While Johnson didn’t speak a lot of his war experience, he left behind a poem in his diary, written in his own hand, entitled The Song of the Trenches.

Over the head in the trenches lads Up to the knees in grime Squatting around in our hole in the ground Singing to pass the time The only encore is the cannon’s roar While we wait for the word “Advance” To strike a blow at our country’s foe On the muddy fields of France There are those whom we left behind us Who wish they’d been born men Who’d wish he were young again To share our lot in the trenches Right glad to have a chance Of striking a blow at our country’s foe On the muddy fields of France. Gathered here in the trenches We’re a rankless jolly lot Distinctions all have perished Of the past there is no thought The parson with a pedigree And the miner from the pit They’re just humble “Tommy Atkins” now What matter if they’re fit To do a spell in the trenches In cold and slush and grime While those at home remember them In their prayers every time Through the mud is our way to glory And our victory ‘twill enhance When we get a blow at our hidden foe On the muddy fields of France

There are some of those in the homeland Who seem afraid to fight They entrench themselves on conscience And say it isn’t right These would seem to have been revivals The thing has gone so far Have they never read what

the Book has said “The Lord is a man of war” Only last night beside me A brave young soldier fell Struck down by a German bullet From where we could not tell His khaki coat lay o’er him Till borne from our view But that patch of red to his countrymen said “My life I have given for you” He was only a private soldier But he did his duty there And somewhere back in the homeland There’s another vacant chair Some mother’s heart will miss him And a sweetheart’s tears may flow But the noise and din of battle He never again will know Long months he had spent in the trenches In cold and slush and grime He was ever a jovial spirit With a smile that was quite sublime The mud be his measure of glory He has made his last “Advance” From the wet and the grime of the trenches And the muddy fields of France Over the head in the trenches Up to the knees in grime Squatting around in our hole in the ground Singing to pass the time We are not downhearted, no But waiting the word “Advance” To strike a blow at a dastard foe On the muddy fields of France