by Tricia Goyer
BY TRICIA GOYER
AND OCIEANNA FLEISS
SummeRSIde
PRESS ™
Summerside Press™
Minneapolis 55438
www.summersidepress.com
Love Finds You in Victory Heights, Washington
© 2010 by Tricia Goyer and Ocieanna Fleiss
ISBN 978-1-60936-000-9
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.
Cover design by Chris Gilbert | www.studiogearbox.com.
Interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net.
Vintage photos of the Seattle Boeing plant and factory workers are from the U.S. government archives and are public domain. Photo of modern-day Victory Heights provided by the authors.
Author photo of Ocieanna Fleiss © 2010 by Jessica McCollam | Jessica’s Visions Photography.
Author photo of Tricia Goyer © 2010 by Jessica McCollam | Jessica’s Visions Photography.
Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.
Printed in USA.
Dedication
To my grandma, Dolores Coulter,
whose loving guidance pointed me to Jesus.
Tricia Goyer
To the Rosie the Riveters of World War II,
who left the comfort of their homes
to brave strenuous and unfamiliar jobs
in the national pursuit of victory.
Your strong arms played a mighty role
in preserving the freedom we now enjoy.
Ocieanna Fleiss
Acknowledgments
To my Michael, whose love and support carry me through each day. Without his help with the kids, the house, and his own career, this book wouldn’t have happened.
To the best kids in the world—Ben, Gabrielle, Christian, and Abigail. Thanks for being on my team!
To Tricia, for laboring over edit after edit and making it shine.
A huge thank you to the real-life Rosies, who generously gave their time and stories to Tricia and me on a cool October afternoon: Georgie Kunkel, Anita Lusk, Chris Holm, Margaret Seis, and Rowena Tobias. Also, to my dear friend Jan, who shared photographs and stories about her mom, Iris, the first female auto parts deliverer in Seattle.
Thank you to my McCritters: Annette Irby, Dawn Kinzer, and Veronica McCann, for their great plotting advice; and to Kathy Jones, for her expert critiques. Many thanks go to Vicki Stiles from the Shoreline Historical Museum, who poured out her wealth of information about the Victory Heights area as well as Playland. To my mother-in-law, Nellie Fleiss, for research help, and my sisterin-law, Poppy Tackett, for being a first reader. Sharon Chastain at the Maple Valley Library also answered my panicked requests for research help.
I can’t adequately express my gratitude for Emmanuel Orthodox Presbyterian Church, which faithfully preaches and teaches the Word of God, and especially to a group of ladies who inspired me with a Rosie-inspired OCIEANNA CAN DO IT T-shirt. Love it!
I’m also always thinking of my mom, who supported any dream I wanted to pursue and shared stories of her life as a little girl during the War.
And most of all, to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ, who fully paid for all my sins with His precious blood.
Ocieanna Fleiss
Acknowledgments
Words cannot express the gratitude I have for those who pour into my life to make these books possible. Topping the list: my awesome coauthor, Ocieanna Fleiss, who must have Rosie biceps now for the many ways she carries me!
I will forever be thankful for my family and friends: My husband, John. My kids—Cory, Leslie, Nathan. My grandma, whose prayers lift me up every morning. My numerous friends at East-haven Baptist Church, who lift me with their prayers. My small group friends: the Dittmers, Waltmans, Griffins, Callans, and Klundts. Also, much appreciation goes to my friend Jim Thompson for his wonderful insights and edits.
Tricia Goyer
And last but not least, we want to thank those who have so prayerfully and diligently worked to make this book possible, including our agent, Janet Grant. A special thanks to Carlton Garborg, our editors—Rachel Meisel and Ramona Tucker—our publisher, Summerside Press, and so many of their staff. We couldn’t have done this without you! We hope you will always know how much we appreciate you.
Tricia Goyer and Ocieanna Fleiss
Not unto us, O LORD,
not unto us,
but unto thy name give glory.
PSALM 115:1
NAMED FOR VICTORY HIGHWAY, which had celebrated the triumphant end of World War I, Victory Heights is a neighborhood in north Seattle, Washington. The damp streets and cedar-clustered hillsides paint a portrait of down-home America. During the Second World War, stars hung from windows representing sons at war—and those who had fallen. Hopeful workers lugged their belongings into the small homes of Victory Heights, and its women rose to action, hefting the load while their men fought for freedom overseas.
Seattle brimmed with life during the War. Its West Coast location made it the perfect launching ground for military missions to the Pacific Theater. For the area’s protection, brownouts, barrage balloons, and antiaircraft missile sites were set up. Some you can still visit today. Despite Seattle’s commitment to victory, folks in the Northwest also knew how to have fun. Restaurants (such as the odd-shaped Igloo), dance clubs, and the famous Playland served as fun escapes for the hard-working population. Not only did many celebrities, such as Bob Hope and Lana Turner, make stops at Seattle’s Victory Square, but dignitaries such as President Franklin D. Roosevelt and First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt also celebrated Seattle as a great contributor to the War effort. Researching the Northwest’s rich World War II history gave us great admiration for the area.
Tricia Goyer and Ocieanna Fleiss
Prologue
May 3, 1942
Seattle
The cool, misty air caused Rosalie Madison to pull her arms tight against her as she focused on the twenty bombers that lined the runway, wingtip to wingtip. They were a forest of gray metal except for one bright spot, a splash of color on the nose of Vic’s B-17. It was the painting of a young woman’s face—her face—the word Rosalie scripted beneath it.
Her hands covered her mouth. Wide-eyed, she turned to Vic. “I’m there. I mean, that’s me. My face is on that bomber!”
Vic beamed like a child presenting a birthday gift. “They usually paint the nose-art—and name the planes—overseas, but since I’m flying this one all the way down to the South Pacific, they gave me the honor of having it done.”
“I can’t believe you did that for me. I’ve never had anyone give me such a special gift.” She couldn’t get her eyes off the image. She could tell from her painted, playful smile that whoever drew it copied the photograph she and Vic had taken last summer to announce their engagement.
“It’s partly selfish.” Vic grinned. “Nothing could be more inspiring than to see your smiling face before every mission. To remember, more than anything, who I’m fighting for.”
“You’re a good catch, you know.” She playfully punched his shoulder.
“I know that.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you?”
A twinge of sadness struck her heart at his questi
on. Her smile faded. “Yes, of course. How could you even ask?”
Since she was a young girl, the one thing she’d wanted more than anything was to find a good man to spend her life with—to grow old together, to raise children, to pursue dreams side by side. Then, one day, she saw the caring guy she’d grown up with in a whole new way. Who better than a best friend for a fiancé? She had good hopes for their future together, but now—in this moment—she needed his strength.
Vic led her across the freshly mown airfield, toward the flight line, and Rosalie savored the assurance of his hand pressed against the small of her back. Vic was the steady one, the brave man she relied on to plan, lead, and support her. But did she love him as more than a friend? A knot tightened in her stomach. If they’d followed his plans, they’d be married now.
Did I make a mistake? Will I regret not saying “I do”?
Rosalie’s heartbeat quickened as the bomber grew larger in her sight. Taking in the immense machine, her chest constricted with pride, knowing her work played a part in crafting these great gray beasts. She was also proud of Vic—proud he was going. If she couldn’t fight the Japanese herself, at least she could send her man.
Anger filled Rosalie’s mind at the thought of that morning last December when everything had changed. She’d been lying in bed, reminiscing about the fun time she and Vic had the previous night, jitterbugging at the Harbor Room, when her mother knocked on her bedroom door. The horror on her mother’s face should have prepared her for anything. But not for the news of the attack. From the first moment she heard of Pearl Harbor’s bombing, Rosalie worried about her brother, Rod, who was stationed on the USS Arizona, one of the ships pummeled by enemy fire during the attack.
Then the horrible reality struck home. Rod’s remains were never recovered but were still trapped inside, along with his crewmates’, in an underwater tomb. Rosalie wondered if those bodies would ever be removed. She also had a feeling that Vic, a pilot, would be one of the first to sign up for the fight. She was right. They’d lost her brother, and now Vic was leaving too.
Sadness and fear swelled, but she quickly shoved it down. She’d pull those emotions out later—during her work at the factory when her muscles throbbed and her heart ached with thoughts of Vic fighting so far away. Fighting to save life, as they knew it, against some foreigners’ greed for land and power.
Hand in hand, Rosalie and Vic hurried through a sea of McChord Field’s best ground crew, engaged in orderly chaos. The mechanics were diligently checking and rechecking the bombers’ massive radial engines, hydraulics, control cables, and airframe. Large tanker trucks rumbled by on their way to fuel the aircraft. The only things missing were the bombs that would be loaded into the specially designed compartments. No bombs here. Not yet.
Rosalie tucked her pocketbook more firmly under her arm. Until Vic returned, she had a job to do. In addition to her work at the plant, she was determined to stay strong. Strong for Vic—and for herself. In the midst of their time apart, she’d make a decision about her future. About theirs.
Her pumps squished through the cold, wet grass, chilling her feet.
“I understand you wanting to wait until I get back, you know, to tie the knot,” Vic said, sensing her thoughts as usual. “I’ll be home on leave next spring. You’ll love an April wedding. Your tulips will be in bloom.” His lips curved in a reassuring smile.
She leaned her head against Vic’s shoulder as they neared the bomber. “Yes,” she said simply. “April’s a beautiful month.” But what would Vic think if he knew her hesitation had more to do with her own doubts than the great big war that consumed everyone’s thoughts these days?
He tugged her toward his B-17 and patted its belly. “Rosalie, this is Rosalie. She’ll keep me safe while I’m away.”
His mention of being kept safe sent a surge of anxiety through her. “She better,” Rosalie mumbled while studying Vic’s eyes. Worry eclipsed the joy of a moment ago.
“Rosalie, I want to say—”
The light May rain abruptly transformed into a waterfall of water pounding noisily on the plane’s thin, sheet-aluminum-covered wings and fuselage. Rosalie and Vic dashed under the wing for shelter.
She forced a mask of cheerfulness, not wanting to hear Vic’s words, his heart. Lightening the mood, she deepened her voice like a Hollywood actress. “Don’t worry about me, flyboy. I can take care of myself.”
Vic grinned. “Oh, you can, can you?”
“You bet.” She put a hand on her hip and brandished a wagging finger. “You just promise to do the same.”
“Oh, I will.” He tugged her to himself and gently stroked her curls. “Watch yourself.” Tenderness dripped from his voice. “Don’t overdo it at the plant. I need my strong girl waiting—someone I can come home to.” Vic’s voice turned serious, but Rosalie recognized the hint of teasing. “Remember, you’re just a girl.”
Rosalie whacked his arm. “Just a girl? You wouldn’t even have a plane to fly if it weren’t for me.”
“Weren’t for you? Just you?” His mouth formed that crooked grin.
“I know I’m one of many, but—” She reached over his shoulder and fingered a rivet on the fuselage. “I think I remember this one. I named him Rivie.” Then she stepped back and held her hands up as if holding an invisible rivet gun. “Yep, I’m sure of it. I made this plane.”
“Sir?” a man’s voice interrupted.
Rosalie spun around, feeling as if their private party had been crashed.
A young airman raced across the airstrip and joined them under the wing. “Sorry to, uh, interrupt.” A hint of red colored his cheeks. “Control tower says you have five minutes.” Then he disappeared as quietly as he’d come.
“Five minutes?” Rosalie felt her brave façade crumble. She clutched Vic, stealing one last measure of strength.
“Where’s my independent Rosie?” He gently thumbed away a tear. “Where’s the Boeing girl who’ll win the war all by herself?”
Boots stomping through the rain grew louder.
“I swore I wasn’t going to cry like those other girls.”
“But you’re my girl.” Vic touched her chin, then leaned his cheek against hers. “I love you, Rosalie. I’ll be back soon.”
Rosalie opened her mouth, but she couldn’t return his loving words—not when uncertainty still filled her heart. “You’re a wonderful man,” she managed to say.
Nine crewmen approached to board the plane. Vic kept his eyes on her as he grabbed the cockpit ladder and stooped under the plane’s belly. “You keep saving the world, will ya?”
She waved back. “I will. You too!”
As he poked his head into the hatch, her resolve faltered. Save the world? She couldn’t even save her own feelings.
Alone, Rosalie walked back to the gate, hoping to enjoy one last glimpse of her flyboy before he taxied out, but the sky’s reflection on the Plexiglas wind screen prevented it. She had to be satisfied with watching the plane taxi to the runway, wait its turn, and depart with its engines’ deep-throated roar. One by one the planes departed and, second to last, the Rosalie lifted, then vanished into the clouds.
“Okay, girl,” Rosalie whispered to herself. “Pull it together. This is your life now.”
In the parking lot, she slid into the front seat of Vic’s 1938 Ford. Vic had told her to sell it to help the war effort, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to. He loved this car. The least she could do was care for his “baby.” Then she’d surprise him with it when he got home. It wasn’t exactly what Vic had planned, but life didn’t always work out as in one’s dreams.
Chapter One
June 7, 1943
Seattle
Rosalie Madison’s lips always curled into a smile at her roommate Birdie Phibbs’s high-pitched giggles. Even on hard days. Even on this day.
The salty tang of ocean air, subtly mixed with diesel exhaust fumes, wafted through the open windows, past Rosalie and a squad of other female factory workers. L
oose coins in the fare box jingled as the Seattle city bus jounced through potholes en route to the Boeing plant. There they would join an army of other women who lovingly welded, riveted, and pounded out B-17 bombers to win the war and bring their boys back home.
Rosalie fixed her gaze on a middle-aged couple walking shoulder to shoulder down the sidewalk.
Look away, she told herself, noting their easy gaits. Don’t. Don’t imagine the warm sensation of your hand wrapped gently in a large, strong one. If she could have anything at this moment, it would be that peaceful joy of being close to someone she loved, instead of the burden of loneliness that had become her constant companion. Added to that, the heavy weight of guilt caused her shoulders to slump and her eyelids to droop, even at the beginning of her workday.
As the bus passed the couple, the man placed a soft kiss on top of the woman’s head, causing laughter to spill from her lips. Rosalie sucked in a cool breath, but it felt like lead in her chest. Her fists balled on her lap, and her lips pressed into a tight line. Why did she do this to herself? Why couldn’t she simply look away? It should make her feel better that the war hadn’t changed everything—that bits of happiness could still be found in the world—but it didn’t.
Birdie chatted with the woman in the seat across the aisle, but Rosalie focused on the florist shop, the bank, and the small café outside her window. The bus driver’s voice broke through her thoughts. “University Street and Fourth!”
Rosalie turned back to Birdie. “Oh no! This is where I need to get off.” She stood.
“What are you doing, girlie?” Birdie tilted her head, flaxen curls brushing her petite shoulder. “Aren’t you coming to work today?” Her lips puckered. “If you’re not there, who’ll be my partner? More than that, what will our boss say? You’ll be in big trouble for sure!”
