On a frigid February night in 1943, the U.S. troop ship Dorchester surged through rough North Atlantic seas about 150 miles off the coast of Greenland.

Down in the old converted cruise ship’s stifling hold, four U.S. Army chaplains circulated among the frightened young men, some lying wide-eyed in their bunks, others nervously playing cards or shooting dice.

Chatting with the troops, the chaplains eased tensions, calmed fears and passed out soda crackers to alleviate seasickness.

The troops anxiously looked forward to reaching Greenland the next day. They knew that U-boats prowled their ship’s course.

They did not know that by morning nearly three fourths of them would be dead, and that the rest would have their lives changed forever. Nor did they know the magnificent way in which these four chaplains would minister to them.

Father John Washington was from a big Irish Catholic immigrant family in New Jersey. At age 12, near death from a throat infection, he was given last rites. Miraculously he recovered. He told his sister: “God must have something special for me to do.”

Alexander Goode came from a long line of rabbis. He remembered standing in Arlington National Cemetery at age 10 watching through tear-filled eyes the Unknown Soldier being laid to rest. After Pearl Harbor he left his temple in York, Pennsylvania, requesting overseas duty.

Clark Poling, a minister in the Dutch Reformed Church, had turned down a law career to carry on his family’s seven-generation heritage of religious service. “Don’t pray for my safe return,” he told his father before embarking on the Dorchester. “Pray that I do my duty.”

“Old man” of the four was George Fox, who had received the Silver Star, Purple Heart and France’s Croix de Guerre in World War I. On returning home, he entered seminary. Ordained a Methodist minister, he served a circuit of small Vermont churches until December 7, 1941.

“I must go,” he told his wife. “I know what these boys are facing.”

Empathy with the troops came naturally to the four chaplains. They became highly popular, mixing easily with all faiths, counseling, organizing entertainment and praying.

On February 3 the chaplains were still up at 12:55 a.m. when the torpedo struck. The tremendous explosion threw soldiers from bunks; the lights went out and the stricken ship listed to starboard, sinking fast.

Those not trapped below rushed topside. Amid the shriek of escaping steam and frantic blasts of the ship’s whistle, dazed men stumbled about the dark, crowded decks. Some gripped the rails, too horror-struck to head toward the lifeboats.

The four chaplains quickly moved among the bewildered men, calming them, directing them to life rafts, urging them to escape the doomed ship.

Many had forgotten their life jackets. The chaplains located a supply in a deck locker and passed them out. When the bin was empty, they pulled off their own and made others put them on.

Only two of the 14 lifeboats were successfully used in abandoning ship. Soldiers leaped into the icy sea. They clutched the gunwales of the two overloaded lifeboats, clung to doughnut-like rafts or floated alone.

The four chaplains remained on the ship’s slanted aft deck, standing together, arms linked, heads bowed in prayer, as the Dorchester slipped beneath the waves.

Of the 902 men aboard, 230 were rescued by two Coast Guard cutters. A British report had stated that survival would be impossible after one-half hour in such cold waters, but some men, insulated by the ship’s thick fuel-oil which coated them, had floated in life jackets for eight hours.

The heroic Four Chaplains have become legend. Memorials to their “Three Faiths, One God” sprang up around the nation to promote brotherhood, fight bigotry and encourage interfaith and interracial unity. So many years later, we at Guideposts wondered about the survivors. What has happened to them?

Thanks to Colonel Archie Roberts, chaplain of the Chapel of Four Chaplains in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, I was put in touch with a number of survivors.

No one has been able to find any of the four men to whom the chaplains gave their own life jackets. In the mass confusion, those receiving them might not have realized theirs came off a chaplain’s back.

We do know that when John Mahoney started to rush below for his gloves, Rabbi Goode stopped him and gave him his own. Those gloves helped save Mahoney’s life, enabling him to cling to a lifeboat through the night.

It was exciting to talk with the survivors. All say they’ll never forget the Four Chaplains. Some saw them going down with the ship. Others learned of their heroic acts after being rescued.

Most are now in their 70s, retired from active careers. Practically all suffer from numbed limbs and walking difficulties as a result of exposure. They keep in touch with one another through reunions and newsletters.

With high expectations, I asked each survivor: “Has the memory of the Four Chaplains had any effect on your life?”

“Not really,” was the usual answer. But as we continued talking, I began to see that this initial response was one of modesty. For as we discussed their lives, evidence emerged that the men had been affected significantly: In one way or another they had been giving of themselves to help others.

Henry Arnett, of Newport, Arkansas, visits local hospital patients every day. Despite bad legs, he often drives the 180-mile round-trip to Little Rock to cheer patients there.

Thanks to Charles Macli, who now lives in Peekskill, New York, a lot of youngsters in the Bronx, New York, have learned to box in a wholesome gym atmosphere, with some advancing to the Golden Gloves.

In helping keep the Four Chaplains’ memory alive, Walter Miller of Bristol, Connecticut, has written widely distributed poems that honor all those lost in our country’s wars.

And Anthony Naydyhor of Hellertown, Pennsylvania, has devoted the past 12 years to caring for his wife, who is on kidney dialysis. When I suggested that he was showing real selflessness, he shrugged it off. “No,” he said, “it’s a privilege.”

Compassion for others seems to be a guiding factor in these men’s lives.

Edward Dionne of Lake Placid, Florida, volunteers to help blind and needy children. And there’s Daniel O’Keeffe of Sebring, Florida, who helped found a local YMCA; he is a March of Dimes chairman, works with disenfranchised youngsters, and speaks on Judeo-Christian ethics.

The survivors’ spirituality was deepened in different ways. James Ward of Cincinnati says he had little interest in religion before the sinking, but the memory of the chaplains drew him to the church in which he’s active today.

The same goes for Robert Blakely of Alpine, California, who is a lecturer for his Catholic church and, as a Eucharistic minister, serves Communion to housebound parishioners.

But probably what all of the survivors remember most is the example of brotherhood demonstrated by the Four Chaplains. Because of this, Benjamin Epstein of Delray Beach, Florida, lectures on building bridges of understanding between people of all faiths. James McAtamney of Newport News, Virginia, backs him up.

“I was raised in a neighborhood where Jews didn’t speak to Catholics and neither Catholics nor Jews spoke to Baptists. I was amazed to see that these chaplains had so much in common. To see them enjoying one another’s company was a lesson to me in ecumenism long before that word became popular.”

Today “Mac” gives his time to Civitan International, a worldwide community-service club aimed at helping the mentally retarded. Civitan also sponsors Clergy Appreciation Week, celebrated in February to honor ministers of all faiths.

And several—like Walter Boeck-Holt of Algona, Iowa, Charles Ciccia of Manalapan, New Jersey, Dr. Roland Phillips of Abington, Massachusetts, and Michael Warish of Taunton, Massachussets—have written accounts of the sinking, which help keep the memory of the Four Chaplains alive.

Other survivors speak publicly about that terrible night. For many, this is difficult. But the men of the Dorchester feel it is a privilege to honor their comrades and the Four Chaplains so that others will be inspired by their selfless gift.

My garage is overflowing with cardboard boxes. Stacks of storage containers line my spare bedroom and foam packing pellets are scattered all over the basement.

Am I moving? No. But I’ve been moved. By angels.

Thirty years ago, my husband, Jerry, an electrical engineer, got a job in Annapolis. We bought a house here and one of the first people I met was Susie—a bright, energetic, witty mom of three. We belonged to the same women’s organization. Spending time with Susie, I forgot I was new in town. She made me feel so at home.

But our carefree days were cut short. Just before Christmas, 1982, Susie was diagnosed with leukemia. She started chemotherapy treatments right away at Johns Hopkins oncology center in Baltimore. I called her often, wrote her little get-well cards and visited her in the hospital. Then another setback: Her husband was laid off. “I’m so worried about all the medical bills piling up,” she confided during one visit. “Can you please pray for us?”

So I did. Every day. But I wanted to do more. Friends of ours shuttled her kids to after-school activities, others cooked meals and baked desserts.

Now, as Jerry can attest, I’m no cook. I am an artist, though. One night, lying in bed, I tossed and turned. Lord, help me use my art to help Susie. My mind drifted to a stained-glass class I’d taken a while back. I usually worked with oil paints, but there was something about the way sunlight shimmered through the glass that felt peaceful, almost healing. What else was peaceful and healing?

Angels.

The next morning I got right to work. I used an aqua shade of glass (Susie’s favorite color) for the body and a silvery pearl glass for the wings. It was a long, painstaking process—lining up the pattern, cutting the glass, foiling the sides. I worked a little bit at a time. Susie’s angel stood just over a foot tall and I topped her off with a golden halo and added a holder for a votive candle.

A couple of days before Christmas, I brought the angel to Susie’s hospital room. “I made this for you,” I said.

“Oh, Bobbie!” Susie gasped. “I love it! Put her on the table over there so I can see her all the time.”

Whenever I’d visit Susie, she’d tell me how much she loved the angel. I thought she was just being sweet. One afternoon, though, she mentioned that someone had asked her where they could buy one. “I told them you made it for me,” she said. “And they asked me where you sell them. You really ought to make more of these.”

More? I loved making the angel—but it had taken me almost 20 hours. There was no way I’d have the time to make more and keep up with my other artwork. I was about to tell Susie it was impossible when it hit me: I’d round up the folks who asked her about the angel and teach them how to make one too. Then we could sell them and give the money to Susie and her family to help with her medical expenses.

I invited about a dozen women—mostly Susie’s friends and family—over to my house. Right there in my living room, we cut shapes from sheet glass and wrapped the edges in foil. Even Jerry got in on the act, helping us solder the pieces together. I told Susie about our stained-glass operation. She was thrilled! Within a few months we presented her family with a check for two hundred dollars. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Word of mouth spread…fast. Soon we had 30 volunteers and an assembly line that outgrew our living room. Jerry and I cleared the clutter out of our basement and set up shop down there. “It really looks like an angel factory!” Jerry said, laughing, when he saw all of us at work.

A year after we started making angels we’d raised more than a thousand dollars for Susie and her family. Despite aggressive treatment, her health grew worse. On December 15, 1983, Susie died.

Heartbroken, we donated the rest of the profits to Susie’s doctor, who was conducting leukemia research. Several months later, Susie’s husband and parents urged us to make more angels. A lot more. They wanted the money to go to area hospitals so even more folks could benefit.

It was a great idea, but I was worried. Selling a few angels to help Susie was one thing. Would we be able to sell enough to help hundreds, maybe thousands, of patients and doctors? That afternoon I stood and looked around—at the hardworking volunteers, the assembly line. The Angel Factory. I closed my eyes. Lord, I’m putting this in your hands. Show me what to do with these angels.

Almost immediately the phone rang. It was a woman calling from Oregon. “I heard about your angels from a friend of mine who lives in Maryland,” she said. She placed an order for 10 of the larger stained-glass angels—they were forty dollars each! From then on it seemed like the orders never stopped coming. Susie’s family was right—the angels were a hit! I put aside my artwork to make angels full time.

By 1993 we were officially a nonprofit. We called ourselves Caring Collection, Inc., and added other stained-glass figurines, angel pins and sun catchers in every shape from hummingbirds to lighthouses. Orders from all over the world poured in: France, Germany, En­gland, Russia, Australia, South Africa.

It seemed everyone had been touched by cancer. People really wanted to help.

And they still do! To date we’ve donated $845,000 for cancer-research equipment to the Johns Hopkins oncology center, where Susie was treated, and for patient-care equipment to the Anne Arundel oncology center in Annapolis. We’ve helped the hospitals purchase ultrasound machines, blanket warmers, and fiber-optic devices that detect tumors. Our goal is to raise one million dollars—and I know we’ll reach it.

A few major corporations have offered to mass-produce the angels over the years, but I’ve turned them down. Part of what makes these figurines so special is that each one passes through the caring hands of more than 20 of our volunteers before it’s finished. I think each angel carries all that love and hope to the recipient. Susie would be proud of that.

These days my basement is more crowded than ever. Jerry and I don’t have children, but our 90 volunteers make a big extended family. Let me make it clear, though, that these workers don’t come around for free. Oh no. We pay them…in jelly beans and pretzels!

Our youngest is a 14-year-old high-school student. Our oldest? An 89-year-old retired teacher. Each volunteer has her own story, his own reason for being part of the Angel Factory. Some are cancer survivors, some are undergoing treatment and some just want to help because they can. Like Katherine, who started volunteering when she was still in high school. Back then she cut her fingers more than she cut the glass! Now she cuts our patterns like a pro and is teaching me how to use the computer.

Then there’s Sylvie. I met her in 1983. Some of my artwork was going to be displayed in a gallery in the South of France. I had two weeks to learn some French, so I called a local language organization. Sylvie answered.

“You’re not going to learn much in two weeks,” she said. And you know something? She was right. I still can’t speak a lick of French, but in those two weeks I told Sylvie so much about the angels that she’s been volunteering ever since.

Perhaps the three most fervent supporters of the Caring Collection are a dedicated set of siblings whose lives have been forever altered by cancer: Susie’s children, Katie, Jenny and Matt.

I’ve had people ask me, “Do you think you’ll ever stop making angels?” The truth is, I almost did. In 1994, Jerry retired. “Please retire with me,” he said. “You’ve spent years making these angels, and they’ve helped a lot of people. But maybe it’s time for a break. Just think of all the trips we can take.”

I had to admit, seeing the world together sounded enticing. But several months after he retired, Jerry was diagnosed with colon cancer. His prognosis was good, yet I couldn’t help but worry. To lift his spirits I did the best thing I knew how: I made him a stained-glass angel. If I retire, this could be the last angel I make, I thought, hanging it from the IV pole in Jerry’s hospital room. Jerry looked at the angel, then at me. Tears filled his eyes.

“Promise me you’ll never stop making these,” he said. “Everyone needs an angel. Everyone needs hope.”

Jerry’s now in remission and his angel hangs on our living-room wall—a reminder to keep the Caring Collection going for as long as we possibly can.

See what I mean when I said I’ve been moved by angels?