France, January 12, 1918

Dear Steve:

I’m marking time preparatory to going to our platoon dinner, for which I’ve been sparing my appetite all day. The boys are standing around and criticizing and finding fault with the Management of the Supper. There are the usual arm-chair critics and censurers. But withal, I feel confident that we will have at least a "good feed". I will probably tell you about it tomorrow, when I finish this letter. I got the parcel from home last night, with the kidney, and Mrs. Tom Blake’s cake. In all I got four parcels last night and am thus able to be the donor to the dinner of 5 boxes of candy, a fruit cake, some sugar and cocoa, and a couple of packets of raisins, all of which have proved, for I’ve already seen the table, a wonderful addition to the menu, and garnishment of the table. I got another parcel from Guelph from Ann & Agnes, one from Tina Baker, and one from Ryerson School, the second one the Staff have sent me. Please give my compliments to Ben Crawford for the box of cigars. They are always acceptable among the boys altho’ I’ve lost my taste for them to a very large extent. I used to smoke them very frequently and with enjoyment, but now they seem too strong. I’m afraid I’m becoming a bum, with a cigarette sticking to my lower lip.

I note your letter expanding upon Conscription and the evils of poorly administered "selective draft" scheme. Now, I would be the last one to use coercion in forcing a man to come to fight. But, we can’t get over the fact that the war must be won! And if the burden be not equally distributed voluntarily, there must be a resort made to sterner measures. I am not one that will sneer at the "Conscript". I will pity him more than the "Volunteers" seem to have found our task too big and so the man with no taste or ambition for being a veteran is forced into it. I do hope the "Selective Drafts" will not be the thin edge of the wedge for Canada is too young a country to be bled of her manhood. And abusers are found to creep in --- foreigners getting good jobs--- favoritism in soft jobs--- and so on, as frequently and almost weekly, we see it outlined in Jack Canuck.

There’s one thing I can’t understand about, and that is the way Jack Canuck knocks the YMCA. I can’t say anything but good about the "Y’s" over here. They usually have so many things distinctly Canadian, like Old Chum & Hudson Bay tobaccos, Macdonald’s chewing, Tuckett’s cigars, maple sugar, and Canadian brands of chocolate bars. They are to be found almost everywhere from the base to the front line, in all manner of places from tents to dug-outs. In those in the battle zone, you can procure free coffee and tea. I never hear any knockers among the troops especially when they are lining up some old "sap" or cellar, filling an empty milk tin with steaming tea. Then they stand around and blow on the hot liquid and swap stories or just talk & jolly each other.

You never hear many tales in the army. They usually end in arguments as to time, place, or participants. No two eye witnesses ever agree on details and they will quarrel or argue about whether Jack, Jim, or Joe, were there or not, or in what capacity they acted. Thus the thread and interest of the story is often lost.

I’m getting too cold to write, my sidekick from St.Louis has just received a parcel containing 2 suits of reindeer skin underwear. It costs $17 a suit, and is supposed to be louse proof. He offered me one of them, but I haven’t the heart to rob him at all, at all. He is a mighty good scout, none too prepossessing in appearance, but he traveled in high society in St. Louis, talking glibly but in his peculiar Southern drawling style, of debutantes, second year outs, my Club, his favorite type of car, and all things pertaining to the life of the "Upper Ten". He was prevented from graduating in his fourth year at Princeton by getting mixed up in some escapade. His name is Evans, and he is not a smart looking soldier, but is different from, and more intellectual than most. During his second trip in the line, he accompanied an N.C.O. on a dangerous mission, when few would volunteer for the duty, and for which the N.C.O. has frequently been mentioned as a deserving recipient for Military Medal. Instead of getting the M.M., the N.C.O. got a "blighty" and is now in England in Hospital.

Our billet here is in the attic of an "Estiminet" on the banks of a canal filled with dirty looking water in which we perform our ablutions when time and the spirit prompts us to wash. The attic is large, airy, and windowless. The rook is of tiles with frequent air spaces and chinks where rook and supporting walls meet. As I write, the candle flares and flickers in the draught. I’m cross-legged like a Turk or a sailor, and my feet would super induce cold in a refrigerator. My mind is a blank except for an air space through which some vapours (vapidity perhaps) of thought waves percolate, the substance of which I’m translating to you now.

I almost forgot to finish my description of the attic. It might be a fine place for Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn to plan a midsummer adventure in, but if they lived, or had lived in northern latitudes, their versatility, adaptability to conditions, and genius for escapades would have been frost bitten in such a draughty domicile as this.

Sun. Jan. 13 A.M. – Before Church - This morning we were up early before daybreak. There was a touch of frost in the air, and the mud was frozen to a stiff semi-plastic hardness. As I passed our billet, I noted in the cold and semi-darkness that a dog was chained in his kennel on the opposite side of the canal, a huge, heavy jowled, dun coloured dog. He lay there, shivering and looking out on a bleak and cheerless world. His lot I thought, was a hard one, denied as he was his freedom, freedom to romp and run. The picture touched me in a vague disquieting way. An hour later I was washing on my side of the canal and, as I rubbed the soap into a thick lather, I looked up and saw the self-same dog fast asleep with a glint of sunshine on his face. He looked the picture of peace and the atmosphere of a bright Sunday morning was tranquil. The waters of the canal looked less dark as they rippled by, where an hour ago was cold, darkness, and a dearth of comfort and happiness, there now seemed brightness, joy, peace. What a difference a little sunshine makes! The dog flicked his ears & "changed position right"; the sun rose higher and higher; hens clucked and moved about industriously; the waters almost sang; the church bells chimed in the distance and mingled with gurgling of water flowing over a nearby dam. It was a picture, pleasing and cheering, and it refreshed me more, perhaps, than my ablutions in the questionable waters of a canal flowing through the heart of a town.

Don’t think I’m wound up in giving this poorly executed sermonette. I should now point a moral as a fitting conclusion to this rhapsodizing, is so it may be termed. But you see, I still have an imagination, stultified perhaps, yet an imagination and as such, cherished even over here.

In describing our billet, I forgot to mention that across the way, there is a slaughterhouse where they butcher sheep, hogs, cattle, and horses. They seem to do a big volume of business and all day, at intervals, may be heard the squealing ofpigs, or the howling of cattle, as they await, indurance vile, the butcher’s knife, or as they are led out to be slaughtered, of their cries while in their last agonies. I like to hear familiar farmyard sounds, but, as you very well know, not under such conditions. The slaughtering of horses makes one’s flesh creep. I was over one day for water, and there were two horses tied outside. An hour later, I returned and but one remained. The other I could see, suspended gracefully by the hindquarters, skinned and dressed. It was gruesome. I believe there are special butcher’s shops where horsemeat is vended and I’m told that it has been a Government Issue since the Franco-Prussian war.

I’m nearly five months here and, as yet, I have not been issued with a hat or collar badge, as the parent unit, the 48th Highlanders of Toronto. In fact, the battn. is frequently called the 48th. We have, until the past two weeks, worn no shoulder badges but a recent issue of new design has been given us. It is something like this:

Meaning, 48th Highlanders of Canada. The diagram is a little out of balance. I made the 48 first, and then didn’t get the letters right.

I had a letter from Jim P. lately, saying he received Ma’s parcel and several letters, one announcing Ivez Switzer’s marriage. I immediately wrote offering him my sincere condolences. I don’t think he is worrying very much, as you may understand. I’ve touched on conscription before, but I must ask, did Bowman hold his seat?

And I’m curious to know how Bill Bailie & Uncle Tom are squaring up their decisions that have aroused opposition. Let me know when you write. I note that you seem to be getting on fairly well with the farm, and that crops and prospects are good. You will be able to write me often when feeding the stock that silage during the long winter. I’m sorry we are losing such a good neighbour as Anson Finlay. The lure of the west got him at last. He will be missed.

I had a letter from W.B. Hawkins in answer to one written some time ago. His wife was very sick at the time and he was very busy but seemed little changed in his letter writing style. I must write him soon- a letter of sympathy. So Bill Edwards was home for a visit. I suppose he had a big time out West. Edith’s trouble will leave the family in kind of an awkward position, as such a disaster always does. It was very unfortunate for them all, as they will feel king of "under a cloud". I was glad to hear the church news and to learn that Mr. Kenner was still hale and hearty for his age.

Miss Paterson received the L4 draft o.k., and will forward it to me when I need it, which may be soon, as being billeted in a town, runs away with money in these days of economic pressure. However, a fellow never spends much up the line and when he’s out he likes a few delicacies and extravagances. A fellow pays 3 francs for a pork chop, some chips and coffee. Eggs are half a franc apiece and a soldier’s order is rarely less than four eggs. Can you beat it? Imagine me sitting down to 4 eggs, a couple of slices of bread, and a cup or two of coffee, and then calling for an "entire encore" and walking home for supper after that! I’m laying it on thick, but I’ve done all but eat my supper afterwards.

One hardly realizes how quickly and extensively his experience widens out here. He seems to be just a human atom in a flotsam and jetsam of humanity, but as time goes on he sees more and more, and consciously or otherwise is continually gaining experience, doing new things under different conditions, receiving new impressions, and in short, gaining knowledge. The Toronto Sunday papers, for instance. In a recent issue of a Sunday World, on the picture page, was a photo of a narrow gauge railway line running past a shell torn brick wall. I can remember the identical spot, for we have been drawn past it on the railway. We don’t always walk all the way to the front line.

Our platoon dinner was a success. We had a good feed and lots of merriment, songs, music, and speeches. Our platoon Sergeant is a card. He has been out here thirty odd months and is merely Sergt. because of good work in the line. He can’t give a command – at least not in a Military way. He usually has a chew of tobacco bulging in his cheek. He is by no means smart in appearance.

The other night he was giving the orders for next morning. It was like this – "Every man must be on parade – In drill order – Clean and shaved – Harness polished – We will have close order drill – Fall in at 8.15 – I want every man right up on the palms of his feet". He droned this out in a series of drawls as it were. While occupying the chair last night in charge of the program he got up and said, "The next in the line of Bull, will be a speech by so & so". Everybody roared. His face was a study. I was in good form myself, and gave two speeches, besides moving the vote of thanks to those who had borne the burden and heat of the day in preparing and staging the dinner. In fact I seem to be getting back my old "after – dinner" style, gained at our banquets at 92 Isabella St. Toronto. I haven’t heard from Miss Porter for a long time. I guess she’s busy with boarders. I guess I’ve gone my limit. It is cold here and I have several letters I ought to write today.

It is too nice a day to be cooped up here with only a little light. It’s a wonder I’ve been able to write such a long line of B--- as our Sergt. would say. I received a big bunch of magazines lately and have lots of reading material when I get the opportunity for reading. Thank Mrs. T. Blake for the cake, and I was glad to get the parcel. There is a big mail up today, but I haven’t received my share of it yet. Give my regards to all and sundry, and to all on the "Old Homestead", my best love.

Yours in F.L. & T. Cannon