Aug 12 , 2026
The roar of cannon fire drowned every other sound. Smoke choked the dawn on July 3, 1863, but there he was: Lieutenant Alonzo Cushing, eyes blazing through the haze, gripping the wheel of his artil...
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Aug 11 , 2026
The air was thick with smoke and death. Guns roared like thunder, tearing through the steady summer heat of July 3, 1863. Amid the chaos churned by Lee’s desperate assault, a slender figure stood f...
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Aug 10 , 2026
Blood on the Hill. Smoke choking the air. Cannons pounding like the heart of hell itself. Amid that chaos stood Alonzo Cushing, hand steady on his artillery's wheel, legs shattered but spirit unbro...
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Aug 05 , 2026
Blood slicked his hands, but the guns still roared. Alonzo Cushing, barely 24, knelt in a nest of cannon smoke—bullets slicing air and flesh alike. His left arm torn to ribbons, yet he refused to q...
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Aug 04 , 2026
Alonzo Cushing stood at the line, deaf to the screams and roar around him. His hands clenched the rammer, pushing round after round into the cannon’s maw. Blood seeped from his shattered leg, a dar...
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Aug 01 , 2026
The smoke crawled, thick and choking. Amid the chaos—whistles, screams, metal ripping flesh—he stood alone. Cannons jammed, men fallen, but Lieutenant Alonzo Cushing gritted his teeth and held the ...
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