BY CHRISTMAS 1942, the 50,000 or so Allied troops in Changi had already been prisoners for ten months, surviving on a starvation food regimen of rice, vegetables, and scraps of fish. And they were starting to be sent off by their Japanese captors to work as slave labour on projects reminiscent of mining, or in factories and shipyards.
My father, Eric Cordingly, a rector within the Cotswolds, was now a military padre attached to the 18th Division of the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers. He was determined to rejoice the Christmas message of hope for thus lots of the displaced men in his “parish” who, he knew, were very homesick. He had created a church out of a small abandoned mosque, which he called St George’s. It attracted a loyal congregation.
IN HIS diary, he described how the lads had enthusiastically decorated the church: “Below the dome of St George’s the atap [palm-]roofed verandas twinkled with hanging lamps constructed from half shells of coconuts and inside a bully beef tin stuffed with palm oil and a floating wick. Then nearer still at the doorway stood a Christmas tree, a neighborhood imitation of our English fir reaching to the roof.
“Reflecting the lights from little lamps fastened to the branches were stars, small horse-shoes, all sizes and styles of tinfoil covered objects. Then contained in the church itself the pillars were covered in ferns and along the low wall between the arches stood pots of colored flowers.
“Both Dutch and British troops went out with trucks to gather all these decorations. But one’s gaze was centred on the chancel — here, in a mass of candlelight, the altar was emphasised as the point of interest. The flowers and feathery green ferns enhanced the setting for the Celebration of Holy Communion that was to happen at midnight.
“On Christmas Eve on the padang, a two-acre green patch almost opposite the church, a stage was erected. Behind this, in curved rows, was a massed choir of 100 and the theatre orchestra. It was around this platform that at half past eight three thousand men were grouped for a concert of carols. From the platform the impression I received was that of an unlimited sea of faces, and so the familiar carols went up in mighty roar.
“A Dutch naval officer gave a moving speech and depicted the blackness of our present life, he told of the black hour of the Dutch folk living in countries under the heel of the enemy. Then three men got here forward and poured oil right into a bowl and lighting this with a torch he spoke of the sunshine of the Christmas message, a lightweight which shines so brightly now due to blackness that at present surrounds the world. It was all very impressive. I gave a brief precis of the ceremony in English after which said some prayers and gave the Blessing and so began our celebration of our first Christmas as prisoners.”
THEN 800 or so men gathered at his own church for midnight eucharist. “Just after midnight, in an environment that was real and moving, those familiar words ‘O come, allow us to adore him’ were sung, quietly hushed, and rising as a prayer after the ultimate words of the Prayer of Consecration. The altar rails filled as men in turn knelt and received communion. The shabby green uniform of the Dutch army was emphasised in these rows of khaki-clad figures. Present too were those maimed in battle, an empty sleeve, a stump of a leg.
“Outside the moon was reflected on the shiny surface of the palm branches and within the ear vibrated the persistent hum of the crickets. Streaming back to their billets were men who had recaptured a glimpse of our Christian Christmas. Peace on earth to men of excellent will, that was the prayer in everyone’s mind, as was the considered our own homes that are the successors of that first little Family, easy prayers but so real.”
THE camp cooks managed miraculously to supply special meals for the day. “For the primary time we were in a position to drink coffee with tinned milk and within the evening we ate a most superior dinner. Ten scraggy cockerels rigorously nursed for months, preceded by soup and followed by a good imitation of plum pudding. It was the precise color and had dates in it.”
As the 12 months 1942 drew to a detailed, he reflected on what they’d experienced. “We are ravenous, not melodramatically but slowly, scarcely a 3rd of the camp is fit enough for work. I’m convinced an impartial observer would say that life centred around the church is maintained and, indeed, on the rise. Spiritually then, I feel we’re in fair fettle. Bodily we usually are not in such flourishing condition. The suntan hardly hides the poor physical condition.”
LITTLE did they know what was to come back. The work parties continued to be sent away, and my father was sent up with F Force to the River Kwai on Easter Day 1943, where the lads laboured on constructing the Thai/Burma Railway under brutal conditions. The Far East POW fatality rate was nearly one third.
When, 25 years later, he reflected again on these years, surprisingly he called them “probably the most wonderful time of my life despite the grim and hungry times. One had the chance, as a priest, of doing something which is denied to us in our bizarre lives here at home. For once and for 3 and a half years the skinny veneer of civilisation had been stripped from men. We were all right down to bedrock. One saw people as they really were. I do know that the services we shared in together were utterly real and sincere, and I suppose it was because we were, for some time, utterly real and sincere.”
Louise Reynolds published her father’s diaries, and the illustrations by his fellow-prisoners, in a book, Down to Bedrock, in 2013. Eric Cordingly was consecrated in 1963 to be Bishop of Thetford.
A version of this text appears within the parish magazine of St John-at-Hampstead.
