Sep 12 , 2026
Smoke choked the July air. Artillery shells tore earth and bone like raindrops in a storm. Amid the chaos, Alonzo Cushing stood firm, his cannon firing steady as hell itself. Blood soaked his unifo...
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Sep 11 , 2026
The thunder of cannon fire doesn’t stop. Smoke thickens the air; the muskets rattle like death’s own drum. Amid the chaos of Gettysburg’s third day, July 3, 1863, First Lieutenant Alonzo Cushing st...
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Sep 10 , 2026
Alonzo Cushing stood in the storm of lead and smoke at Gettysburg, cradling his shattered leg and torn flesh. His artillery battery reduced, his men fallen or fleeing, the cannon still roared under...
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Sep 08 , 2026
Blood-red dawn. The guns roar like thunder drowning screams. Alonzo Cushing, barely twenty-two, demands his guns still fire. His blood spills on the steps of Little Round Top. Every breath—a war cr...
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Sep 06 , 2026
Alonzo Cushing gripped his cannon’s wheel. Smoke and chaos crushed the air. Bullets tore past, shrapnel screamed. Blood soaked his uniform. But he never wavered. “Fire one more round,” he barked th...
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Sep 05 , 2026
Alonzo Cushing’s hands bled and shook, but the guns did not fall silent. Amid a thunderstorm of cannon fire and rising Confederate fury, his voice cut through the chaos—not for retreat, but for fir...
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