Somewhere in France
Dec. 31., '16.
Dear Mr Aitkin
This is the last day of one of the most eventful years of my life; and of millions of other men's lives. Other years have seen great changes, but none has seen so many or so varied as this. Cast amongst perfect strangers; with men of widely different temperament and ideals, and that at an age when it is a little difficult to form new friendships, one would not expect to be very happy, even if the war was a picnic. Then the method of obtaining the end in view war is so widely different to any which I have always held as possible for me, that it is no wonder that I feel as if 1916 is closing in dismal clouds. And I pray God that the end of next year may see for us all a lasting peace.
And yet this great army, drawn from all the corners of the world, and from such different classes, has a great end in common, which makes its members comrades. Every discomfort is common to us all. We share alike a common danger. If one is wet through and muddy beyond recognition, so are we all. If a man is crowded in a tent so that he cannot get a night's rest, so are the odd dozen or fourteen men who share with him the same tent. If one man wakes up some night to find that lice are eating him up, every other man, despite every effort to remain singular, must within a week be a victim. If one man is footsore and weary, so that his pack and rifle seems to weigh a ton, so are his fellows. If we cannot be intimate friends, we are in very truth 'comrades'. Never was a truer proverb than "necessity makes strange bedfellows." When this war is over it will be a common thing to see a benevolent, prosperous citizen accosted in the streets by a vicious, blasphemous, drunkard, and hailed as a "comrade."
I shall never forget the first time I discovered that I was "lousy." I heard of other men say they were, but somehow I though I could not be, though we slept tight up together on the same floor. But one night I felt something, and in fear & trembling I looked over my undershirt. And, behold, another man showed me a louse there. I should not have recognized it fore I had never seen one before. My comrade killed it for me. I said nothing, but turned away and felt so sick that I could have vomited. Something seemed to say to me - like Job's wife said to him - "Curse God & die." Then came the period when in spite of shower baths and searching they grew in numbers, and my body resembled a child's with measles, and I could not sleep for long together due to the itching & biting; then I began to loathe my own body, and death ceased to have some of its terrors. Whether I shall ever be clear enough to sleep at a good home I dont know; but I am sure that I shall never feel clean enough.
New Years' day has come now, for I was tired of my own letter, and left it for a night. Today it has rained hard enough, but I feel a little more cheerful. I perhaps ought not to write about my discomforts, but then, they would not be really lifelike if I did not do so sometimes. Say that on New Year's eve I was "blue"; that will be true, and will explain why I wrote as I have.
Tomorrow we shall have been in 'la belle France' for a whole month. It has been a month of mist, of pouring rain; of isolation from my old life - for I have not had even the shadow of a letter since I landed.
It has seen one curious change in myself. I never was enthusiastic about eating. I enjoyed a well cooked & nicely served meal, but I never really entered into the matter with the keen pleasure I sometimes though I ought. It always seemed to me a great pity when a women went to a lot of trouble to serve a nice dinner. If I was hungry I ate, it didn't matter very much what it was, so long as it was clean. I knew I did not appreciate a good cook.
But now all is changed. I may have my head blown off tomorrow, but I am not worrying about that nearly so much as to whether I shall have a good dinner, and on time. The particular kind of jam I shall have is of more consequence to me than the number of Romanian prisoners taken. If by any chance the dining room doors are not opened exactly as the clock strikes twelve, I shall feel so irritated that I shall complain bitterly about the whole government conduct of the war; it will effect me far more than the loss of a battle. And I am a philosopher too! Mirabile dietu!
On the whole we feed fairly well; not just as you do at home, but fitting to the appetite we win. In the morning we have bread, tea, and maybe pork and jam. At dinner we may have "hard tack", or a terribly hard kind of biscuit, cheese, margarine and tea. For supper we may have bread, and bully beef (corned beef), or mulligan (Irish stew). Sometimes we have tinned stews, and sometimes we may have nice pudding thrown in. That is pretty good fare I think for this kind of a life. Of course all the good things may have gone, or an accident may have happened, & then you may get only hardtack and cheese without anything to drink with it. That is had, but does not occur very often. " Pork and bean" too are very popular. One of the great events to which I look forward when peace is declared is a series of first class meals.
Occasionally we have an issue of tobacco given to us. That is a treat for some, but does not effect me. Other men look forward to their smokes, but I have acquired a great taste for chocolates, cocoa, tea, cakes, etc. Isn't that strange? Mrs Aitkins always laughed at the amount of sugar I used for my tea, but no one ever accused me of liking sweet things of the cake and candy kind. Maybe the reason is that our tea has never enough sugar in for my taste, and that we so rarely get sweet things. Probably the reason is that I am always hungry and must spend my francs.
I see that Sask. has thrown out the liquor stores! Hurrah for Sask.! That is splendid. You see I get the "Daily Mail" here, which occasionally gives a few notes on far off Canada, & so I found out.
I hope everything is going on well at home; that Mrs Aitkin & the children are well, and that your ministerial work is doing fine. May God grant you His richest blessing
Yours as ever
Thos. W. Johnson.
P.S. Write me next by registered mail I may get your letter. Thos.
