Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton stood in a hurricane of fire and smoke, the three flags of the 4th U.S. Colored Infantry torn and trampled beneath his feet. The air thick with death’s stench, bullets whistling pa...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the American flag with hands slicked in blood. The deafening roar of cannon and rifle fire tore through the space around him, but he stood tall—steadfast, unbroken, a beaco...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the flagstaff with hands slick from blood and mud. The colors tore through the smoke, a beacon for the weary men behind him. Shells screamed. His ribs shattered. Still, he ...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton gripped the flagstaff with fingers trembling in the crimson storm. Around him, chaos bloomed like wildfire: bullets stitched the air, men fell like puppets with severed strings. Ye...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Smoke chokes the dawn. Cannon blasts tear the earth beneath battle-weary feet. Amid the screaming rifles and falling men, a single figure grips the colors — battered but unmoved. Alfred B. Hilton’s...
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Feb 06 , 2026
Alfred B. Hilton’s hands clutched the colors—tattered, bleeding, defiant—while bullets tore through the air around him. Twice wounded, staggering, he planted the flag where the fight burned hottest...
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