May 28 , 2026

Alonzo Cushing's Gettysburg valor and posthumous Medal of Honor

Alonzo Cushing lay beneath the hellfire at Cemetery Ridge, his body shredded, blood mingling with the mud beneath artillery wheels. His lips cracked open, but no cry escaped—only the relentless grind of courage. The cannons kept pounding despite every wound, every shattered bone. Men around him fell silent, but Cushing’s guns did not.

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Born for Battle and Faith

Born July 23, 1841, in Delafield, Wisconsin, Alonzo Edward Cushing was no stranger to discipline. West Point honed the soldier in him, but his spirit was forged by deeper fires. Raised in a family that held honor as sacred as scripture, Alonzo embraced a fierce code of duty—not just to country but to God. Faith tempered his resolve, a lifeline in chaos.

He carried the weight of his heritage with the quiet dignity of a man who knew sacrifice was inevitable. His younger brother, William, also wore the blue, both destined for crucibles that would etch their names in history.

The Bible was never far. He lived Psalm 23:4 daily:

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.”

That wasn’t just words. It was a battle cry.

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The Battle That Defined Him

July 3, 1863. The apex of Gettysburg's carnage. Cushing commanded Battery A of the 4th U.S. Artillery, on the southern end of Cemetery Ridge. The Confederate tide surged like a dark wave—Pickett’s Charge, a desperate gamble to break the Union line.

His orders were clear: hold at all costs. The earth shook with musket and cannon fire.

But the fight was brutal. An artillery round tore through his hip. Nearly shattered his leg. Blood pouring, consciousness waning, Cushing refused evacuation.

Instead, he crawled closer to his guns. Still directing fire.

When Lieutenant Joseph C. Porter arrived to offer aid, Cushing’s grim reply was his last: “Tell my battery to fire.”

At least five times he was wounded that day, but to the end, he kept the guns blazing—sacrificing flesh and bone for steel and country.

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Valor Recognized—Decades Too Late

Alonzo Cushing died on those cannons on July 3, 1863, aged 22. Recognition came many years later and all too slowly.

On November 6, 2014, President Barack Obama posthumously awarded Cushing the Medal of Honor—the nation’s highest tribute for valor—over 150 years after he died[citation 1].

The citation praised his “extraordinary heroism on the field of battle”, highlighting Cushing’s refusal to abandon his position despite staggering wounds.[1]

Lieutenant General Lewis Addison Grant, who witnessed the fight, wrote to Cushing’s family that his actions “were worthy of any soldier of the highest character.”[2]

His steadfastness at Gettysburg immortalized him among the pantheon of the Civil War’s fiercest warriors.

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Legacy Etched in Sacrifice

Cushing's story is carved in iron and blood—proof that true courage is not absence of fear but the mastery of it.

His sacrifice was not just battlefield glory. It’s the echo of every soldier who holds position when it’s easier to fall back, every man and woman who pays the ultimate price to protect a fragile peace.

In a world quick to forget, Alonzo Cushing reminds us that redemption often comes through the crucible of suffering.

“Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.” — John 15:13

His guns silenced in death still speak, urging us toward valor beyond the wounds—toward purpose rooted in sacrifice, faith, and an unyielding resolve.

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Sources

[1] U.S. Army Center of Military History, Medal of Honor Recipients: Civil War (A-L). [2] G.F.R. Henderson, The Campaign of Gettysburg, 1886.

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