OLD JIM NORMAN SHANNON HALL

OUT in that vague, vast “somewhere” of The Line They killed Old Jim, a proven friend of mine. Killed him at night, while he was on patrol; All the company found was just a hole A damned boche shell had dug out where he’d gone. The outfit passed the place just after dawn And saw some bodies; but they couldn’t tell Which one was which. They all were smashed to hell! They put Jim on the list, “Reported Dead”; “Missing in Action,” the home papers said. I wasn’t in The Line when Jim went out. A piece of shrapnel had hit me a clout Which kept me pretty quiet for a while— Gray days when it was mighty hard to smile. And when I learned Old Jim had topped the ridge I fell to thinking what a privilege It was to know him. Jim was just the kind That stops to pet a dog or help the blind. The sort you turn to when things don’t go right, And then forget when all the world is bright. Jim had a kindly eye that seemed to see The best in men. What could he see in me? I never knew; but Jim was always glad To give me half of everything he had. That’s why, you see, it cut me mighty deep To know Old Jim was Out There—in a heap. I’ve said Old Jim was not identified. All the outfit ever knew was—he died! And though there is no way to prove it’s so This Unknown Soldier is Old Jim. I know! The Congress Medal and the D. S. C., Have been given this Lost Identity; And knowing that they both were earned by him, I know the Unknown Soldier is—Old Jim!