Feb 06 , 2026
Flames swallowed the horizon. Smoke choked the air. Alfred B. Hilton gripped the U.S. flag as if it was the last thread tying him to purpose, to country, to hope. Wounded, bleeding, the weight of l...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the tattered flagstaff like it was the last lifeline between chaos and order. Blood slicked his hands. Bullets tore the air, cutting down flesh and morale around him. Twice...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the colors with a desperate strength, clutching that flag like it was his very soul. Blood seeped through his fingers. Around him, chaos roared, shells ripping earth and me...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped that flagpole like his life depended on it—because it did. Amid gun smoke and screams, the stars and stripes became a beacon for the battered 4th U.S. Colored Infantry. Whe...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the colors through a hailstorm of fire. The flagstaff splintered in his shattered hands. His body was riddled with bullets, but he would not let that banner fall. A symbol....
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the flagstaff with broken fingers. Around him, chaos swallowed the roar of battle like a hungry beast. The colors—the Stars and Stripes—dipped perilously low. His life bled...
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