently, from General Haig himself. Somehow, though his strategies were so outdated and the factor of his own egotistical, yet incompetent wager was in play, he retained his command. They were to attack the opposing trench on their own, under the constant shelling, to look like an rouge, yet patriotic unit. This was to distract a portion of the German trench and allow a mish-mash Welsh/Scottish mining unit to place mines under the enemy trench. This sounded like a viable tactic, and to a certain extent it was; however one had to keep in mind, crossing the churned earth of no-man's land, both above and below ground, and the threat of being struck by an artillery shell of either side's.
Breakfast had been bad, Ranma decided, as had lunch and dinner. Though, with more than half a million mouths to feed, he didn't exactly expect a gourmet level of cooking. Ranma looked at his watch. Quarter past eight. Fifteen minutes til they went over the top, fifteen minutes til suicide. Shells were raining down only a handful of miles away, possibly hitting their target, most likely not. He looked to his left, seeing a gruff young man with unruly blood red hair. This man's name was Daisuke Niwa. Ranma had grown up with him, they were as close as brothers. He gave a reassuring nod, but said nothing, as they both knew the storm that was to come very well. Ranma then looked to his right. This time, a young boy stood in his line of sight, no more than fifteen. He was scrawny and not very good in a fight, freezing up in danger, scared of his own shadow. His name, Shinji Ikari. None of the troops new much about him, they either didn't care, or couldn't get him to talk if they did.
"C'mon kid" Ranma started "Breath, relax, we're gonna need all the troops we can get for this next attack"
"...Right..." came the reply.
Ranma sighed, he would have to look out for that kid.
Commander Zaraki strode up, drawing his sword as he did so. The blade was chipped heavily, tattered with the scars of battle. His face too, was scarred, left looking ragged and broken. But that man was far from broken. He loved war, battles and killing, it gave him a thrill. Zaraki began to speak.
"We don't have much time, so I'll make this quick. This operation will be key to winning this war. We need to succeed, so keep your eyes front and your head low, keep focused and do your part well. The barrage has just stopped, we're leaving."
Commander Zaraki moved towards the ladder over the parapet.
"Draw bayonets!" he shouted.
Every soldier in the unit did so mechanically, with the exception of Shinji. He fumbled and nearly stabbed himself in the eye.
"Ready them on your rifles!"
Even Shinji managed this fairly easily.
Commander Zaraki reached into his pocket, rummaging around for something. After a few seconds his efforts were rewarded, a silver whistle now in hand. He put it to his mouth and blew loudly.
One by one they climbed the ladder, each aware that they might not come back.
It came Ranma's turn after a few minutes. Going over the top was never easy, nor did one get used to it. Ranma felt a jolt of adrenaline and fear every time he went up, and by sheer luck, each time he came back alive. He placed his hands on the ladder and hauled himself up, his subconscious telling him all the while, to stay put and in cover. Ranma reached the top of the parapet after a seconds struggling, mud from nearby explosions showering him. The sky was dark tonight, the moon invisible, hidden by the smog of a thousand guns. However, they were not hard of sight, their path lit by fire and explosions.
They were all up, trudging through the mud. The land before them was scarred, dark and desolate. The mud was was soft and slippy, causing many men to lose their balance, often being shot while steadying their feet. All around was the smell of death and disease, the rattle of gunfire and boom artillery, an orchestra from the angel of death. From somewhere around came a loud whistling, and several clanging noises as some metallic objects hit the ground.
"Is that the Commander's whistle, we've only just come up!" Daisuke said, concerned.
"That's no whistle. They're five-nines. Gas! Boys! GAS!" Ranma cried, reaching for his mask.
The unit fumbled as a plume of white billowed from all around. Ranma got his mask on fine, as did Daisuke and most of the other troops, apart from Shinji. He began to writhe as he inhaled the chlorine, coughing bile and blood as he gargled.
"We're gonna have to leave him!" shouted a voice from behind.
"Alright! Who said that!" Daisuke yelled in return.
A young man, supposedly, as only men were allowed in the army, but there were doubts, approached.
"The name's Soi Fon sir!"
The young man was short, and had a very feminine face and physique, so much so that he could have been mistaken for a girl. A dainty waist, thin arms and legs, and a shapely, symmetrical face did not quite fit in with the rest of the other soldiers. To be short and blunt, he was pretty, beautiful even.
"Well, listen up Fon. I'm your superior. I don't want to sound like an egotistical bastard, but you'll obey my orders. I'm not leaving anyone behind. If he dies on the way, so be it. Get his mask on him, and pick him up, we're going!"
Soi Fon knelt and looked over the boy struggling on the ground, wincing at the ungodly sound he made. He stepped towards him, full now, of guilt at his insensitivity. Soi Fon pulled Shinji's gas mask from his pack and fixed it to his head. He hauled the boy onto his shoulders, feeling a warm mixture of blood and phlegm trickle down his back, leaking from under the mask.
And on they trudged, as ill prepared as they were, to walk for several miles in hopes of reaching the opposite trench alive...

Thanks for reading. I think this may be my most grammatically correct fanfiction as of yet. Thank you once again, and see ya in the next chapter.