On the train running through Nova Scotia.
Oct. 12, '16.

Dear Mr Aitkin

I thank you for the sweater which I received safely - but it was not mine. At the same time, as soon as I got it, I put it on being sure it was mine. But just as I was all packed up in Camp Hughes another parcel came to me with another sweater. It came from Hunters' where I had written to ask if it was there. Now it was too late to send it back, so I put both on at once, & have been traveling east ever since.

By the way it is very amusing in some ways to be a soldier. We are running as I write about 40 miles from Truro in Nova Scotia, & we dont know yet where we are going. Ever since we got orders that we were to leave Camp Hughes, we understood we were going to Digby on the bay of Fundy in Nova Scotia for three weeks. Now a rumour - official enough - comes that we are going straight to Halifax where the transports are awaiting us. And we dont know which to believe. One man thinks we may go anywhere, but he is sure of one place only, & that is Hell.

However in a few hours we will know, probably by the time I get a chance to post this letter. The trip has been grand anyway, & I have enjoyed it fine.

Some of the things I hear are very funny if you have a sense of humour. As I wrote the last sentence I heard a Scotch soldier in the next seat say to a man with him "There is one damn thing sure anyway, if we get torpedoed, I shall drown as sure as Hell." It may not be the language you would use to Mrs Aitkin or in your next Sunday's sermon, but it is clear enough anyway. The combination is to say the least picturesque.

But curiously enough, half of the fun of our trip is the various receptions we get at the different towns as we pass. In Ontario we got the finest reception. Girls and women would crowd along the cars on the platform & shake hands with us through the windows & wish us good luck. Some would hand us their names & addresses written on slips of paper, others would ask us for souvenirs, others gave us candies or chewing gum. Some would trade a kiss for a badge; the result is that badges are getting scarce; one man told me that he had none left, & had started on his buttons.

When we came to Quebec province a great change took place. The stations were almost deserted while very cool receptions met our yells & wolf calls & choruses. The men would stand stolidly on the platforms & regard us with mild indifference. No one likes to be caught like that & soldiers not less than anyone else; it makes us look crazy. The result was that they are mad at them. At one place where we stopped near the St. Lawrence river, about 100 miles east of Quebec we disembarked for a little march through the town for a little exercise. The people seemed not to be able to talk English, all signs were in French. They were absolutely indifferent. As soon as we got back to the train the men were so mad that they were ready to go out again & "clean up" the whole town, it would have taken very little to make them trot out & do it. They took it out by throwing cups of water on the unwary on the platform as we moved out.

But it changed again when we got to New Brunswick where old men & women & children would come out & stand at the doors, or run to the track, as we passed, waving union jacks & waving handkerchiefs. One old man stood on the top of a high embankment at the salute & with a union jack in his left hand. His perfect stillness showed him to be an old soldier & the men went wild with enthusiasm.

The same thing happens now as we pass through Nova Scotia. It is dark, & we all watching the stations to see what towns we pass through to see whether our destination is to be Digby or Halifax.

Apart from the fun in the train, or rather, together with it, we have the beauty of the scenery. The constant change from one type to another is wonderful. From Winnipeg to the Great Lakes we have the primeval woods & rocks with a beauty of its own. Most of us are farmers - "Grain Growers" as we have written on the outside of our car - & so it was pronounced as rotten by most, but you know I am always perverse & said it was beautiful. However we all agreed that we would be glad to have about 15 acres transplanted to our farms.

The Great Lakes however were the first to make us enthusiastic. Those beautiful lakes, islands & bays, with the train winding round curves & over solid rocks & even under them, beat everything. The weather was the best that heart could wish, the colour of the leaves were magnificent. Dark green pines amongst the bright yellows & reds & light greens made a great picture in the mellow sun.

Ontario however rather disappointed me. I have heard so much about the beauty of that province from you Ontario people that perhaps I was expecting too much. The country the railway goes through is mostly rock & pine - country as rough & unsettled as that east of Tisdale in Northern Saskatchewan. But never mind, the girls made up for all the other things that were lacking.

It is too early yet to say much about Nova Scotia. New Brunswick seems to be light soil & practically unfarmed. The stories about beautiful orchards etc., seem to be mostly fake. If we saw a cow we yelled like anything. A farm house was as rare as hen's teeth. The orchards must be in some part we never saw. But of course it is only fair to say that we travelled on the Government railway, which goes around the northern part of the province.

Now I have talked only about my trip. I am hungry for news from you. How are you getting along? The worst of it is that I dont know when we shall get any mail. We are running away from it. If we stay at Digby we may get some there; if we sail we may not get any for a month. Write anyway to the old address, & perhaps it will be forwarded.

(over)

Sat. Oct. 13., '16

We have just arrived at Digby, N.S., and have just put up tents on a cliff overlooking a magnificent bay. Trees, trees of all sorts; it is fine. The only stocks are made of fish, & the crops are of apples. It is the best kind of a change.

You may use this letter as you like best, but I want you to keep it fore me until after the war. I have an idea that diaries may not be kept, but I can write letters anyway. How would it be if I wrote the experiences I wish to remember to you, and you keep them very carefully for me?

We may be at Digby two weeks or only a few days. You may write me here on the chance if you like.

Yours sincerely

Thos. W. Johnson