Mar 31 , 2026

Alonzo Cushing's Sacrifice at Gettysburg and the Medal of Honor

The roar of artillery tore through the humid July air. Smoke choked the hilltop, where cannons blazed, men screamed, and blood slicked the broken ground. Against the raging fury, a young artillery officer knelt, wounded again and again, refusing to quit. He fired his guns into the teeth of the rebel charge, a dying sentinel on Cemetery Ridge.

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The Son of Wisconsin and His Sacred Duty

Alonzo Cushing was no stranger to discipline and sacrifice. Born in Delafield, Wisconsin, on January 18, 1841, he came from a family steeped in military tradition and public service. Raised with a sharp mind and sharper faith, Cushing attended the United States Military Academy at West Point. There, the rigor of training mixed with a deep personal devotion—a conviction that duty to country demanded the utmost sacrifice.

His Christian faith anchored him. Letters reveal a man wrestling with mortality but resolved to stand firm when the moment called. His code was clear: “It is not Gods’ will that every man shall be buried under the sod in his youth, but He expects every man to do his duty at all hazards.”[1]

Cushing was assigned to Battery A, 4th U.S. Artillery, a key unit defending the crucial high ground of Cemetery Ridge.

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The Battle That Defined Him: Gettysburg, July 3, 1863

The third day of Gettysburg would etch Cushing’s name into the annals of valor. As Pickett’s Charge thundered forward, thousands of Confederate soldiers surged toward the Union lines. Cushing, just 22 years old, had command of his battery on the infamous “Angle,” the pivot of the Union defense.

Wounded early—his spine pierced by a bullet, a shattered thigh, yet he refused to fall back. In the deafening chaos, his voice cut through, rallying his men to keep the cannons firing. His actions held a critical gap sealed, blunting the rebel assault.

Witnesses recall how Cushing gritted his teeth, directed artillery fire despite agonizing wounds, even as blood pooled beneath him.[2] His orderly, Joseph Burr, reported Cushing’s last instructions as calm and resolute: “Tell General Hancock I die content, fighting for my country and my flag.”[3]

He died on that hillside, a soldier who gave everything but his will.

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Recognition: A Medal Long Overdue

For over a century, Cushing’s heroism simmered in the shadows—its significance acknowledged but his sacrifice's highest honor withheld. It wasn’t until nearly 150 years later, through dogged research and veterans’ advocacy, that the Medal of Honor was finally awarded.

In 2014, President Barack Obama presented the Medal of Honor posthumously to Alonzo Cushing’s descendants. The citation praised “conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty” during the Battle of Gettysburg, enduring mortal wounds yet continuing to command his battery.[4]

Brig. Gen. David Bellavia, a Medal of Honor recipient himself, underscored Cushing’s legacy: “His story represents the absolute best of military service—unflinching courage when the moment demanded everything.”[5]

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Legacy Carved in Iron and Blood

Cushing’s sacrifice is not some distant Civil War relic. It is a beacon to every veteran who stands in harm’s way, the reminder that valor rides on the back of relentless duty and deep love of country.

His scars are emblematic—not just the ones on his body but the ones etched in the soul of every combat vet.

His story whispers to a weary generation of soldiers and civilians alike: sacrifice has a price, but the cause is just, and faith lends strength when flesh fails. His last act was an offering of body and spirit, a testament to the red thread that stitches together all warriors across centuries.

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” — Joshua 1:9

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Alonzo Cushing died a boy. He lived a hero.

His guns fell silent on Gettysburg’s field. But in every veteran who takes a stand, his spirit still fires.

The cost of freedom is written in such blood. We honor it, not in words, but in never forgetting the price paid.

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