No Greater Glory: The Four Immortal Chaplains and the Sinking of the Dorchester in World War II


"The sinking of the troop carrier Dorchester in the icy waters off Greenland shortly after midnight on February 3, 1943, was one of the worst sea disasters of World War II. It was also the occasion of an astounding feat of heroism - and faith." "As water gushed through a hole made by a German torpedo, four chaplains - members of different faiths but linked by bonds of friendship and devotion - moved quietly among the men on board. Preaching bravery, the chaplains distributed life jackets, including their own. In the end, these four men went down
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No Greater Glory: The Four Immortal Chaplains and the Sinking of the Dorchester in World War II

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"The sinking of the troop carrier Dorchester in the icy waters off Greenland shortly after midnight on February 3, 1943, was one of the worst sea disasters of World War II. It was also the occasion of an astounding feat of heroism - and faith." "As water gushed through a hole made by a German torpedo, four chaplains - members of different faiths but linked by bonds of friendship and devotion - moved quietly among the men on board. Preaching bravery, the chaplains distributed life jackets, including their own. In the end, these four men went down with the ship, their arms linked in spiritual solidarity, their voices raised in prayer. In this narrative, author and journalist Dan Kurzman tells the story of these heroes and the faith - in God and in country - that they shared." Drawing on extensive interviews with the chaplains' families and the crews of both the Dorchester and the German submarine that fired the fatal torpedo, Kurzman re-creates the intimate circumstances and great historic events that culminated in that terrible night. The final hours unfold with the electrifying clarity of nightmare - the chaplains taking charge of the dwindling supply of life jackets, the panic of the crew, the overcrowded lifeboats, the prayers that ring out over the chaos, and the tight circle that the four chaplains form as the inevitable draws near.
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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
The U.S. Army Transportation Service troopship Dorchester was torpedoed in the North Atlantic, 100 miles south of Greenland, on the night of February 3, 1943. As a former luxury liner, the ship went down quickly. Of the 900 passengers and crew, 597 were military personnel, and four of those men were the ship's chaplains--Methodist senior chaplain George Lansing Fox, rabbi Alexander Goode, Dutch Reformed minister Clark V. Poling and John P. Washington, a Roman Catholic priest. Each chaplain distributed life vests as the ship went down and then gave up their own when supply ran out. (There were approximately 200 survivors.) Former Washington Post correspondent Kurzman (Fatal Voyage) follows the men from their enlistments to that fateful night, detailing their families and travails along the way. The result is the fullest reckoning yet for the men who have become known as "The Four Immortal Chaplains," who have previously been commemorated by the U.S. Postal Service, with a stamp issued in their honor. Agent, Elaine Markson Literary Agency. (On sale May 11) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Many modern conflicts trace their roots to religious fundamentalism and the inflexibility of Christian, Jewish, and Muslim fundamentalists. Formerly a foreign correspondent with the Washington Post, Kurzman (Fatal Voyage: The Sinking of the USS Indianapolis) uses primary and secondary sources to re-create the lives of four military chaplains who refused to let their religious differences stand in the way of their ministry to others. He traces the lives of these four men from their formative childhood years and call to service to their fateful deaths when the troopship SS Dorchester was torpedoed by Germans and sank off Greenland in 1943. These four immortal chaplains-Catholic, Methodist, Dutch Reformed, and Jewish-provided an excellent example of finding common ground and bravely serving one's fellow man as they distributed life jackets to all but themselves. No Greater Glory flows like a novel and reminds the reader that the foundation of most religions is love, not hatred. Well written and suitable for the general public, this work is highly recommended for all libraries.-Lt. Col. Charles M. Minyard (ret.), U.S. Army, Blountstown, FL Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A moving, memorable episode in WWII naval history. Kurzman (Soldier of Peace, 1998, etc.), a former newspaper reporter with an apparent penchant for tragedy-at-sea stories, revisits the sinking of the USS Dorchester, a luxury liner turned troopship. On February 3, 1943, while carrying soldiers and military construction workers to Greenland, the Dorchester came into the sights of a German submarine and was sunk. Most of the 900 men aboard died, but many of the survivors reported that they had been helped to safety by four army chaplains-one Jewish, one Catholic, two Protestant-who met on board and formed fast friendships. One soldier later recalled seeing the four arguing some point of theology in a football-like huddle. "It seemed a strange sight," Kurzman writes. "They were all of different faiths or denominations, yet they were conferring together as intimately as brothers. It was as if they were all of the same religion." Moreover, the chaplains forged so close a bond that, by Kurzman's account, they were disappointed at the chance that they might be assigned to different bases in Greenland. A fine model of ecumenicalism under any circumstance, the four chaplains drowned together after having given up their life jackets to their shipmates. Kurzman chronicles the lives of the four chaplains-Rabbi Alexander Goode, Father John P. Washington, Rev. George L. Fox, and Rev. Clark V. Poling-and those of several survivors; he even draws on the testimony of crew members of the German submarine. He also discusses the changing fortunes of their story: the four were honored with medals and commemorative postage stamps in the 1940s, then quietly forgotten until Senator Robert Dole revived theirmemory 55 years after their deaths and "helped push through the Senate a unanimous resolution, concurred in the House, to designate February 3 as Four Chaplains Day."Carefully detailed and very well narrated: a fine tonic for those weary of sectarian division. Agent: Elaine Markson/Elaine Markson Agency
From the Publisher
“One of the greatest survival stories of World War II. A tale full of heroism and courage in the face of genuine horror.”
Los Angeles Times

“Kurzman takes this gigantic tragedy and tells it in very personal terms. . . . The writing style is compelling. . . . Kurzman records dozens of tales of heroism, large and small. One can only marvel at the superhuman feats man is capable of in times of crisis.”
Indianapolis Star

“An intensely personal moving account of the events and personalities involved in the catastrophe and its clouded aftermath.”
Sea Power

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780786269013
  • Publisher: Gale Group
  • Publication date: 9/20/2004
  • Edition description: Large-print Edition
  • Pages: 472
  • Product dimensions: 5.52 (w) x 8.72 (h) x 1.03 (d)

Meet the Author

DAN KURZMAN, a former foreign correspondent for The Washington Post, is the author of fifteen previous books and the winner of five major literary and journalistic awards. His books include Fatal Voyage: The Sinking of the USS Indianapolis; Left to Die: The Tragedy of the USS Juneau; and Genesis 1948: The First Arab-Israeli War. He lives in North Bergen, New Jersey.

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Read an Excerpt

No Greater Glory

By Dan Kurzman

Random House

Copyright (C) 2004 by Dan Kurzman
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0375508775

Chapter One

Chapter 1

The Suicide Ship


“Sergeant Warish! Sergeant Warish! Wake up!”

First Sergeant Michael Warish did not respond to the pleas of the shadowy figure hovering over his ravaged body, which, shortly before dawn on February 4, 1943, lay crumpled on a stretcher spread on the snow-blanketed dock in Narsarssuak, a port town near the southern tip of Greenland. He had just been carried from the Coast Guard cutter Comanche, together with scores of other wounded and dying men who were awaiting an ambulance from a nearby hospital.

They had been pulled out of the freezing waters of the North Atlantic about one hundred miles south of Greenland after a German U-boat torpedoed the USAT Dorchester, a troop carrier crammed with nine hundred men, most of whom died aboard the ship when it went down or froze to death in the icy currents. The sinking was one of the worst sea disasters in World War II.

Finally, the figure crouching over Michael shook him by the shoulders and saw his eyelids flutter, then open slightly. Michael glimpsed the dark form of someone etched against the slightly lighter sky.

“Where am I?” he muttered.

“Greenland,” replied the fuzzy image. “How ya doin’?”

Michael didn’t recognize the commander of the United States Army unit he was returning to after a leave at home. Greenland? Was that another name for heaven? Was he alive? Michael wasn’t sure. He couldn’t even remember his name, who he was. But he vaguely recalled stepping off the sinking ship into a black, foaming, ice-strewn infinity. Then the agonized cry that had resonated in the night and lingered in the frosty air, a cry that now echoed mercilessly in his mind: “Mother! Mother! Please save me!”

And gradually all those hundreds of little red lights that had speckled the ocean began flickering again. Almost like Christmas, he thought. Except that these lights reflected not a merry affirmation of life but a cynical celebration of death. Attached to life jackets so that the glitter could attract rescuers, they marked the graves of men like himself who were either dead or dying. No one, he had heard, could live more than twenty minutes in freezing water, and there was no time, he was sure, for rescue ships to come.

As Michael bounced in his life jacket from wave to wave, he resigned himself to death and suddenly, to his surprise, felt relaxed. He thought about his mother and his deceased sister, whom he would soon join, and about his fourth-grade teacher, who had given him a cookie every day. Yes, he was dying, but he could feel nothing—other than the burning in his throat from the salt and oil he swallowed as he drifted through the slick polluting the sea around the stricken ship. His body, nearly frozen, was numb. He simply felt sleepy, but once he fell asleep, he knew, he would not wake. Actually, an easy way to die.

Yet instinct forced him to refrain from shutting his eyes as long as possible, at least until the full twenty minutes medically allotted to life in the icy ocean was up. . . . What happened after that? He didn’t remember. He must have died . . . and so, it seemed, he was in heaven . . .

Some hours later, Michael, conscious but with his mind still muddled, was carried along with other survivors to an ambulance that sped to a nearby barracks serving as a hospital, where doctors put him to bed and treated his leg, head, and back wounds. Soon, he drifted again into a deep sleep, though this time he would wake in the morning without prodding. He could remember his name now, and he realized that Greenland, where he was based, was not heaven.

Though the numbness was partially gone and the pain from his wounds was intensifying, Michael got up, deeply depressed, and, ignoring the advice of his doctors, hobbled to the barracks housing his unit a few hundred yards away to see his old comrades. Perhaps they could help rid him of his depression and put the horrors he had endured behind him.

But the reunion didn’t work. His friends greeted him with joy, but also with endless questions about the disaster. In desperation, Michael locked himself in the barracks boiler room and sat on a stool. He wanted to ease his pain in the warmth—and to be alone; to drain his soul of the torment inflicted by fragmented memory, to still the echo of that maddening cry for help. But he knew this was impossible without first unblocking all the horrific details festering in the inner recesses of his mind.

Gradually, Michael relived the catastrophe. He could see himself getting wounded in the explosion, trapped in his quarters, then escaping and crawling to the deck, where, as the ship was going down, he witnessed a scene of an almost biblical nature. He had never been religious, but he felt strangely exalted now in the presence of four familiar figures in the tableau. Unable to imagine a more sacred moment, he began mumbling the half-forgotten words of the Lord’s Prayer and, climbing over the railing of the swiftly sinking ship, stepped into the arctic sea.


Michael Warish had not been eager to leave home after his furlough and return to Greenland, with its icy weather, its bare, snow-covered fields, its overwhelming desolation and dreariness of life. But worst of all, as a North Atlantic veteran he knew the dangers lurking along the route to Greenland. German U-boats in so-called wolf packs infested the Strait of Belle Isle, aptly referred to as Torpedo Junction, between Labrador and Newfoundland Island. They had already sunk scores of Allied ships in these swirling waters.

Still, Michael, an eleven-year army enlistee who was now a member of an artillery company assigned to protect bases and construction crews in Greenland, was consoled by the thought that he would be rejoining his buddies, with whom he had tightly bonded in seeking to ease the bleakness of almost total isolation. Besides, he was scheduled to be back in the United States soon. He had first been sent to this vast arctic desert, the world’s largest island, in 1941, and this was his sixth trip there. He had come home on furlough this time to attend his sister’s funeral, and now, two weeks later, he was returning, one of the few passengers on the Dorchester who was sure where it was headed.

On the afternoon of January 22, 1943, Michael stepped off the train from Camp Miles Standish in Taunton, Massachusetts, with a “casual,” or temporary, company of about three hundred other men, mostly green recruits, and onto Pier 11 in Staten Island, New York. Some who had never sailed on a large ship before gaped at the sight of the Dorchester. Despite its rather shabby, gray exterior, it had the sleek and graceful lines of a luxury liner rather than the forbidding, fortlike appearance of a warship. The men were excited as they mounted the gangplank.

In fact, the Dorchester, 367 feet long and weighing a relatively light 5,680 tons, had been launched in 1926 as a luxury passenger ship by the Merchant and Miners Transportation Company of Baltimore, Maryland. It could provide 314 vacationers with comfortable cabins, suites, and public rooms that advertisements claimed matched the magnificence of the “finest hotel.” It was alive every night with laughter, bright lights, and soothing dance music.

Also aboard was a large, dazzling casino, where patrons could gamble as the ship cruised up the East Coast from Florida to New York, with stops in between at various ports. But in March 1942, with the war under way, the vessel metamorphosed into a troop carrier and the slot machines gave way to cannons. German U-boats were sinking ship after Allied ship, and the United States, caught unprepared for a full-scale sea war, had to bring every available vessel into service, no matter how old or dilapidated.

Soon bases were sprouting in the white, windy, arctic wilderness of Greenland as American engineers and military personnel poured in—those who were lucky enough to survive the U-boat attacks on troop transports taking them there. One Dorchester crew member, Chester J. Szymczak, who had sailed several times on the ship, later said:

“Breaking down in the middle of the North Atlantic, or being lost for days in the fog, seeing a ship disappear from a convoy, was noth- ing new for the Dorchester. If the ship made a trip without a mishap, it was considered lucky. There were many reports that the Dorchester was sunk.”

In fact, one of the Dorchester’s two sister ships, the Chatham, was the first American troopship sunk in the war. After two uneventful round-trips to Newfoundland and Greenland from New York and Boston, its luck ran out. On August 27, 1942, the USAT Chatham was torpedoed and sent to the bottom of the Strait of Belle Isle. Fortunately, escorts were able to save all but twenty-six of the 569 people aboard. Would the Dorchester’s luck run out, too, perhaps with much deadlier results?

Anyway, many soldiers saw before them a ship whose weather-stained exterior still offered the impression of a luxury liner, if a rather decrepit one, and some felt they might be embarking on a more pleasant cruise than they had anticipated. And they wouldn’t need a casino to carry on their crap games.

As James McAtamney, one of the soldiers, said of this first impression, “All the kids, at least of my generation, had the same idea: One of these days I’m gonna make enough money to take one of those luxury trans-Atlantic cruises. In those days it was the Queen Mary or the Mauritania, et cetera.”

Still, stevedores and others on the dock warned, “You’ll be sorry, you’ll be sorry,” and one soldier, an undertaker from Long Island— perhaps influenced by the end product of his civilian occupation— ominously predicted, “This damn thing is never gonna make it!” Indeed, some who had earlier sailed on the Dorchester called it “the suicide ship” because it seldom exceeded a speed of twelve knots, though, at least theoretically, it was capable of fourteen and a half knots.

Another man could not imagine enjoying a pleasant cruise, but for a less portentous reason. He was so prone to seasickness that he felt nauseated even before he boarded the ship—while marching on the slightly swaying dock leading to the gangplank. Nor did his misery abate when he vomited into a barrel of water nearby, for his false teeth fell into the barrel! How could he go overseas without his teeth? How could he eat? His buddies tipped the barrel over, and the embarrassed soldier retrieved his teeth—though, considering the condition of his stomach, he didn’t expect to have much use for them while at sea. He couldn’t imagine any greater horror awaiting him.

Excerpted from No Greater Glory by Dan Kurzman Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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