Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the tattered colors as bullets tore the air and bodies fell like wheat before the harvest. He was bleeding, staggering—yet he refused to let that banner fall. Because to lo...
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Feb 06 , 2026
The flag slips from broken hands. But Alfred B. Hilton’s grip won’t let go. Not on that blood-soaked ridge. Not while the Confederates breathe fire all around him. The Battle That Defined Him Fo...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the colors tight through the smoke and cannon fire. Bullets tore flesh and hopes alike, but his hands clenched the flagstaff with the stubborn ferocity of a man who knew wh...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the colors with hands slick from blood, his body pierced but unyielding. The roar of Fort Wagner swallowed the air, smoke and death choking every breath. Around him, comrad...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the colors in his fading hands, the fabric soaked with the blood of fallen brothers. Around him, chaos spun—a wall of smoke, screams, and death. Each faltering step forward...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the flagstaff with a dying hand. Bullets tore through flesh and bone, but the crimson, white, and blue did not fall. Around him, comrades faltered, smoke choked the air, an...
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