We all pass them every day in our journeys, whether we’re commuting to work, running errands or ferrying the younger set around to various events and appointments. In Danvers, Massachusetts. In Henniker, New Hampshire. In points in between. In points far and wide. In virtually every single hamlet, village, town and city of this country of ours. Perhaps we notice, more likely we don’t, but on the odd occasion that we do they probably register no more than a fleeting moment’s thought before rumination returns to that meeting later today, whether or not the grocery store will be crowded and what time soccer practice ends.
What are these things we all pass so frequently, certainly well more than a million times a day, at times unseen, at times unremarked, from sea to shining sea? They are the simple street corner markers or park monuments that note said corner or greensward being named or in honor of some likely long forgotten individual who gave their lives in a conflict that has all but receded in our live’s rearview mirrors.
Save for that historical marker on a street corner or in a park, those individuals are almost certainly forgotten. No doubt descendant family members hear stories about their long passed family members but the remembrances likely stop at the family reunion level and, as the years roll on, even those stories likely fade into the background.
We’re all busy with the larger things and smaller minutia of daily life so, to a certain degree, one can hardly be blamed for their incuriosity about the name on the sign. Such is our shame. That life so honored is one tragically cut short, potential forever unfulfilled,
hopes cruelly dashed, dreams never realized. Meanwhile our lives roll merrily along, unburdened by their loss, unaware as well of the ripple impacts of that loss on surviving family members and friends.
How much appreciation of our own circumstances would grow, how much more insight might we have to the human condition, how much more might we value the hum and drum of our daily existence, how much more might our lives be enriched were we to go beyond that incuriosity and think about what was lost? Not only the life brought to an untimely end, but the emotional burden forever carried by loved ones left behind.
Daniel Courtenay Woodman was born in Danvers, Massachusetts on July 8, 1893. No relation to the Woodman of North Shore fried clam fame, Daniel (or Coke, as he was nicknamed), was the oldest of 6 Woodman siblings born to Chester Woodman, a box factory superintendent and his bride, the former Emma Huntress.
Daniel was a talented, multi-sport athlete for Danvers High School, a halfback on the football team, a pitcher on the school’s baseball team who also found time to win local competitions in the high jump and the pole vault.
In 1912, at the age of 18, after logging time with an amateur baseball team in Lynn Massachusetts, Daniel signed a professional contract with the Haverhill squad of the Class B New England League. While well known for the heat of his fastball, he was equally well known for its lack of accuracy. Nevertheless, his raw talent continued to draw the attention of scouts amongst baseball’s cadre of talent hunters.
The Federal League was a short-lived third major league, competing against the already established National and American League circuits. From a players standpoint, the primary attraction of playing in the Federal League meant not being subject to the dreaded reserve clause that strictly limited a player’s freedom to move. The burden on players of the reserve clause was ultimately not removed for another six decades.
The Buffalo Buffeds of the upstart league signed Daniel to a contract worth $1,800 a year in March of 1914. Top players in the established leagues at that time made anywhere from $6,000 to $12,000 annually. Nevertheless, Daniel eagerly signed on to this opportunity to take his skills to the next level.
His wildness seemed to haunt him throughout that short professional stint, even while one Buffalo newspaper remarked that he had the makeup of a great pitcher while cautioning “if he isn’t rushed too fast.”
The requirement of earning a living came calling at that time. He was working for the National Lamp Works of General Electric in Lynn, Massachusetts when he nevertheless answered the call of duty to join the American Expeditionary Force overseas in what was then referred to as The Great War. From July, 1917 to April, 1919 he was a part of the medical detachment of the U.S. Army’s 102nd field artillery.
Upon his return to the States he took a job as a seasoner in the burgeoning leather industry north of Boston but his love of baseball lured him back to additional attempts to make his mark in America’s pastime. He knocked around semi-pro baseball until he was nearly 40 years old before ultimately hanging up his spikes for good. He nevertheless was an acknowledged presence at baseball games in Danvers after he left the sport, often heard to be saying that he could “show the young ones up today if he were playing.”
Misfortune dogged him in the 1930’s, not only having to declare personal bankruptcy but also divorcing his wife Elsie. He never remarried and died just before Christmas in 1962, spending his last years living with his sister Hilda in Topsfield, Massachusetts. The promise displayed in his early years never quite panned out the way he surely hoped and expected.
Many years ago I worked at a large financial institution headquartered in Boston. There was a woman who worked as an administrative assistant to one of the senior executives in our division who I became convinced was an arrogant snob. Any time you passed her in a hallway she would look the other way, seemingly as if you were not there and, even worse, as if you were not even worthy of her attention. She would only reluctantly make eye contact if you were called to the executive’s office for some reason. I carried this conviction about her for quite some time before it finally became clear to me that she was actually painfully, agonizingly shy.
Which is another way of saying one never knows the emotional baggage people are carrying around – how their lives have been impacted in ways we may never know.
Daniel’s younger sibling, Dexter was born in 1897. Like his older brother he served in the Great War, Dexter’s service being in the Marine Corps while brother Daniel served in the U.S. Army. They both undoubtedly were in France at the same time as the war neared its conclusion. In the 96th Company of the Marine Sixth Regiment Dexter was a participant in some of the fiercest fighting conducted in the late stages of the war, including the Battle of Belleau Wood, a key touchstone of Marine Corps history as well as the Meuse Argonne Offensive, the last Allied offensive of the war, commencing on September 26, 1918 and concluding 47 days later with the November 11th signature of the armistice.
On November 1st, Allied forces began their final push, characterized by the typical artillery barrage of the time preceding the jump off into battle. Dexter’s unit was involved in fighting around the village of Nouart in the Ardennes region of France. Having just turned 21 less than 3 weeks earlier and just 9 days away from the signing of the armistice Dexter Woodman was killed in battle on November 2, 1918.
It’s unknown how Daniel became aware of the loss of his younger brother but to know that a sibling who he likely nurtured, taught how to play ball, ate family meals and shared stories with, mentored and led had to be a cracking blow for the older brother. And surely must have heightened in him a sense for the fragility of life. Perhaps that’s why in the post-war years he so assiduously pursued his passion for America’s pastime well beyond the time when it was apparent that dream would never be fulfilled.
Upon returning from the war, Daniel Woodman married the former Elsie Herrick in 1919. In honor of his recently departed brother their first child, a boy, born in 1920 was named Dexter. It was some time later in the 1930’s that Daniel and Elsie divorced. Elsie was remarried to Harry Holmes of Henniker, NH in 1939. Her children, Dexter and younger sister Vivian became part of the Holmes household as part of the divorce settlement.
On September 30, 1940, Dexter Woodman along with friends George Hall and Douglass Rush from Henniker enlisted in the Army Air Corps. After completing their basic training in New York the three sons of the Granite State were assigned to Camp Nichols in the Philippines on the island of Luzon, just south of Manila. While Dexter remained at Nichols, George and Douglass were re-assigned to Clark Field, approximately 60 miles north of Manila.
After the surprise Japanese bombardment of Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941 the forces of the Japanese Empire followed up with attacks on the Philippines on December 8th, surprising for a second consecutive day unprepared American forces.
Douglass and George became prisoners of the Japanese upon the surrender of Corregidor on May 6, 1942. They both lost their lives while in captivity, Douglass on June 15, 1942 and George on December 1st of that same year.
Both Douglass and George outlived their boyhood friend. Dexter Woodman died on December 13, 1941 after the Japanese bombing of the administrative building at Camp Nichols.
On the corner of High Street and Liberty Street in Danvers, Massachusetts, just across from the Portside Diner a plaque honors Dexter Woodman, memorializing the corner as Dexter Woodman Memorial Square.
In March of 1947 the town of Henniker changed the names of Pleasant Street to Rush Road and High Street to Hall Avenue, in honor of Douglass Rush and George Hall. The park in from of Town Hall was named in honor of Dexter Woodman in November of 1942. The bodies of Douglass Rush and Dexter were returned to Henniker in October of 1948 for burial in the local cemetery.
To slightly misquote Rod Stewart, every street corner plaque tells a story. A story of sacrifice and of loss. A loss not only of those whose name is honored by their community but, as well, a loss for those whose lives are forever impacted by the bittersweet memories of a loved one taken too soon. The impact on those being honored is obvious and final. For those who remain behind, the impact is everlasting, a heartache that escapes any kind of easy resolution. A heavy burden that never truly goes away.
Daniel Woodman was preceded in death by his younger brother and his only son. While we appropriately honor those who sacrificed their lives, having given “the last full measure of devotion” we would do well to remember that for every one of those thousands of markers across this country there are also innumerable lives irrevocably, devastatingly shattered by immeasurable loss. That street corner marker may memorialize one name, as it should, but it’s worth thinking of, as well, the ripple effect of that loss on those left behind.
From there, let our appreciation and gratitude flow.