Internet Archive: Too Hot for Comfort - the War Years in China 1938-50
Revd Bill Ream arrived in Hong Kong in 1938 and in 1940 was assigned to the Wa Ying Boys’ School as chaplain and English teacher. The school moved to Shatin in September 1940.
8 December 1941 - The Battle for Hong Kong
On 8th December 1941, as Japan attacked across the Pacific, Ream heard air‑raid sirens and bombs falling on Kai Tak airfield. There was shock, confusion, and a sudden shift from normal missionary work to emergency survival.
He joined the school’s evacuation to Kowloon, each person carrying what they could. Later that morning, with roads still open, they hired lorries to recover books, food, and even his two dogs from the school. That night, fearing Japanese reprisals, the staff burned all books and papers that might offend the occupiers. Ream reflected on how hard it was to burn them and on his naïve belief that Hong Kong would never fall — a view his colleagues, seasoned by earlier experiences in Canton and Fatshan, wisely left unchallenged.
Blackouts began immediately; civilians crowded into shelters; rumours spread faster than information.
‘The next day’ (not clear which day this was, as according to other accounts, the last ferry was on the 11th), Ream took the ferry across the harbour and, like many other missionaries, offered his services to the Medical Department. Later that day, the ferries were stopped, effectively cutting him off from returning to the school.
He was stationed at Queen Mary Hospital and teamed up with Jack Johnston, a New Zealand Presbyterian minister. They were put on transport with a Chinese driver. With Hong Kong under siege, Ream’s team supplied first‑aid posts and relief hospitals on the island with urgently needed goods, often under bombing and mortar fire. With banks closed and no cash available, he issued handwritten credit notes on behalf of the Medical Department, which Chinese merchants accepted and which were later honoured in full — proof of their trust and the government’s integrity.
On one mission to collect rice from a waterfront godown, he found a wounded British Fire Brigade officer guarding the stockpile with a revolver, directing lorries while keeping looters at bay. The officer’s calm courage under Japanese observation impressed Ream deeply; he later met him again in Stanley Camp and remembered him as one of the war’s unsung heroes.
As the Japanese assault on Hong Kong intensified, the surrender of the colony became inevitable. Rumours circulated that Chinese forces would come to the colony’s aid, though Ream recognised this as unlikely after Canton’s fall. With no air or naval support, the few outdated RAF planes had been destroyed, and the remaining ships barely escaped. Japanese aircraft and naval units surrounded the colony, whose coastal guns faced the wrong direction for defence against land attack. Only days before the invasion, 2,000 Canadian troops — the Winnipeg Grenadiers and Royal Rifles — had arrived, ill‑equipped and unfamiliar with the terrain, the Canadians suffered heavy losses, and Ream later buried several of them. Alongside the Middlesex Regiment and local volunteers, they formed the garrison.
Shells landed in residential districts, fires broke out, and the growing sense was that the colony was being squeezed from all sides.
10 December
Essential services began to fail; food became harder to obtain; news of the sinking of Prince of Wales and Repulse deepened despair.
12 December
The Japanese had gained full control of Kowloon on the far side of the harbour. They shelled the island daily from that position, starting precisely at 8.00 a.m. and finishing at 17.00 or 17.30.
Ream and his team found a Chinese man wounded by shellfire and were refused treatment for him at a private hospital — a moment that taught them the painful necessity of prioritising relief work over individual casualties.
The lesson struck harder when a colleague, Methodist minister Eric Moreton — one of two English Methodist ministers serving in Hong Kong — was fatally wounded by a shell that tore off part of his right arm while he was serving as chaplain. Ream commented on the cruelty of war.
In contrast, he recalled a later incident when an ambulance carrying nurses narrowly escaped Japanese shelling near the Naval Dockyard — a small shell struck the road ahead, damaging the vehicle but leaving everyone unharmed.
13 December
By evening, all British forces had evacuated to Hong Kong Island — the siege began.
14 December
The Japanese sent a launch across the harbour under a white flag. They called upon the new governor, Sir Mark Young — who had arrived only a few weeks earlier — to surrender, but the offer was refused.
17 December
The Japanese sent another launch across the harbour under a white flag. The governor again refused to surrender.
Ream was assigned to clear and maintain the overcrowded Queen Mary Hospital mortuary, now filled with civilian and Canadian dead. With Chinese labourers from the Emergency Burial Centre, he managed the burials until Japanese shelling made the cemetery inaccessible, forcing them to bury bodies wherever they could.
The telephone system still worked, allowing him to report daily totals.
18 December
At night, the Japanese landed men at North Point to the east of the city. They were seen coming in boats by Revd Bert Alton, assistant minister of the English Methodist Church, who was there collecting coal for the Nethersole, the London Missionary Society hospital. He phoned Army Headquarters but was told he was imagining things. Fighting continued on this part of the island.
22 December
The Chinese labourers went on strike because of the conditions and lack of pay; Ream pacified them with a lump‑sum payment and rice rations. That day, they dug graves at the University Sports Council Ground, and later at Bethany, an evacuated Roman Catholic seminary, where trenches were cut into the rocky soil. Ream met Captain Diggens, the army’s burial officer, to coordinate efforts — a grim partnership he remembered when they met again after the war.
As the siege worsened, Ream saw exhausted Chinese civilians coming from Aberdeen and isolated British and Canadian soldiers, with the Japanese close behind.
23 December
Ream noted in his diary that he had become “transport man, undertaker, coal heaver, grave digger, parson and stretcher bearer.” He conducted a brief burial service for a medical student’s wife at the University Sports Field — the only time he knew whom he was burying.
People gathered what supplies they could, knowing that surrender was imminent. The atmosphere was one of grim resignation mixed with fear of what Japanese occupation would bring.
25 December 1941 — “Black Christmas”
Christmas Day was a day never to be forgotten. Ream recalled the day’s exhaustion and absurdity — rumours of Japanese troops approaching, and Mr Anslow, the hospital stores officer, preparing to issue chastity belts to nurses. Ream wondered how many hospitals kept chastity belts in their storerooms.
A Christmas dinner with plum pudding was provided by the kitchen staff. Then came sudden silence after days of bombardment. At about 4 p.m., when Ream called at the Ellis Kadoorie First Aid Post, a telephone call came through to say the British had surrendered.
When the surrender was announced, he helped evacuate the First Aid Post to King’s College before returning to Queen Mary Hospital. White sheets hung everywhere as the news spread instantly. At the hospital, staff listened to the BBC Overseas Service, which announced that Hong Kong’s defence continued. In reality, the surrender was unconditional. Civilians were stunned — angry, bitter, ashamed, and questioning whether Hong Kong should have been defended at all. Gradually, bitterness gave way to acceptance of harsh realities. The evacuation from the mainland had been orderly, but on the island, chaos soon followed.
Ream felt deep sympathy for the army and later for the wives and mothers in the internment camp — those who endured years of uncertainty, starvation, and overcrowding. History books could describe it, but only experience could convey its reality.
Ream felt he must say something about the atrocities, and named others who had gone into detail. In the camp at Stanley Peninsula, Japanese soldiers arrived on Christmas morning. The doctors who met them were shot, and many wounded patients were killed. One nurse recalled that five English nurses were confined with Chinese women; the latter were assaulted first. Three of the English nurses were taken away and never seen again. The remaining two were thrown onto mattresses and left for the night.
26 December
There was blood everywhere. Under the mattresses at Stanley lay the bodies of Chinese women, some wearing St John’s Ambulance badges. At dawn, the surviving nurses tended the wounded and discovered the bodies of Colonel Black, Captain Whitney, and several murdered English nurses.
The Stanley incident was horrific. Later war‑crime trials claimed Japanese officers had lost control of their men, but looting, rape, and murder occurred widely, directed at both Chinese and foreigners. The Japanese army lacked trained men and coherent plans, leading to chaos and suffering reminiscent of Nanking.
Ream’s grave diggers failed to show up, and Ream and his colleague had the very unpleasant task of burying five Canadians killed by a grenade.
Despite the horror, life in Hong Kong revived quickly. Streets filled with hawkers selling salvaged goods, shops reopened, and people cautiously resumed daily routines amid the ruins. Japanese soldiers confiscated watches and pens, took joyrides in abandoned cars, and one crashed a van near Queen Mary Hospital — walking away unhurt.
Life at the hospital continued as normally as possible despite shortages of food and oil. After the surrender, Japanese troops occupied nearby quarters but left the staff largely alone. Later, a guard of fifty‑one soldiers was billeted in the doctors’ flats, prompting the staff to destroy alcohol to prevent drunken violence. Work outside the hospital went on.
They visited relief hospitals, made Red Cross armbands, and travelled by ambulance. Ream learned two Japanese words — Buin ikimas, “I am going to the hospital” — and found that politeness and a bow often ensured safety.
By late December, the medical team gained official permits for petrol, thanks to Dr Selwyn-Clarke, the respected Director of Medical Services. The Japanese wisely allowed him to continue his work, and he relocated to the French Hospital, operating from neutral ground under Vichy France.
28 December
Ream set out with Selwyn‑Clarke to find two missing Auxiliary Nursing Sisters last seen at Lyemun Barracks, now occupied by Japanese troops. Acting as interpreter and hoping his Cantonese would be understood by Japanese who had been in China for some time, they travelled along the coast road under a special permit for water‑supply repairs. At the barracks, they saw bodies of British soldiers left unburied, and Japanese sentries refused them entry.
Ream struggled to explain to the Japanese officer that they were there to bury the dead, resorting to gestures until he was understood. Allowed to proceed, they searched the barracks, noted the bodies, and called out in English, hoping the missing nurses would reply. None did, but the bodies were later properly buried. Days afterward, the two nurses reached Repulse Bay safely and joined other captives at the hotel there.
Soon after, the Japanese staged a grand Victory March through the city — planes dropped leaflets, flags were handed out, and crowds watched in silence. The cry of “Banzai!” rang out, along with “Ten thousand years for the New Order in East Asia,” though the Chinese quietly reckoned it would last only a few years — and they were right.
4 January 1942
In the evening, notices went up ordering all British, American, and Dutch civilians to assemble at Murray Parade Ground at 9.30 a.m. the next day. About 1,500 men, women, and children were herded into filthy Chinese hotels and brothels, crammed into tiny cubicles without windows or electricity. Sanitation was appalling — two toilets served 150 people — and food was scarce for two days. Hotel managers exploited the desperate, selling scraps at high prices.
21 January 1942 — Stanley Camp
For sixteen days, the captives lived under guard by renegade Indian soldiers before being marched to the waterfront and sent by boat round to Stanley. Others from the Peak and University areas were rounded up and taken there as well.
At Queen Mary Hospital, they had been left very much on their own. On 21 January, they were rounded up and told they could pack one suitcase each. Ream and others managed to take blankets as well, and they were bussed by coach to Stanley.
They were amused to find Americans arriving with far more — bringing books from the American Club and several fridges, later given to the medical staff.
Stanley Camp lay on the south side of the island, between Stanley village and the barracks. It included St Stephen’s Boys’ School, staff bungalows, flats for European warders, and Indian quarters around a village green. The hospital occupied the former Indian Warders’ building overlooking Tweed Bay, with nurses housed on the upper floor.
Remains from the atrocities at St Stephen’s relief hospital, previously rounded up and burned, were buried respectfully in the camp cemetery by an advance party, each with a simple service. As deaths continued, a communal coffin was built for re‑use, ensuring dignity even in hardship.
By late January, about 2,500 people crowded into Stanley Camp. The advance group, given only spades, cleared debris and numbered rooms, but chaos reigned as internees arrived. Families and mothers with children were eventually given priority, though space was scarce — rooms packed with camp beds and barely room to move.
Ream shared a room with Jack Johnston from Queen Mary Hospital in the European warders’ blocks, but they soon gave it up for families and slept on corridor floors.
The next night, he and Harold Smyth (the Cheung Chau country‑dancing master) bedded down on the stone floor of St Stephen’s Prep School. Later, he joined Mr Anslow to help with stores and odd jobs around the camp.
The camp, surrounded by barbed wire and guarded successively by Chinese, Indians, and in 1944, Formosans, proved healthy and cool — conditions credited to Dr Selwyn‑Clarke’s insistence.
A small cemetery within the camp offered peace among trees, containing graves of early settlers. Despite hardship, at the end of the war the death rate was found to be no higher than in an ordinary English city — a testament to endurance amid war.
Ream moved to the Leprosarium behind the hospital, where he spent the rest of his internment. The building — an old isolation block for leprosy prisoners — had a dormitory, kitchen, toilet, and store room, fenced by barbed wire and facing the sea. Eighteen men shared it, most of them government doctors or professors. Among them were a surgeon, bacteriologist, X‑ray specialist, and a VD expert pondering his future in the age of antibiotics.
There was also Geoffrey Herklots of Hong Kong University, a botanist and biologist who had the invaluable faculty of keeping cheerful under all circumstances and sketched birds and plants, later published. For months he kept a bamboo snake in a biscuit tin beside his bed, insisting it was harmless unless stepped on. Before the war, Herklots had made “siege biscuits” for the Hong Kong Government — nutritious rations stored in sealed tins. Some reached the camp, though most vanished, perhaps taken by the Japanese. He also provided a daily vitamin‑B solution, permitted by the Japanese, sustaining many through the internment. The Japanese allowed him a small ration of flour and, using hops and scalded flour, Herklots made yeast that matured in two days, saving many lives despite its unpleasant taste. His “factory” was a wrecked ambulance, accessible only to him.
The group included two engineers from Taikoo Dockyard and a Sanitation Inspector who taught him curious facts — like maggots tunnelling five feet through earth to reach daylight, a lasting symbol of resilience.
Ream and Jack Johnston shared rations and occasional Red Cross parcels, rare but precious.
Life at the Leprosarium also brought small joys: gramophone concerts on the grassy bank outside the wire. Only one gramophone existed in the camp — his own, a modest HMV. It reached him through a touching act of kindness after the death of his colleague Eric Moreton, whose widow received it as a tribute to his memory. Ream had originally lent it to Moreton for use in the Happy Valley Relief Hospital, where Moreton was serving as chaplain.
Records for the gramophone came from the American Library and private collections. Ream played classical music on a crude gramophone, its sound carrying across the grassy bank in the quiet of tropical evenings — linking the camp to distant lands and times.
Early on, the internees learned self‑government. Chaos gave way to order as each block elected a committee and a “Blockhead.” A general election formed a British Communal Council, chaired by Ben Wiley of the South China Morning Post, with two ministers — Bert Alton and Joseph Sandbach of the English Methodist Church — and company heads among its members.
Anti‑government feeling ran deep. Many resented the failed defence of Hong Kong and the loss of life, while others were bitter that officials had kept their families in the camp when civilians’ wives and children had been evacuated abroad.
In cramped rooms holding up to eight people, tempers frayed easily, and the strain of confinement became part of daily life.
The Communal Council lasted only briefly, managing internal camp affairs and limited dealings with the Japanese. With no official government leaders, authority fell to Franklin Gimson, the Colonial Secretary, who later declared the council unconstitutional and formed his own Advisory Council of senior officials and a few civilians. All communication with the Japanese went through him — a difficult and dangerous task.
Local block committees continued under this “New Deal.”
Food arrived on 21 January — rice, a fishy mixture, and soya beans. Thereafter, the Japanese provided rations for two daily meals, cooked in communal kitchens over wood fires.
February 1942
The camp held 2,757 internees: 2,426 British, 277 Americans, and 54 Dutch, with Norwegians and Belgians joining later.
Most Americans were repatriated by mid‑1942 on the Asama Maru. Canadians were repatriated in 1943 on the Teia Maru, leaving mainly older and retired civilians behind.
The camp held a wide cross‑section of Hong Kong society — British, Chinese, and Eurasian families, many with children. Among them were leading figures from commerce, government, medicine, education, and the churches.
There was a shift in camp administration. At first, Chinese, then Japanese civilians oversaw the camp, but in February 1944 it became a military internment camp. They lived in two small houses on a hill in the centre of camp.
Ordinary internees rarely dealt directly with the Japanese, though those accused of escape or espionage faced torture and execution. Ten prisoners caught with a radio in 1943 were sentenced to fifteen years; seven were later shot or beheaded. John Fraser, the Defence Secretary, was executed and was posthumously awarded the George Cross. Other prominent figures, including bankers and Dr Selwyn‑Clarke, were imprisoned; Sir Vandeleur Grayburn, Chief Manager of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank, died of beri‑beri, and his deputy died of starvation. Torture and screams from the prison and Japanese headquarters marked the camp’s darkest days.
The Japanese enforced strict control — roll calls morning and night, bows required, and sentries surrounding the camp. Yet, apart from constant surveillance, they mostly left the internees alone.
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Chapter 7 Short Commons
The greatest hardship was the starvation rations. Throughout the three years and eight months of internment, food rations remained dangerously low. The Japanese assumed responsibility but refused repatriation. Manual labour—wood chopping, cooking, gardening, sanitation—was done by internees, mainly Hong Kong Police and men below retirement age. Rations started at 1,400 calories per day and dropped to 1,100, rising briefly in late 1942 thanks to Red Cross supplies.
By 1945, intake averaged only 1,300 calories. Younger people adapted better to the rice diet, while older internees struggled with foul food—salt fish, “water spinach,” and fish heads—barely enough to survive.
Those with work stayed fitter than those idle, while many elderly withdrew from camp life, spending hours playing bridge. Young children received milk and fared better, but older children and teenagers suffered lasting effects, even minor ones like dental problems.
The hospital remained full throughout the internment. As disease spread—dysentery, malaria, diphtheria, typhus, and typhoid—the Leprosarium was converted into a sanatorium for twelve tuberculosis patients. Dr Dean Smith recorded detailed health statistics later published after the war.
By March 1944, five ration grades were introduced: children under five received 8.7 ounces of rice daily, older children 10.9, adults 13.1, light workers 17.4, and heavy workers 21.8. Other foods—beans, sugar, salt, tea, curry, oil, fish, and vegetables—were rationed in proportion. Meat occasionally replaced fish, but supplies remained meagre.
By early 1945, both fish and meat disappeared from camp rations, leaving internees dependent on ingenuity and shared effort for survival. They owed their endurance to several factors:
The mild climate and fresh air of Stanley Peninsula.
Extra vegetables—mostly sweet potatoes—grown in poor soil by individuals and later communally under Japanese supervision.
The tireless work of doctors experimenting with vitamins and nutrition, sometimes aided by Red Cross supplies of bran and beans.
Occasional deliveries of shark liver oil and thiamin reached the camp, including vitamin B smuggled in by a member of the Friends’ Ambulance Unit who befriended Japanese soldiers and brought it safely to the doctors for the most needy.
A small canteen opened in 1942, selling limited extras—peanuts, bran, salt, oil, and sugar—twice a month, offering a rare touch of relief amid the scarcity.
Many internees were fortunate to receive parcels, especially early on, sent by friends in town. He recalled his Chinese servant sending his best suit—though the jacket was lost en route—and surviving the camp with only a sun‑hat, a pair of missionary‑made trousers, and repaired leather shoes. Food parcels occasionally arrived through the Missionary Society, including shipments from China via Shanghai, thanks to a Swiss or German missionary named Etling, whom he later met after the war and thanked on behalf of everyone.
Red Cross parcels reached the camp three times: in November 1942 with food, clothes, and drugs; in September 1944 with three parcels each; and in March 1945 with one parcel per person, mostly leftovers from the previous consignment. Small sums of money also came through unexpected channels.
The Shanghai British Residents’ Association sent funds in late 1942, and by early 1943, allowances from the British Government began arriving. Most of the money was used communally for beans, bran, and welfare goods, though individuals received 15 Yen monthly for purchases, later increased to 20 or 25 Yen. Negotiations with the Japanese caused delays, and as food prices rose, grants to individuals steadily lost value.
Many internees managed to raise money through the camp’s black market, selling watches, pens, and rings to Formosan guards via local agents. Gold fillings became especially valuable, keeping the camp dentists busy. Cigarettes served as currency—used both for minor fines and for trade among wealthier internees.
A small elite of middlemen emerged, exchanging gold and valuables for food, cigarettes, and bread. Though seen as undermining the Japanese, the trade was dangerous; agents and guards risked their lives if caught. Prices soared: a watch sold for ¥5,000, cigarettes for ¥50 a packet, bread for ¥120 per catty, and by 1945, bacon and pork reached ¥1,000. Peanuts cost ¥300 per pound, duck eggs ¥25–35 each, and sugar rose from ¥140 to over ¥1,000.
Transactions often relied on sterling cheques or IOUs to be honoured after the war. In contrast to this shadow economy, letters from outside brought moral sustenance. After months of negotiation, the first batch from England arrived in March 1943, offering a rare connection to the world beyond the wire.
Chapter 8 Cramped Culture
The camp population was as large as a typical English village, crowded but remarkably organized. Experts in many fields recreated a sense of community, establishing a day school in the hall of St Stephen’s College—left intact by the Japanese—and a smaller one in the old Bowling Club pavilion. The school included Kindergarten, Junior, and Senior departments, staffed by university professors and headmistresses who managed despite scarce books and writing materials. Pupils often sat on the floor, yet received a solid education in basic subjects and a broader understanding of life and history.
Adult education soon followed: shorthand and typing lessons led to Pitman certificates after the war, and lectures flourished across three years.
Evenings featured multiple talks—some popular, others specialized—keeping minds active through long months of hardship and blackout.
The camp’s ingenuity shone through its daily challenges. Engineers and craftsmen designed tools and utensils for communal use, even inventing a hand‑cranked device to separate rice from stones—a clever solution to a grim problem caused by adulterated supplies.
Teenagers were trained as apprentices, sitting exams modelled on outside standards, and some later had their qualifications recognized after the war. Ream recalled coaching a student in Latin who was eventually accepted to Oxford, a rare triumph amid hardship.
Education flourished despite scarcity: two matriculation exams were held, and the same hall at St Stephen’s hosted church services and plays. Productions ranged from Nativity performances and John Masefield’s Good Friday to Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Noel Coward’s Private Lives. These cultural efforts—alongside faith and learning—helped sustain morale and preserved a sense of civilization within confinement.
Cultural life thrived despite hardship. Ballets were staged by a professional from Shanghai, and the YMCA organized Sunday lectures on religion, history, science, and biography—often filling the hall to capacity.
Weekly concerts on the Bowling Green drew hundreds, led by Revd Cyril Brown, whose skill and humour lifted spirits. Songs like When the Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square and The White Cliffs of Dover evoked nostalgia and hope, while humorous “repatriation” tunes imagined escape via Lourenço Marques or Goa.
These gatherings became vital morale boosters until abruptly halted. During one concert, Japanese photographers captured the audience’s joy, but when internees flashed the Churchillian “V for Victory,” Tokyo’s outrage ended the concerts. Even so, the memory of those evenings—music, laughter, and fleeting freedom—remained a cherished symbol of resilience.
Humour in the camp was risky but defiant. The internees had to bow to Japanese inspectors, yet they found subtle ways to mock authority. The Japanese disliked being called “Nips,” and one evening Cyril Brown slyly introduced a concert with, “What a delightful evening it is, cool and fresh and not a nip in the air,” drawing cheers from the audience while the Japanese guests missed the joke.
Another source of amusement was a gramophone record of The Mikado, whose chorus—“If you want to know who we are, we are gentlemen of Japan”—became a mischievous favourite.
The camp’s intellectual life also endured. The American Club Library, left behind after repatriation, joined other collections to form three main libraries open to all internees.
By May 1945, they even received copies of the Japanese‑run English newspaper. Though heavy with propaganda, careful reading between the lines gave them a fair sense of the war’s progress in Europe and the Pacific—proof that even under censorship, knowledge and wit remained forms of quiet resistance. However, after 31st May 1945, no newspapers were allowed in camp.
Chapter 9 The Church
The camp’s religious life reflected both unity and diversity under pressure. Though people came from twenty-two denominations – Anglican, Baptist, Congregational, Presbyterian, Methodist, Quaker, Salvation Army, Roman Catholic and others—they shared the same daily hardships, which dissolved many divisions. Churchgoers and non-churchgoers alike took part in manual and administrative work, and worship became one of many communal activities rather than a dividing line.
Services and lectures drew unexpected participants, and performances like John Masefield’s Good Friday blended art and faith, leaving lasting impressions. Roman Catholics worshipped separately under an American priest who remained after others were repatriated, while Protestants moved toward an ecumenical spirit rarely seen outside the camp. In adversity, faith became less about denomination and more about shared endurance and compassion—a quiet testament to resilience and cooperation.
Religious life in the camp quickly became organized and surprisingly cooperative. Ministers and clergy from the many denominations worked together to create a shared worship schedule. Early meetings led to the formation of a committee chaired by Frank Short of the Congregational Church, with Dr Shoop as vice-chairman and Harry Wittenbach among its officers.
The first Sunday featured a united Communion at 9 a.m., followed by worship services throughout the day. Over time, the pattern settled into a rhythm:
8.45am Holy Communion.
9.45am a Morning Service alternating between Anglican and Free Church traditions.
3.45pm an afternoon service.
6.30pm a short service of praise with an address.
Ministers from different denominations assisted one another, and sermons were often preached by someone outside the leader’s own tradition. Despite limited resources, this ecumenical spirit fostered unity and dignity—an enduring testament to faith under confinement.
Religious life in the camp developed into a disciplined routine despite limited space and resources. Daily prayers were held at 8:30 a.m., alternating between Anglican and Free Church styles, later expanding to include Quaker quiet times and Holy Communion.
In April 1942, a left-wing evangelical group—mostly Americans—split off to hold open-air meetings, which Ream found spiritually shallow.
A Sunday School began early under Winifred Penny and Charlotte Bird, both trained in London. Penny became Lay Superintendent, later joined by a Ministerial Superintendent, and together they built a structured program. By February 1942, thirty-five children and twenty adults attended, soon divided into Primary, Intermediate, and Senior Departments, with a Teachers’ Training Class each week.
Adults participated in Bible classes and discussion groups, while ward and hospital services continued despite health concerns—common cups were banned due to fear of tuberculosis. Through careful organization and shared faith, the camp maintained a sense of normality and purpose, even amid confinement and disease.
After the Americans left in mid-1942, fifteen ministers and clergy remained, meeting weekly for devotion and discussion. A Lay Council soon formed, creating a Church Fellowship that became central to camp life. Services at Christmas, Easter, and especially the Thanksgiving celebration of August 1945 drew overflowing crowds to St Stephen’s Hall, marking the hopeful end of the Far Eastern war.
Religious study deepened through Bible classes and discussion groups exploring postwar moral questions and the nature of humanity. Books like Man Against Himself, The Philosophy of Physical Science, The Tragic Sense of Life, and The Destiny of Man circulated widely, shaping thought and faith.
In September 1943, the camp held an evangelical campaign titled Quo Vadis?, inspired by the legend of Peter meeting Christ on the road from Rome.
Talks addressed obstacles to faith—The Bible, God, and Christ—and invited internees to join Bible classes or propose topics they felt neglected. Even under confinement, the church became a source of intellectual and spiritual renewal, blending worship, study, and hope for a world beyond the wire.
In August 1944, when electricity and water failed in the camp, a quiet spiritual movement began almost by accident. People started gathering on stairways in the Indian Quarters, reading a few verses of the Bible and sitting silently together. The practice—soon called The Epilogue—spread across the camp, offering comfort, courage, and a shared sense of God’s presence amid hardship.
Revd Kiyoshi (John) Watanabe - tribute
A longer version of this summary may be seen on the page for Revd Kiyoshi (John) Watanabe.
Revd Kiyoshi (John) Watanabe was a Japanese Lutheran minister conscripted as an interpreter in WWII prisoner-of-war camps.
Born Buddhist, he converted to Christianity after receiving a Bible from his brother and trained to become a pastor.
Despite wartime challenges, he showed compassion by secretly aiding prisoners with food and medicine, and fostered understanding through worship.
After the war, he lost his wife and daughter in Hiroshima's atomic bombing but remained committed to his faith.
His actions earned him respect among both prisoners and guards, reflecting courage and integrity under difficult circumstances.
Chapter 10 - VJ Day 1945
Japan’s surrender on 14th August 1945 brought a strange mix of confusion and relief to the camp. At first, no one realized what had happened—the Japanese continued digging defensive “fox-holes” nearby, and rumours swirled about impending battles.
On 10th August, technicians and their families were abruptly removed; four days later, a plane attacked a small vessel off the coast, heightening fear.
By 15th August, extra rations appeared, and whispers spread that Japan had capitulated. A Turk imprisoned nearby scratched messages on his cell wall, interpreted as news of surrender. Talk of a “special bomb” circulated—some scientifically minded internees speculated about an atomic weapon, a concept already known before internment.
On 17th August, excitement built as Japanese newspapers confirmed acceptance of the Potsdam terms and cessation of hostilities. The camp felt the first tremors of peace, and Mr. Gimson, the Colonial Secretary, became a figure of hope—and like a modern Moses, he went up the hill to speak to the Japanese Commandant, and returned with the announcement that hostilities had ceased and that order would be maintained. That evening, a Thanksgiving Service filled St Stephen’s Hall, and the Japanese sent tins of mutton, “siege biscuits,” and rice—small gestures of goodwill after years of deprivation. Internees added sweet potatoes from the communal garden, creating a modest but symbolic feast.
The Japanese soldiers remained disciplined, confined quietly to their barracks while the internees guarded the perimeter.
Sixteen days later, the British fleet arrived—a moment of elation mixed with confusion.
Radios brought BBC news, though even broadcasters seemed uncertain about who would take control: British, American, or Chinese forces. Rumours swirled until the BBC confirmed that Hong Kong would be re-established as a British colony. Amid relief and disbelief, the camp experienced a strange calm—the war’s end finally real, yet almost unimaginable after so many years of captivity.
In the days following Japan’s surrender, confusion reigned across Hong Kong. Representatives of the pre-war colonial government—many former internees themselves—arrived unannounced, trying to reassert authority and restore order. Mr. Gimson, acting as Colonial Secretary, signed the notice of peace simply as “Representative of Internees,” reflecting the fragile balance of power. Most people wisely stayed put, obeying instructions while a few, like Bert Alton with his fluent Cantonese, ventured out to secure food supplies and reconnect with local churches.
Soon, the camp saw an emotional influx from Shamshuipo Prisoners-of-War Camp. Men arrived by motorbike, lorry, even fire engine, reunited with wives they hadn’t seen since 1941. Two buses ran daily, bringing waves of tearful reunions—and reminders of loss.
Many women had no husbands to return; the tragedy of the Lisbon Maru, sunk in 1942 with over eight hundred POWs aboard, still cast its shadow.
Amid relief and heartbreak, the camp became a place of mingled joy and mourning, marking the fragile dawn of peace.
The final days of internment were marked by a strange mix of relief and physical strain. As Japan’s surrender took effect, the Japanese increased food rations—rice, beans, corned mutton, sweet potatoes, even live pigs—creating a sudden abundance after years of scarcity. The camp erupted in elation; a dance was held in St Stephen’s Hall on 21 August, something unimaginable a week earlier. Yet the human body struggled to adapt: cases of beri-beri and stomach upsets rose, and doctors warned about adjusting slowly to richer food.
By late August, Allied planes began dropping crates of food and medicine by parachute—an extraordinary sight after years of deprivation. Some crates hit roofs, but most landed safely, and that evening the British fleet was seen on the horizon.
On 30th August, it sailed into Hong Kong Harbour, unseen by the internees but symbolizing the long-awaited end of captivity. The passage captured the surreal transition from hunger and fear to abundance and freedom—a moment when survival itself felt miraculous.
Admiral Sir Cecil Harcourt arrived in Hong Kong with minimal escort, raising the Union Jack in a brief but symbolic ceremony that marked the restoration of British authority.
On 31st August, HMS Freemantle welcomed internees aboard for a celebratory visit, while the hospital ship Oxfordshire began evacuating 60 of the most serious medical cases.
On Monday 3rd September, tall missionary doctor and Kukong colleague, Dr Moore* appeared—affectionately called “Mooi”—returning from Shiukwaan Hospital in Free China, having worked with the British Army Aid Group to coordinate medical support. Ream wondered if he was in a dream. Dr Moore brought six army sisters and VADs from Leyte, the Philippines (Ream knew not how), providing long-needed help to exhausted camp nurses.
Amid this renewal, Ream recounted a small personal mishap while compiling lists of women and children for repatriation—an almost mundane accident that contrasted sharply with the extraordinary events unfolding around him. He fell on some concrete steps and damaged his knee. He was examined by a New Zealand doctor who arranged an X-ray aboard the hospital ship Maunganui. Accompanied by Jack Johnston, he received priority treatment, visited Stanley Camp patients, and lunched with the ship’s officers—astonished at their vitality after his years of internment. The X-ray revealed only a sprain.
Soon after, the Maunganui sailed for Taiwan carrying the most serious patients, while the Empress of Australia took women, children, and volunteers willing to travel under troop-deck conditions. They left on 11th September 1945.
Those remaining—administrators, civil servants, and business people—began rebuilding the colony, performing their duties with quiet efficiency as normal life slowly resumed. They did a surprisingly good job as returnees later found.
In Ream’s case it was decided that he should repatriate to England on 12 months furlough, while colleague Joseph Sandbach i/c the English Methodist Church and chaplaincy work, stayed with a view to making a start on refurbishing the Sailors’ and Soldiers’ Home in Wanchai, to be continued on Ream’s return.
*Dr Moore not known
Dr. Moore
Very likely, Dr. Samuel Hollingsworth Moore, an Irish missionary doctor. See: http://www.mwadui.com/HongKong/Escape-7.htm (8 January 1942). In 1942, Moore was based in Shiukwan/Shiukwaan. The city was also known as Kukong during WWII. Currently, known as Shaoguan in northern Guangdong Province.
An abbreviated bio through his wife, Sister Margaret Jean Moore (nee McNeur) at: https://www.presbyterian.org.nz/archives/Page181.htm
Too Hot For Comfort - Overview
This is a summary of the whole book, mainly from a Hong Kong perspective, not counting the years 1941-45 in Hong Kong and Stanley Camp, which have been dealt with above. With so many missionary stories in China ending abruptly in 1949/50, the value of this account is that it details the experience of actually living through those final months and records the surprising discipline and conduct of the victorious Communist forces, at least in Kwantung Province.
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English Methodist missionary Revd Bill Ream arrived in Hong Kong in 1938. He spent his first two years learning Chinese at the South China Language Institute on Cheung Chau. In that time, he stayed in the house owned by the Methodist Mission, and attended lessons in the Assembly Hall, where a number of missionary nationalities were represented – USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia and Britain.
In the evenings he enjoyed taking part in country dancing sessions at the home of islander and retired businessman, Harold Smyth.
A number of other missionary families were on the island at that time, mainly for safety reasons, while husbands worked on in the field. Japan was waging war against China in parts of the mainland, and elsewhere the Chinese civil war was in progress.
The Methodist Mission also had a guest house on Lantau, which Ream visited. He noted, ‘the air was cool and invigorating at 3000 feet, and it did wonders for those who could get away from the hot humid summers of South China.’
In 1940 Ream was able to visit Canton for the first time, which had been partially devastated by Japanese bombing. His main port of call was the Methodist compound at Fatshan (Foshan), ten miles away, and the school and hospital there. There was also a well-renowned Nursing School, and an orphanage, The Springfield Children’s Home, which took in abandoned babies, mostly girls.
In 1940 Ream was assigned to the Wah Ying Boys’ School as chaplain and English teacher. The school was on Lantau at that time having moved from Fatshan in 1938 ahead of the Japanese advance.
In September 1940 the senior part of the school moved from Lantau to Taipo and when the Japanese invaded Hong Kong that December, they moved to Kowloon. At that point, Ream was cut off from the school on Hong Kong island, and was captured by the Japanese and interned in Stanley Camp.
Bill Ream spent the years 1942–45 in Stanley Camp (see above).
Liberation in 1945 arrived abruptly, and Ream left Hong Kong on the Empress of Australia.
After a year’s furlough in England, Rev Bill Ream returned to Hong Kong in October 1946 to take over restoration of the Sailors’ and Soldiers’ Home (qv) from Rev Joseph Sandbach of the English Methodist Church.
Life at the Home gradually returned to routine as rooms were refurbished and staff recovered, and it was reopened by Christmas 1946.
Also during this time, Ream repaired and refurbished the two Methodist homes on Cheung Chau and Lantau, which had been destroyed during the war.
Ream was then able to look again toward mainland China for the first time since 1938. He travelled to Kukong (Shaogwan), which was further into inland China up the North River than Fatshan and where the Wah Ying School had refugeed to from Hong Kong in 1941. It was now the Ying Kwong Boys’ School. Ream was the chaplain of the school and the hospital in Kukong.
The hospital was run by entirely Chinese staff, but with foreign staff present. Dr John Rose divided his time between Fatshan and Kukong. Two other foreign doctors served there.
In the hospital Ream also taught simple English classes to Chinese nurses from the hospital, covering everything from intestinal worms to surgical terminology. Through this, he gained medical knowledge.
The Japanese were gone, yet the country is not at peace; the Nationalists were exhausted and corrupt, the Communists disciplined and advancing inexorably south, with armed bands claiming to be Communists and others simply bent on robbery. Ordinary people were simply trying to survive the inflation, shortages, and political crosswinds that buffeted them daily.
Lok Cheung, some 40 miles up the railway from Kukong, was a place Ream visited several times from 1947, supporting a new church that had opened there. The last time he visited was in 1949, and the Communist armies were pressing south. As all the trains leaving Lok Cheung were overcrowded with refugees, Ream managed to find a boatman who took him back down the river. Chiang Kai Shek’s paper currency having by now become worthless, Ream paid the boatman three silver dollars.
Some villages like Wong Kong were walled and palisaded and guarded at night by ‘Self-Preservation Corps.’ Other villages could not be visited because government troops had withdrawn.
From all this, we get a good insight into what life was like for missionaries in China in the months just before the Communists came to power.
Ream went on a memorable holiday with friends to Kunming in Yunnan Province.
Towards the end of 1948 people began to realise the Communists were going to take the whole of China. The Communist advance through South China made every undertaking uncertain for missionary societies. The Methodist Church had just begun building a new block for the Fatshan Hospital after years of planning. Though the timing seemed ill‑chosen, they pressed ahead, believing the hospital would serve the people regardless of who governed.
Part of the funding was to come from Hong Kong business firms, so Ream and others travelled there to make personal appeals. They found sympathy but little confidence: few wanted to donate to a project that might soon fall into Communist hands. Some large firms contributed modestly, but most declined, forcing the missionaries to turn to smaller companies and public appeals.
The fundraising effort was led by Donald Childe, J. E. Sandbach, Dr John Rose, with Frank Evison and ‘Pred’ (Peredur) Jones, with Ream assisting and travelling repeatedly to Hong Kong to solicit support. Despite the looming Communist takeover, they secured help from the Chinese Chamber of Commerce, several charities, and two major grants from the American Economic Co‑operative Administration (ECA).
The campaign ultimately succeeded, and the new hospital wing opened on 22 May 1949, just five months before Canton fell to Communist forces. As the year progressed, anxiety spread over whether to stay or leave—wealthier families fled, poorer ones stayed, and uncertainty hung over everyone. Ream and his two colleagues, Doctors Rose and Austin were committed to staying. All missionary societies were seeking to transfer all administrative responsibility to Chinese ministers and laymen.
That month the British Consul in Canton warned that non-essential staff should return to the United Kingdom. Chinese, European and American business and missionary families were coming through Kukong, sometimes with the husband. For Chinese families, their only refuges were Hong Kong and Taiwan (Formosa), with its new capital Taipei.
Nationalist troops in retreat were looking for accommodation and Ream and his colleagues permitted them to use the Ying Kwong School, numbers of pupils being low. The advantage for the missionaries was that the troops kept thieves away.
Ream was unexpectedly appointed business manager of Kukong Hospital after the Chinese manager left due to the unrest. The hospital workforce was unsettled, and by March the four water‑carriers became so unreliable that they were dismissed. Because the hospital had no running water, these men were responsible for supplying all of it, so their departure created a serious crisis. Fortunately, Ream’s former servant from his language‑school days on Cheung Chau, a man named A Wa, was living nearby and agreed at short notice to take over the water‑carrying duties. He recruited four local men that he knew, and an emergency was averted.
The most persistent difficulty was currency, and economic collapse was a stark sign of the last months of Nationalist China. The Nationalist dollar collapsed so badly that prices were quoted in thousands, then millions. In August 1948 the government introduced a new “gold” dollar, but it inspired no confidence and fuelled a black-market frenzy. By October shopkeepers stopped selling and farmers withheld rice and livestock. Even harsh government measures, including executions, failed to restore trust. Foreign transfers had to pass through Shanghai, where bankers delayed them to profit from the dollar’s continuing fall.
Ream’s mission was hit directly: grants through UNRRA (United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration), from American donors for the new Fatshan hospital wing lost much of their value in transit—one instalment lost two-thirds in three weeks in the bank. Currency instability shaped daily life.
When Communist forces crossed the Yangtze in April 1949, the dollar plunged again, shops closed, and the hospital had to borrow food. People turned to old silver coins—Chinese, British, Spanish, Mexican, and Austrian Maria Theresa thalers—all treated as equal in value.
The question of leaving or staying kept presenting itself. Kukong was on the main route by road and rail from Hankow on the Yangtse to Canton. Then Communist forces were heard to be within 50 miles of Kukong. The three European staff kept morale up by arranging social activities like outings and picnics for Chinese staff and students.
On 4th October, Nationalist soldiers and local government officials left the city. On October 5th the police ordered martial law. Many inhabitants moved out of the city to the villages or south. At midnight there was a round of heavy guns announcing the arrival of Communist forces in the city. At this, most of the river traffic of the city upped anchor and floated downstream past the hospital, like a flock of birds, but mostly in silence.
The next day the communist army was very much in evidence, and over subsequent weeks impressed everyone with their restraint and civilised behaviour. The People’s Liberation Army was under strict instructions from Mao Tse Tung to obey orders, take nothing from the masses and follow 8 principles:
Speak politely.
Pay for everything.
Return anything borrowed.
Pay for anything damaged.
Do not hit or swear at people.
Do not damage crops.
Do not take liberties with women.
Do not ill-treat captives.
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With victory in sight, army morale was high. It had become their boast that they liberated towns on foot, with mechanical support following up. In all this they were very different from Chinese armies before them or indeed other armies around the world.
It took three days for the army to pass through. Ream estimated that Canton must have fallen on about the 15th of the month. Life in Kukong quickly returned to normal. The school was once again used to billet troops, there being only 19 boys in residence.
By 18th October, mail was flowing once again, and the railway fully opened by mid-November. That month, newspapers were out again and the new currency, the People’s Dollar, was circulating. There was huge relief that the war was over and that there had been no fighting. A surprising politeness marked relations with people and army.
Christmas that year passed very happily, with the church operating its usual services, and in the new year the building of the new wing of the Fatshan Hospital went ahead.
When Ream’s time for furlough came, it was clear that he would not be allowed back in a leadership capacity with the churches, but he hoped he might come back in a teaching role. Ream and John Rose applied for permits to leave and got them. In January 1950 they took a train to Canton. On 11th February, Ream went by train to Shamchun, the station on the Chinese side of the track to Hong Kong, where officials made an exhaustive search of their luggage. He crossed the border and was met by Methodist missionary the Rev A H Bray and the China Travel Service. Rev Bray had himself served in Fatshan and managed the Wah Ying School there for many years.
John Rose followed two days later and they both boarded the SS Corfu for London on 17th February.
They both hoped to return to China, but there was some doubt about it, which the passage of time confirmed. The door was firmly closed on any further missionary work in China.