Oct 08 , 2025
Alonzo Cushing’s hands shook, blood dripping from shattered fingers. The guns fell silent in front of him, but he kept firing— on borrowed breath, on sheer will alone. His artillery piece roared de...
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Oct 06 , 2025
Blood on the Highlands. Smoke chokes the air. Cannons roar like thunder ripping apart the sky. Alonzo Cushing, barely twenty years old, stands amid the chaos at Cemetery Ridge. His left arm shatter...
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Oct 05 , 2025
He bled at the wheel of a cannon, grasping the reins even as death tore through his chest. Balls whistled past. Soulless bullets spun dirt at his feet. Alonzo Cushing held the line until his final ...
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Oct 04 , 2025
Alonzo Cushing gripped his cannon’s wheel. Blood slick on his hands. Bullets hammered past like death knocking at the door. Wounded—deep in the gut, bleeding fast—he refused to quit. His orders wer...
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Oct 03 , 2025
Alonzo Cushing’s hands trembled, blood mixing with dirt as cannon smoke thickened the July air at Gettysburg. Wounded three times, he refused the aide’s desperate plea to leave—his battery a linchp...
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Oct 03 , 2025
Alonzo Cushing gripped the wheel of his artillery caisson, blood spilling through shattered hands. The cannon roared again—once, twice—defying the shriek of musket balls and cannonballs tearing the...
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