Somewhere in France.
Dec. 17., '16

Dear Mr. Aitkin

It is Sunday night once again; my second Sunday spent in France, and I have - following my invariable custom - dropped into one of the Y.M.C.A. huts on the Imperial side of the camp. Everything today is on the "blue" side. The day is dark, foggy and horribly muddy, and cold. As I write my fingers are numb so that it is difficult to hold my nice new Waterman, self-filling pen. My mountain of miseries seems very high because I have contracted a bad cold with [?] in an acute form. My nose runs, and my handkerchiefs - well, I have none with me. The summit of that mountain peak: I have had no mail since I left England; and I have had only one little Canadian mail since I left Canada, the first of November. I can tell you, that peak has no prismatic colors for me; Woe is me!

Well, what can't be cured must be endured. One misery I escaped today anyway. We have a custom in the army of calling out all the Roman Catholics for one church parade on Sunday, then about an hour afterwards all the Presbyterians - which seems to include - as one of the sergeants said - Scotchmen, Methodists, hard shell Baptists and Mohammedans. Then the Church of England men. Well this morning some of our good Canadians - again following an almost invariable custom of theirs at home - dodged the church parade and stayed in their tents. But in the army even that wont work. It isn't the same brand of religion that is served out. He rounded the whole unhappy bunch before the whole parade and put them on "fatigue" for all Sunday, which in that particular case meant scraping the mud off the roads and carrying it in pails to a slough about ¼ of a mile away. It was a very necessary piece of work, but that didn't appeal to them, poor duffers. How would it be to have a little "military religion" at Beverly, or Cantuar Lake! Tell them about it anyway, and tell them that the thing "works". You could see it on the faces of the men all today, that they were confirmed church goers for the rest of the war.

These Y.M.C.A. huts are the veritable havens of refuge for the soldiers. Not that they are evidences of any deep religious impulses amongst the men, or any religious feeling at all in the ordinary sense. You seem to find them in all the base camps both in England and France, not forgetting our beloved Canada. They extend I hear, to within a few miles of the front line trenches.

If you go to them at any time they are open, you will find them crowded to suffocation. You see, they are really the only place where a soldier can go to in this cold, wet, wintry weather. You come off parade or duty cold & wet, you go & get you rough meal, and then you can elect to go to bed, or stay around. It is only about 5.30 pm., dark and dreadfully muddy - & remember your clothes are clammy with wet, your overcoat heavy with rain, & you feel quite wet. You cannot sit still in you crowded tent, or you would be numb & your teeth would chatter; you cannot walk around in the wet mud, for probably you are footsore & weary. You might go to one of the numerous "wet canteens", & forget your discomfort in beer, but the only real alternative is to find a warm "inside" where you can sit down. It is here that the Y.M.C.A. steps in. You go into one of these "huts" where there are small tables, and if you are fortunate, you get a seat and "rest"! and for me & hundreds of thousands in France, these huts are Godsends. It is a crying shame that the military authorities do not provide something like this I sometimes think, but really, I am glad that a voluntary organization has the thing in hand. If the military authorities handled them, all "gentleness & grace" would disappear, and iron authority would have to be substituted. So I am glad that it is as it is.

The inside of the hut is very convenient for satisfying the "whole man". You can have gratis writing paper and envelopes & ink, you can sit & write letters, or borrow games, e.g. checkers or chess; you can go to the end of the hut & buy hot tea or cocoa & break or cakes, at cheap rates; & you can go to another part of the hut and attend a concert or, occasionally, a sing-song, or religious service. Thus you have just what the soldier off-duty craves.

I shall not write much more lest I incur the anger of Zeus - i.e. the Censor - and my letter will get "scrapped." Save these letters for me until after the war; if God permits me to take up my old work again they may be of use to me. Use them as you think fit in the meantime.

Give my kindest greetings to Mrs Aitkens and the children; to Forges and the rest of my friends & congregations; & with kindest wishes & prayers for yourself & your great work at home

Your affectionate friend
Thos. W. Johnson