Wanda the Welder
by
Helen M. Turner
by
Helen M. Turner
In 1941 I was a high school senior in Wallace, Idaho. On December 7 our family was at the dinner table with the radio playing in the background. The program was interrupted with the announcement that Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor and we were at war. I graduated in May 1942 and our family moved to Portland, Oregon. My Dad and I were hired as swing shift welders on the ways at two different Kaiser Shipyards. The Kaiser yards were located on the Willamette River that runs through Portland. I think my Dad was actually a little proud that his 18-year-old daughter was doing the same work he was. (Dad served in the Army in France during WWI.)
First came two weeks in welding school which proved to be a little more exciting than I'd anticipated. I didn't yet have my full protective gear. Instead of leather overalls, I was wearing leather "chaps," that covered only the front of my slacks. During one session while practicing overhead welding, someone began pounding the seat of my pants. I raised my welding hood and turned to discover that it was the instructor administering the beating. No, my welding really wasn't that bad. Turned out, sparks from the overhead weld had caught my slacks on fire. He was trying to put out the flame, all the while ready to duck in case I turned around and slugged him for getting so fresh. Instead, of course, I was most grateful to him for saving me from a real hot seat!
When the title Rosie the Riveter first appeared, Grandma dubbed me Wanda the Welder.
I grew up inland and had never seen a ship before. Although I hated the reason for our jobs (war), I loved the job itself.
It was a great experience to climb around those huge hulls and see how they were put together. Welders could be assigned to do tack welding one shift and production welding on another. For the former, the welder worked with a ship fitter welding in place items used to pull steel ship parts into position. Production welding was permanent welding done after the positioning was complete. Tack welds often broke from the weight of the steel. Sometimes the "dogs" or turnbuckles (used to pull steel into place) would break, but my welds never broke.
There were risks, of course. One day, on three hours' sleep, I went downtown and donated blood. Back home and then to work where I ended up welding in double bottoms. These were small spaces between the bottom deck and the bottom of the ship's hull. Partitions were very close together with just enough room for a worker to squeeze into. All went well until I needed to go get more welding rods. I couldn't move! Perhaps it was the loss of blood combined with too little sleep. I had no strength. I laid there for what seemed like hours before I was finally able to pull myself out. No one ever came to check on me. Later I heard of that happening to another worker in another yard who reportedly was welded in to what became his coffin. True? I'm not sure. But later, I began to notice signs of claustrophobia. Hmmm. Wonder why?
Another time I was walking on the top deck and, for some reason, turned to look where I'd just been. There was a large square opening in that deck and in each deck directly below, all the very long way to the bottom. There had been a string a warning lights and signs around the hole, but they had been knocked down and the lights were no longer on. I had just stepped over the corner of that hole. A few inches over and I'd have made a deadly descent all the way to the bottom deck. Someone must have been watching over me!
Some have asked if men defense workers seemed resentful of women working at the same jobs for the same wages.
I was never aware of such. In fact, most of the men seemed pretty protective.
Although perhaps under the gender category, we could include the young fellow who climbed up on the top scaffolding where I was production welding, and tried to get cozy. Instead of pushing him away, I turned to face him, reached my hand up as if to touch his face but kept going to grab the brim of his hard hat. I flipped the hat over and cracked him on the skull with it. Later, out of curiosity, I tried that on my own head, very gently. It hurt! It’s a wonder he didn’t fall off the scaffolding.
He didn’t, but he was no longer a problem.
It was dirty, grimy work but I enjoyed it. There were other incidents, both funny and risky. A long hike to and from my car pool ride meant walking alone ten blocks in the dark at the end of the shift. The first few nights, a pack of neighborhood dogs came running out barking and growling. I managed to make friends with them and, after that, they would come running, tails wagging, and accompany me home, quietly.
Danger, dirt, dogs, and all, for me it was a wonderful experience. It's great that we Rosies are being honored but I never considered it a sacrifice, or in any way comparable to the effort and sacrifice of our troops.
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