[Excerpts]

[...]

How ironic that the “Happy Way Courtyard” became an emblem of oppression under the heel of Japanese militarists! That which had formerly been a stronghold of conservative Christianity was drastically changed.

For three decades these walls had housed a hospital, with nurses training school and doctors’ residences, a Bible women’s training school with dormitories, elementary and middle schools, as well as living quarters (single storied), row upon row. In a prominent place, near the main entrance, was the sturdily built brick church with a seating capacity of 300.

But in 1943 this community became the prison home for 1800 civilians from Allied nations.

Malnutrition, disease and suffering made a mockery of the name, “Happy Way.” Guard towers manned by Japanese soldiers, searchlights and machine guns became symbols of death and destruction.

Yet, the sudden dawn of the atomic age dramatically changed all, and the glorious moment of liberty finally came. At last, the loathsome bars of confinement were broken.

[excerpt]

Leading from the high wooden gates up the slope through the center of the one-time campus was a black cinder road which we came to call “Main Street.” On either side was an assortment of buildings. Behind them rose what had at one time been splendid edifices of Edwardian architecture, housing the administration building and the hospital.

[excerpt]

Now overnight under this new order, bank clerks, city administrators, missionaries and professors were turned into ditch diggers, carpenters, masons, stokers and hospital orderlies.

The result was an epidemic of blistered hands, aching backs, sore muscles and tired feet. But undeniably there are rich benefits in subjecting the body to hard labor. Sleep comes easily at night when the body is fatigued, and the mind relaxes in the satisfying knowledge one has put in an “honest day’s work”.

In time, overweight businessmen and missionaries with pot-bellies and sagging jowls, were exhibiting a new trimness and muscle tone.

One drug addict who entered Weihsien a virtual derelict gained weight, put on muscle and after a year was fit and rejuvenated. We all rejoiced in his rehabilitation, but his gaining several pounds on camp food made him an oddity.

Manual work is also a healthy leveler and a warm camaraderie grew between once stuffy professors, import executives, and green young missionaries who worked together in the hot sun building a latrine or dormitory extension.

[excerpt]

But, thanks to my Father’s healing hand and all the loving care of my fellow internees, I survived.

I left the hospital on March 8, and it was so good to be home with Meredith and Sandra in our little 9 by 12. My weight had dropped to 93 pounds, and with my less-than-petite frame I looked a bit gaunt. But we were together, and though we didn’t know it then we had less than six months to freedom.

Meredith continues: Blessed supplements to dining hall fare came on occasion from three sources.

Comfort money, which was advanced to us at intervals through the Red Cross could be spent in the canteen, a small shop which periodically carried limited quantities of food stuffs. We were especially grateful for Chinese dried dates (which gave a bit of the sweetness we so much craved), peanut oil, and sometimes a ration of peanuts which we made into a chunky spread for our bread.

Once, however, we were mistakenly sold fish oil which tasted much like cod liver oil. With this we spoiled three rations of peanuts we’d been hoarding to make a spread.

But, of course, we ate it.

[excerpt]

This was December 25, 1944, and I was lying on a rough grass mattress in the camp hospital, where I had been taken two weeks earlier for internal bleeding.

An adjoining building served as a barracks for the mentally ill, and not far away lay a melancholy plot of ground which enfolded the swelling population of our dead.

How much longer would we have to endure this ordeal? Not one of us knew. Few dared guess.

Hope was hard to come by that bleak December.

But this morning would be different, must be different. This was Christmas Day! Now the pale morning light, like a persistent hand, was stirring patients from their fitful sleep. Beside me I could hear the moans of an older woman suffering from pleurisy. Beyond her another patient, a pneumonia case, struggled for breath. Directly across from me a young mother was apparently dying of some sort of fever.

There were 16 beds and 16 patients in that barnlike, women’s ward. The once well-furnished hospital had been left a shambles by troops who had been quartered there after the Japanese occupation. Now the building was crudely sectioned off into two large wards.

Heroic doctors and nurses, themselves prisoners, gave unstintingly of their skill. But with few medicines available, too often their best efforts ended in futility.

For the most part the old hospital served only to quarantine the sick and dying from the still-functioning members of our community.

From his job in the kitchen, Meredith was permitted today to take one hour off between breakfast and lunch. We had agreed that he would bring Sandra and the gifts to my bedside. Here, in this precious segment of time we would celebrate Christmas together. And though I was still very weak, my heart warmed with wonderful anticipation.

[excerpt]

Eric was never one to solicit sympathy, and Meredith remembers that even after his move to the hospital, few knew the seriousness of his condition.

Joyce, a 16-year-old now, was one of the many teenagers who, to the annoyance of Eric’s devoted nurse: Annie Buchan, would flock into the men’s ward to visit their hero. Incredibly, in spite of the excruciating pain, Eric continued to teach and counsel the youth, using his book of discipleship.

By coincidence, in another ward of the hospital at this same time Christine Helsby was recovering from a near-fatal bout with typhoid fever. One Sunday afternoon, February 18, 1945, just three days before his death, Eric came into the women’s ward to borrow a hymnal. In a letter to his wife, Florence, then in Toronto, he was quoting from the hymn, “Be Still, My Soul.” Characteristically he wanted to be sure of accuracy. Eric spotted Christine, waved his hand, and flashed the wonderful broad smile, which even the pain of his last ordeal had not erased. It was the last time she saw him.

Joyce Stranks visited Eric the morning he died. In their study of his book on discipleship they had come to the portion on surrender. “Although I had accepted the Lord as a child of seven,” Joyce says, “it was not until this time in my life when, as a result of Eric Liddell’s influence, I personally surrendered to the full will of God.”

That morning Joyce arrived at the ward ten minutes early. But, impatient to see her teacher and friend, she entered anyway. As they went through the lesson, Eric looked at Joyce intently and said, “Surrender. surren ....”

Those were his last words. The next instant a terrible spasm convulsed his body.

Alarmed, Joyce burst into tears and hurried into the hall, calling for his nurse. Annie came running, scolded Joyce for disturbing Eric, and quickly put a screen around his bed.

Within minutes he was gone.

A post-mortem revealed a massive, inoperable brain tumor growing on the left side of his brain.

Funerals in the Wei Hsien prison camp were common enough during those dreadful days, but there was no funeral like Eric’s.

Meredith remembers that, “The wave of sorrow which swept over Wei Hsien was unbelievable. His was by far the biggest funeral held in the two-and-one-half years of our stay in the prison camp.

The church accommodated 350 people and was full, but more stood outside than were inside. Rev. Arnold Bryson of the London Missionary Society conducted a memorable service. There were no long, flowery eulogies, but sincere praise to God was voiced for this one who had such far-reaching influence.

One of the missionaries testified. ‘His was a God-controlled life. He followed his Master and Lord with a devotion that never flagged, with an intensity of purpose that made men see both the reality and power of true religion. “

Impressive was the fact that not only the missionary community attended Eric’s funeral, but many others whose lives Eric so powerfully impacted.

Among them were the usually cynical business people, government officials, and even prostitutes.

Marcy explains that. “Unlike many missionaries, Eric seemed able to relate to everyone. Of course his celebrity status made him welcome in any conversation. But more than this, he had an unassuming, natural quality that gave him rapport with almost everyone he met. Everybody regarded Eric as a friend.”

It was a cold February day when they buried Eric Liddell. Meredith remembers a piercing wind swirling patches of lightly falling snow. The simple casket was carried on the shoulders of eight missionary colleagues. Immediately behind was the honor guard, Eric’s pupils of the Che Foo School, marching two by two.

Eric Liddell was dead, but the influence of this amazing man who had somehow discovered the secret of living wholly for his Lord and for the sake of others, would continue to touch generations to come.

[further reading]
http://www.weihsien-paintings.org/Mprevite/EricLiddell/p_EricLiddell.htm

#