Heat tore through his thigh, ripping a pained shout from his lips. Phillips gasped as he hit the ground, the grit of earth and gunpowder filling his mouth.

He reached down and felt for the damage of the musket rifle, the deadly bombardment still thundering around him. His leg was already drenched in blood - his own and that of his fellow soldiers, whose lives had spilled out and turned the battlefield to mud.

A shell crashed somewhere behind him in an explosion of fire and screams. Phillips threw his hands over his head; feeble protection against the earth now raining down from the heavens.

There was no moving forward. He was too close to the enemy lines, rapid fire and a useless leg pinning him to the ground.

Phillips glanced up, expecting to find the point of a bayonet before him, but then his eye caught something bright. Through the haze of war, he could see it, tattered and trampled, yet still shining like rubies and sapphires in the September sun: the nation’s colors. There was the visual representation of all they believed in, the flying reminder of what they fought for.

It had fallen with the Color Guard among the first volleys of the battle - assumed to be captured, yet there it was, some twenty yards from enemy lines.

More canon fire erupted from both sides, breaking earth and limb. A hot, angry wind lashed out from the impact, striking indiscriminately with shrapnel at those lucky enough to have avoided the initial shells. A red stripe from the flag lifted itself in the unnatural breeze, reaching out like a hand searching for a savior. It beaconed him.

There was his hope. Hope for a better future, hope for a unified country, hope that he might survive. The flag had fallen, but it was still theirs.

Phillips braced himself, gritting is teeth against the pain as he pressed away from the soiled earth. He took one, staggering step forward, and then another, his body hunched low and his leg dragging.

Bullets flew so quickly past him, filling the air with the sounds of a million bees, as they landed fatal stings on their targets. Phillips forced himself to move faster but slipped in the blood-soaked mud.

Someone let out a scream cut short by a wet gurgle. But Phillips marched on, eyes focused on the beaconing red fabric. He took a careful step over an unmoving body.

Another shell landed ahead of him, beyond the fallen colors. He hurried to use the friendly fire as cover. Then another explosion, more dust, more cover, and more shrapnel. A hard blow to the shoulder spun him, throwing him to the ground. This time he wasn’t sure what had torn through his flesh, but the pain was blurring his vision.

He let out a scream as he forced himself to stand; it was a guttural scream, a battle cry. He pushed onward, each yard a truth for his survival, until he fell upon the flag.

The fabric was torn, like his body; spilled out upon the earth like red blood on the battlefield; ashen-white like the death gazes of lifeless soldiers; soaked in mud like the indistinguishable blue of his uniform. But it was still theirs, and he was still alive.

Phillips pushed away the body of a fallen Color Guard and gripped the splintered wood of the pole. Another scream escaped as he hefted the weight of the flag. Then, there was another scream, from somewhere among his men, then another. Not the death cries of injured men, but the rallying call of soldiers.

As Phillips lifted the flag, he raised his men’s determination. The colors flew once more, the battle raged on, and that meant there was hope.

**Loosely inspired by Charles Tanner’s recount of his experience at the Battle of Antietam.