Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington

by Tricia Goyer

  “Well, sweets, you did break the national record. That’s a pretty big to-do, don’t you think?”

  “We did. Not just me.”

  “No, Rosalie—Rosie the Riveter—I was just the bucker. You’re the one who actually shot those rivets.”

  “Thanks, Birdie.” Rosalie breathed in the salty air. “But I’m not Rosie the Riveter. And I’d really rather not have a whole slew of newspaper articles written about me.”

  They approached the Colman Ferry Terminal, where the Kalakala would dock. “Here it comes.” Rosalie pointed to the streamlined ferry almost reaching the dock.

  They jogged up to the platform and stood against a railing to watch the dock workers secure the ship. Once secure, a gaggle of USO gals skittered past them carrying baskets filled with gift bundles for the GIs. Some of the guys who returned—like Nick—were wounded too badly to be sent back. Others were just envoys headed for a new post.

  Myrna, a redhead Rosalie knew from the USO Club, stopped when she spotted them. “Hiya, Birdie! Rosalie!”

  “Hi, Myrna!” Rosalie waved.

  “Or should I say, Rosie the Riveter?” Myrna laughed, edging up next to her. “When are we gonna read more about your romance?” She sighed and patted her own cheek woefully.

  Rosalie’s stomach grew queasy again. And the pier seemed to rock under her feet as if she were the one on the ship. “I, uh, don’t know. Probably never—about the romance at least.” She wanted to throw herself over the dock but compelled herself to chuckle instead. “Do you need some help?”

  “Now you’re talkin’. C’mon.”

  Myrna led Rosalie and Birdie across the wooden planks to where the car deck of the Kalakala would soon open and unleash a brigade of military men.

  Myrna linked arms with Rosalie. “I just loved that article. What a swoony reporter. At least in the photograph.” She patted Rosalie’s arm, then faced Birdie. “Don’t you think so?”

  “I do.” Birdie’s big smile, verging on a mocking laugh, painted her face.

  “Just get a loada you, famous girl. You met Lana Turner! Anyway, why don’t you two go inside to help the boys in the wheelchairs? We’ve got it covered out here.”

  “Sure.” Anything to escape this conversation.

  Myrna pointed to a flight of stairs, climbing up to the passenger entrance. “The guys in wheelchairs are up there on the passenger deck.”

  Rosalie followed Myrna’s gaze, her eyes looking for a ramp, but she didn’t see one.

  “Okay.” Rosalie nodded. “So, how do we, uh—”

  “Get them down the stairs?” The light breeze tossed Myrna’s hair around her face. She used her hand to push red waves back from her cheeks. “A couple of beefcake soldiers will come and carry them down the inside stairs to the car deck. Then you can wheel them off.”

  “Sounds good!” Birdie bounced up the stairs, and Rosalie followed.

  “So, back to Kenny.” Birdie insisted on reviving the subject of her prospective love life as they entered the ship. “You’re not off the hook yet, sister.” Birdie stuck her hands in her pockets and tilted her head back. “Remember, I’m Dick Tracy.” She squinted mysteriously.

  “Oh, brother.”

  Rosalie took in the Kalakala’s interior curving yet geometrical design as they crossed the shiny floor. The men in wheelchairs and a nurse waited next to a railing at the far end of the observation deck. “There they are.”

  “Oh yeah, I see ’em.” Birdie eyed Rosalie and slowed her pace. “C’mon, Rosalie, listen. I want to tell you something. Put the article and all that revolting publicity aside. Are you carrying a torch for Mr. Kenny Davenport?” She pinched two fingers together, leaving a little gap between them. “Maybe a little?”

  Rosalie placed a hand to her chest as Kenny’s blue eyes and welcoming smile streamed into her mind’s eye. “I do like him,” she said with a sigh. “I just wish he wasn’t a reporter.”

  “Sweets, I understand you’re scared, but how do you feel? He was super chivalrous to you yesterday, rescuing the fair maiden from the collapsing castle.”

  “More like a screeching polecat than a tittering princess.”

  “Aw, you weren’t screeching. Just a little, uh, concerned.”

  “Pathetic, Bird, that’s what I was. But it’s okay. I really didn’t mind that he helped me down.” She snickered. “Kinda liked it.”

  Birdie slapped Rosalie’s arm. “I knew you were sweet on him. Here’s what I think.”

  Before Birdie could bestow her wisdom, a young soldier in the wheelchair whistled. “Here comes our escorts, boys.”

  Rosalie waved. “Just a minute, fellas.” She tugged Birdie’s arm, halting her and pulling her behind one of the arched beams. “Tell me, Birdie. I’ve only been a Christian a week. You’ve known the Lord nearly your whole life. I’ve been mulling over this all night. Praying. I need your advice.”

  Birdie held Rosalie’s hand. “It seems pretty simple, Rose. If you like him, these articles seem like a perfect way to get to know him. God’s giving you this easy-as-pie opportunity to spend time with a kind, smart, funny, Christian fella—how often do you meet someone like that? And then you can explore your friendship without putting your heart at risk. At least at first. You don’t even have to date him. Just let him interview you, follow you around, and then you can decide what he’s really like.” Birdie took in a breath and released it with a hmm. “Seems clear to me.”

  Seemed clear to Rosalie too, but her heart still gloomed like Seattle in January. “It’s a fine plan, Birdie, but you forgot something.” She grasped Birdie’s shoulders. “I don’t want to be in the papers.”

  “Oh, sweets, you’ve got this all wrong. Remember, God calls us to put others before ourselves.” She gently pushed down Rosalie’s arms, holding them to her sides. “It’s kind of like being at the plant, Rosalie. When we first started, we didn’t think we could make it through the first day, remember?”

  “Yeah, I was scared I’d miss a rivet and cause one of our bombers to crash over the Pacific.”

  “Right. And now you’re afraid your heart will crash.”

  “In spiraling flames!”

  “But what if this is the mission God has for you right now? He might use the articles to help someone. Or maybe He has a gift for you on the other end of this. But you won’t know until you roll up your sleeves and accept the assignment.” Birdie tucked a stray curl behind Rosalie’s ear. “And it’s even better than that. God’s not like the boss who gives you an assignment and then leaves you to do it all by yourself. He’s a loving father, who walks you through each step. And if you miss one—forget to pray or lose your way—He’s still there, loving you, calling you His child. It’s amazing.”

  Rosalie longed to trust her newfound Savior. She craved His guidance, His love. But prying her fingers off of her own life, and trusting herself to God, pained her. “I’m so used to only having myself to rely on, Birdie. I like being the one to rivet on my own.”

  “Yeah,” Birdie conceded. “It’s hard—impossible really—to let go of that on your own. The good news is, sweets, you don’t have to. Even the letting go is by His grace alone.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Because it’s the truth of God’s Word.” Birdie nodded determinedly. “Plus, think of it this way, if nothing else, maybe dozens, or hundreds, or who knows how many ladies will sign up to work at the plant to be just like ‘Seattle’s Own Rosie the Riveter.’”

  Rosalie’s shoulders slumped. She was grateful for her friend’s honesty, but it wasn’t easy to hear. “You had to pull the old think of others more than yourself thing on me, didn’t ya?”

  Birdie’s eyebrows arched up. “Works every time.”

  Rosalie didn’t have to be convinced anymore. She knew having Kenny write the articles would be a good decision. She also knew she needed to fill Birdie in on everything.

  “There’s, uh, something else I didn’t tell you about, Bird. Kenny said if he d
oes a good job on my story, his boss will give him another really important assignment that could help people.” Rosalie cringed, building a case against herself.

  “Really?” Birdie shot her hands to her hips. “Is that all? What else didn’t you tell me?”

  “If he doesn’t do the stories about me, he’ll be fired.” Rosalie hid her face in her hand.

  Birdie gasped. “Rosalie! Why haven’t you said yes already?”

  Rosalie marched toward the soldiers. “I know. I know,” she said, assuming Birdie’d catch up. “I’ll let him write about little ol’ me.” And as she accepted her assignment to become “Rosie the Riveter,” a burst of new joy lit in her heart. One that hadn’t been there before. Joy in knowing that, no matter what plastering her name—and life story—all over Seattle’s papers would bring, Christ was guiding her steps.

  She grinned to herself. And spending time with Kenny might not be so bad, either.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “There you are,” the pert young soldier in a wheelchair chimed as Rosalie traipsed toward him. “Where’ve you been all my life?”

  “Allan, psst!” A nurse with ebony hair and olive skin nipped her fingers against her thumb, reprimanding the GI. “Leave the girl alone.” The nurse’s eyes softened as she smiled at Rosalie and Birdie. “He’s been like this ever since Bremerton. He’s asked me out on a date at least a dozen times.” The wrinkles around the woman’s eyes deepened as she laughed.

  “No problem.” Rosalie patted Allan’s back. “We know how fresh these kids can be.”

  “Fresh? Me?” Allan feigned.

  Birdie tapped down his hat, pushing it over his eyes. “Yeah you, Cassanova.” Then Birdie looked around. “Seems to me our escorts aren’t going to be around for a few minutes. Care to stroll the deck?”

  Allan nodded. “I’ll race you, sweetie.” He turned the metal rim on his wheels, rolling into the sunshine.

  “Hey, wait up!” Birdie called, quickening her pace.

  Rosalie chuckled, then glanced at the other two men and immediately sobered. Both older than average GIs, one guy’s hat rested against his broad chest, and his graying hair blended with the ferry’s metal walls.

  The other’s pale blue eyes zeroed in on his clenched hands. Sweat spilt over the deep rivers of his forehead, and his bottom lip was clamped beneath his teeth. A thick wrap of bandages coiled around the man’s thigh, and a small red splotch stained the middle.

  The name on his uniform read CARLSON.

  The nurse must have seen the blood seeping through the bandage the same time as Rosalie. Without hesitation, she turned and grabbed a white metal first aid kit from under a red-cushioned chair, positioned by the ferry’s window.

  “I thought we got that bleeding stopped.” The nurse’s voice was tense.

  The gray-haired man’s attention was focused on Carlson, and he patted his friend’s shoulder, the uniform’s fabric beneath his hand bearing sergeant’s stripes.

  “Thank you, Andrew. Thank you for being here,” Carlson mumbled.

  The lines around the gray-haired man—Andrew’s—intense eyes constricted as, without words, he comforted his friend.

  The bloodstain on Carlson’s leg grew, nearing the edges of the white bandage wrappings, staining his pants.

  The nurse hurried to Carlson, carrying a heap of folded cloth compresses. “Here, this should stop the bleeding.” Placing them on top of the other bandages, she pressed down firmly with her hand.

  Carlson winced as her hand connected with his leg, and a low moan escaped from his lips. Then he grasped onto Andrew’s arm.

  With her other hand, the nurse felt Carlson’s cheek. Her lips pursed slightly, and her eyes filled with worry.

  It wasn’t until Rosalie leaned down in front of the two men that she noticed Andrew’s left pant leg tucked under his knee, where his limb ended. He slipped his hand from Carlson’s shoulder and grabbed the man’s hand. “Hang on, friend. Mary Ann’s waiting for you. Won’t be long now.”

  For the first time, the man’s eyes peered up and pushed his lips into a tight smile. “And Lucy,” he choked out. “And—” He couldn’t finish but winced and clutched the other man’s hand.

  “When we get you downstairs, we’ll give you something for the pain, okay, darlin’?” the nurse said.

  “And Tim,” Andrew continued. “You’ll see Tim as soon as he gets back from serving his country, a hero like his dad. Mary Ann’ll give you his letters, though, as soon as you see her. ”

  “Letters,” Carlson rasped.

  Rosalie didn’t know if it was from loss of blood or perhaps infection, but Carlson’s face was a pale gray, and his eyes struggled to stay open.

  The nurse left to hurry into a small room and returned with a blanket, covering him. “Where are those marines to take him down?”

  Kneeling next to Andrew, Rosalie reached across, covering the two men’s fists with her hand. “It’ll get harder before it gets easier,” she whispered. “You’ll be carried downstairs, and I know it won’t be comfortable, but I’ll pray that God will give you strength.”

  Lord, ease Carlson’s pain, Rosalie prayed, and help Andrew comfort his friend.

  Thankfulness for the magnitude of these men’s sacrifice—for her and the millions who counted on them—surged through her. She longed to break the dam welling up in her heart and flood them with her fathomless gratitude. But how? No words said it all. No action spoke enough. She patted Carlson’s hand and continued her silent prayer.

  Finally footsteps pounded up the stairs beneath the railing and two marines appeared.

  “Okay, who’s goin’ first?” one of them boomed.

  The nurse stood and put her hand on Carlson’s back. “This gentleman.”

  The marines moved to him, then paused as they saw his pain—and his rank. They eyed each other and then, with a respectful formality, advanced to him. “Sir, just put your arms around our shoulders; we’ll have you downstairs to the medic double-time.”

  Cautiously, and far slower than “double-time,” they lifted him from his chair.

  “I’m right after you, my friend,” Andrew called, shifting his wheelchair toward the steps. “Think of Mary Ann. I’ll be right there.” Andrew waved a thin arm, and when he smiled, Rosalie noticed how gaunt his cheeks appeared.

  The marines carried the man down the stairs, his stifled moans echoing through the large steel vessel. The nurse followed with the wheelchair.

  “A good man.” Andrew gazed at Rosalie, shaking his head. “A squadron commander. He took that shrapnel in his thigh saving a kid from a grenade. He wouldn’t let the doctors take his leg, though—even though it would have been the better choice. I just hope his stubbornness doesn’t cost him his life.”

  “I’m sure your friend will be all right,” Rosalie said, even though she didn’t completely believe her words. “Do you two go way back?”

  Birdie was still by the deck’s railing, enjoying the sun and talking to the younger guy, Allan.

  “No,” Andrew answered. “Just met him on the train. Told me all about his life before the pain kicked in. But we’re all brothers, you know.” He threw her a grin as his eyes sized her up.

  Rosalie sent a smile back. “That was real kind of you to comfort him when you’ve got your own—” She glimpsed his leg and paused, realizing her words could hurt. She eyed him, hoping he saw the apology in her eyes.

  “My own injury?” The man palmed the air as if comforting her. “I only wish I could’ve carried him down those stairs. A prayer and a bit of time, that’s easy to give. What he really needs is the Lord’s mercy and grace.”

  Yet even as Andrew said the words, Rosalie saw him shifting in his seat. Sweat beaded up around his shirt collar, and his cheeks flushed. He rubbed his knee just above where his leg ended and forced a smile. Rosalie realized he was in pain too. Yet in his desire to help his friend, Andrew hadn’t focused on himself.

  Rosalie scanned the man’s face. Peace filled h
is blue eyes, and a cross was pinned to his collar. “You’re a chaplain?”

  “Willing to serve the Lord anywhere He calls me. It’s the end of my military career, though.” He pointed to his stump. “Maybe I’ll get my own little parish here. Doesn’t matter. I will be glad to see my family, though.”

  Rosalie looked over her shoulder and noticed the marines still weren’t coming, and she knew from her work at the USO that the one thing soldiers appreciated the most was someone to talk to. Someone to listen. She scooted a red-cushioned chair next to him. “Tell me about them. Do you have children?”

  “Two girls and a boy—all grown, of course. My son lives here in Seattle.”

  As Rosalie listened, she noticed the name on his shirt for the first time. It had been hidden behind his hat resting on his chest. It read DAVENPORT.

  Rosalie racked her brain, trying to remember if Kenny had said anything about his dad being a chaplain. Yet the more she thought about it, she didn’t know if he had mentioned his dad at all. Not that he ever had a chance. She was too focused on her own needs, worries, and frets to ask.

  Rosalie shot a glance to Birdie, waiting to point out the man’s nametag. But she was already walking down the steps with Allan and the two marines Rosalie didn’t notice arrive. Rosalie switched her gaze back to the chaplain, who still talked about his son in Seattle.

  “I’m mighty proud of that boy. Ever since he was a little boy, he paid attention to things. Took note of the world around him.”

  “Your son’s not Kenny, is he?” she blurted. “Kenny Davenport?” She pointed to the nametag on his jacket. “I noticed your name.”

  The chaplain’s eyes gaped open, and he peered at her. A grin spread his lips. Tears touched his eyes. “That’s my boy. He’s a reporter—”

  “Oh my!” Rosalie’s heartbeat rocketed like a missile. She pictured Kenny’s face at their reunion. The joy of meeting his father. The sadness of seeing him broken, weak—not the man he was before the war.