Born February 3, 1890 in New York City. World War I Medal of Honor Recipient. He was issued the award posthumously on January 22, 1919 for his actions as a 2nd lieutenant with Company H, 353rd Infantry Regiment, 89th Division, US Army, on September 12, 1918, at the Battle of Saint-Mihiel, near Limey, France. He moved to Denver, Colorado as a small boy and received his education there. He joined the US Army and in May 1917, he graduated from the First Officers Training Camp at Camp Funston on Fort Riley, Kansas and was commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant of Infantry, and was sent to the Western Front in France. On September 12, 1918, he was severely wounded at the Battle of Saint-Mihiel, but continued to lead his platoon in its advance until collapsing and succumbing to his injuries. He was also awarded the Italian Croce at Merito de Gurerra and the World War I Victory Medal (with two service stars). His Medal of Honor citation reads: "Advancing with his platoon during the St. Mihiel offensive, he was severely wounded in four places by the bursting of a high-explosive shell. Before receiving any aid for himself, he dressed the wounds of his orderly, who was wounded at the same time. He then ordered and accompanied the further advance of his platoon, although weakened by the loss of blood. His right hand and arm being disabled by wounds, he continued to fire his revolver with his left hand until, exhausted by loss of blood, he fell and died from his wounds before aid could be administered." In addition to his burial location at Saint-Mihiel American Cemetery in France, his family erected a cenotaph to him in their plot in Fairmount Cemetery, Denver, Colorado.
Source: Find a Grave Wickersham was awarded the Medal of Honor for action near Limey, France. His citation reads, "Advancing with his platoon during the St. Mihiel offensive, he was severely wounded in 4 places by the bursting of a high-explosive shell. Before receiving any aid for himself he dressed the wounds of his orderly, who was wounded at the same time. He then ordered and accompanied the further advance of his platoon, although weakened by the loss of blood. His right hand and arm being disabled by wounds, he continued to fire his revolver with his left hand until, exhausted by loss of blood, he fell and died from his wounds before aid could be administered."
On the day before these events he wrote a letter to his mother, in which a poem was enclosed, "The mist hangs low and quiet on a ragged line of hills, There's a whispering of wind across the flat, You'd be feeling kind of lonesome if it wasn't for one thing— The patter of the raindrops on your old tin hat. An' you can't help a-figuring—sitting there alone— About this war and hero stuff and that, And you wonder if they haven't sort of got things twisted up, While the rain keeps up its patter on your old tin hat. When you step off with the outfit to do your little bit You're simply doing what you're s'posed to do— And you don't take time to figure what you gain or lose— It's the spirit of the game that brings you through. But back at home she's waiting, writing cheerful little notes, And every night she offers up a prayer And just keeps on a-hoping that her soldier boy is safe— The Mother of the boy who's over there. And, fellows, she's the hero of this great, big ugly war, And her prayer is on the wind across the flat, And don't you reckon maybe it's her tears, and not the rain, That's keeping up the patter on your old tin hat?"