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Down West Cabarrus Street, for reasons yet unclear, some mischief-maker propped up a life-sized World War I soldier — crisp in his olive-drab coat, off to face Hell in the trenches.
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Even more intriguing, this surprise installation on the sidewalk is lacking a face, inviting anyone downtown to walk around behind his 6-foot display, stick their face in a hole and come out smiling under his flat Doughboy helmet.
I tried this myself, channeling my grandfather, who shipped off for the Western Front at 16, just in time for war’s end.
But the fun here comes in asking how this Doughboy in brass buttons ended up out behind the Berkeley Cafe.
Some clues:
Case in point, Berkeley bartender Justin Sorrell guesses that a contractor friend, who is a regular there, must have picked up the jaunty fighter between doing work at the museum and the new Legends Nightclub down the street.
“My best guess is that they were going to get rid of it,” Sorrell said, “and he realized he knew a perfect place for it. Kind of goes along with a lot of the decorations at the Berkeley. It just ended up here and somehow fits. Could say the same for some of our regulars.”
So did the museum offload all of its exhibits?
Certainly not, said Mary Huntley, director of communications.
“No,” she wrote me, “the museum did not get rid of its old exhibits due to storage costs. Since the building’s interior is being completely redone, we’re also taking the opportunity to redesign our exhibition spaces and create updated exhibits that take full advantage of the new layout. While the renovation is underway, our collection of roughly 150,000 artifacts is safely housed in secure, climate-controlled storage.”
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But that doesn’t explain Yankee Doodle on Cabarrus Street.
After a bit of digging, Huntley circled back to say anything left over after the museum packed up its collection would have gotten demolished, so some of it got donated to nonprofits or here and there.
Regardless, our soldier friend represents an invitation to wander through history.
Looking at him, I see my grandfather Franklin Roosevelt Shaffer lying about his age and enlisting in the Army at 16 — anything to escape an oppressive father and the bleak Pennsylvania coal mining village he called home in 1918.
I can picture him steaming across the Atlantic, his first glimpse of the ocean, his first chance at adventure, arriving in France just in time for the Armistice, never firing a shot.
Lucky.
So spared the carnage, I imagine he walked the streets of Paris in search of baguettes and beer. Thus inspired, I’ll do the same.
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This story was originally published May 18, 2026 at 5:00 AM.