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New comic book tells tale of Civil War's first Black Medal of Honor recipient

New comic book tells tale of Civil War's first Black Medal of Honor recipient

Yahoo24-04-2025

As the soldiers of the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry Regiment stormed toward Fort Wagner, South Carolina, the soldier carrying the American flag fell.
It was July 18, 1863, at the heart of the Civil War.
Charging with the 54th was Sgt. William Carney, who saw the colors fall. He picked up the flag and carried it forward, reaching the wall of the fort, where his comrades rallied around him.
Soon, the regiment's position became untenable, and the order was called to retreat.
Shot several times, Carney held the flag aloft as the unit dropped back, returning it to Union lines.
Years after the war, his actions in the assault would be recognized with the Medal of Honor, making Carney the first Black American soldier to earn the nation's highest award for valor.
Carney's bravery — and that of the all-Black 54th Massachusetts — was retold in the 1989 movie 'Glory,' in which Denzel Washington played a soldier based on Carney, Pvt. Trip.
Now, Carney will get his own comic book, the latest in the Medal of Honor series produced by the Association of the United States Army.
The Carney issue is the 24th produced by AUSA, an ongoing project by the organization that recruits major stars in the comic book world to tell the stories behind Medals of Honor awarded to soldiers.
The script was written by Chuck Dixon, whose past work includes 'Batman' and 'The Punisher.' The cover was created by Wayne Vansant, whose work has appeared in 'The 'Nam' and 'Savage Tales.' Color was by Peter Pantazis, who worked on 'The Justice League' and 'Superman' series, while the lettering was by Troy Peteri, who worked on 'Spider-Man' and 'X-Men.'
The Carney book will be one of four AUSA will publish in 2025. Other graphic novels will also be released on:
Clint Romesha, who rallied his fellow soldiers in Afghanistan at Combat Outpost Keating;
Van Barfoot, a WWII soldier who advanced through a minefield to engage a machine gun position and a tank;
Emil Kapaun, a Korean War chaplain known for his courage under fire in providing spiritual guidance to soldiers mid-combat.
According to an AUSA release, 24 issues of the Medal of Honor series have already been published, including stories on Audie Murphy, Mary Walker, Daniel Inouye, Henry Johnson, and Roy Benavidez.
Carney's story was caught up in controversy in March when Department of Defense officials removed dozens of webpages from the Pentagon's official websites that covered the histories of notable non-white or female service members. Carney was among dozens of past military heroes — including the Navajo Corps Code Talkers, baseball legend Jackie Robinson, and the Tuskegee Airmen — whose stories were removed from the site amid a review aimed at identifying diversity, equity, and inclusion material.
A 2017 article, 'Meet Sgt. William Carney: The first African-American Medal of Honor recipient,' was removed from the Pentagon's Defense.gov domain. The page appears to have been restored as of April 24. The same article had remained on the Army's official website.
Carney was the first Black American to earn the Medal of Honor, though not the first to be awarded. Several other Black soldiers were awarded the medal during or soon after the Civil War for valor, while Carney's came in 1900. But his actions at Fort Wagner are the earliest by a Black soldier later recognized by the award.
Born into slavery, Carney was eventually freed and joined the 54th Massachusetts during the Civil War.
'Glory,' released in 1989, is a retelling of the 54th, but neither Carney nor any other real Black soldiers are directly portrayed in the movie. Instead, the Black characters in the film were fictionalized versions based on biographical sketches of soldiers known to have been in the 54th.
The movie does include the 54th's real white commander, Col. Robert Gould Shaw, played by Matthew Broderick. Shaw's real-life death in the Wagner assault is depicted in the movie.
The Black soldier in the film who perhaps most resembles a real member of the 54th may be Morgan Freeman's Sgt. Maj. John Rawlins, the unit's senior non-commissioned officer. Rawlins' seniority and position are a close match to one of the 54th's best-known soldiers, Sgt. Maj. Lewis Douglass, the son of abolitionist Frederick Douglass.
The soldier whose combat actions in the movie most resemble Carney's Medal of Honor actions is Pvt. Trip, played by Denzel Washington, who won an Oscar for the performance.
The film's final battle — like nearly all war movies — is far from wholly accurate, but its general tone, several small actions and its outcome mostly match the record of the 54th's assault on Wagner, including Carney's actions.
In the second battle at the fort, Union forces attempted to breach the defenses. During the battle, Carney saw the soldier carrying the unit's flag fall and proceeded to carry it forward to rally the 54th.
In the film, Pvt. Trip, grabs an American flag from a fallen soldier and carries it forward. In the movie's climactic moment, he holds the flag aloft as Confederate cannons fire at the attacking wave of Union soldiers, killing them all.
That part, though, isn't quite right. Though the 54th suffered over 40% casualties in the battle, Carney and Douglass both survived. Douglass even wrote his father a letter that night that tried to capture the terror and trauma of the fight.
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(These financial firms, in turn, benefit from the fees they reap from managing investments in ETFs, bitcoin treasury companies, and other crypto-based financial products.) "At the end of the day, it's a game and we're all going to win together," said Fold CEO Will Reeves, whose company had recently begun building its bitcoin treasury. "We're going to be the biggest companies in the world," said Simon Gerovich, the president of Metaplanet. Saylor, the silver-haired 60-year-old executive whose self-described "religious" embrace of bitcoin has catalyzed this corporate treasury movement, was one of the conference's chief draws. His keynote, on the event's third and final day, was standing-room only. Wearing all black except for a silver bitcoin pendant that hung below his throat, Saylor emerged to rock-star-level applause. Speaking in his typically craggy voice, he preached a post-cypherpunk prosperity gospel under the unassuming title "21 Ways to Wealth." Acknowledging that he was used to speaking to top corporate executives and politicians, Saylor said he was happy to now be speaking to the people, bringing them the digital fire of Prometheus. "Satoshi gave you an idea worth half of everything on earth," said Saylor. "The greatest idea in the history of the human race." Scrolling through 21 instructive axioms — "master artificial intelligence," "domicile where sovereignty respects your freedom" — each accompanied by an AI-generated image, Saylor told his audience not to "chase your own good ideas." Only one pursuit mattered. Everyone listening should sell or mortgage everything they have, take out loans upon loans, and use it all to buy as much bitcoin as they could as quickly as possible. "Raise and reinvest capital relentlessly — velocity compounds wealth," read one slide. Saylor described how a dentist whose practice brought in a couple of hundred thousand dollars in annual revenue could theoretically — through a series of corporate maneuvers, loans, share sales, and lines of credit — become a bitcoin billionaire. Why aspire to be merely rich when you could be the "first billionaire dentist on your block," he said. A constant on the bitcoin media circuit, Saylor talks in comically overwrought tones about bitcoin's power and perfection. He exhibits the personal commitment and persuasive abilities of the leader of a sophisticated multi-level marketing scheme. Over the past few years, Saylor has raised billions of dollars in debt to make periodic bitcoin purchases, MicroStrategy's stock has soared, and his once criticized thesis of constant corporate bitcoin accumulation is on the verge of being widely imitated. (Last year, Saylor agreed to pay $40 million to settle a tax fraud lawsuit filed by the Washington, DC, attorney general.) "This is a race to capitalize on bitcoin," Saylor said, sounding far more zero-sum than the we're-all-going-to-win CEOs who had praised him hours earlier. "He who has the most bitcoin at the end of the game wins." The crowd cheered. Ross Ulbricht, the speaker who followed Saylor, had attained practically mythological status among diehard bitcoiners. One of the first major dark web drug markets and a transformational event in bitcoin's history, the Silk Road provided it a clear use case: buying drugs online. As one former Silk Road customer turned crypto industry professional once told me, the Silk Road was the greatest onboarding event in bitcoin history. For years after Ulbricht received multiple life sentences without parole, coiners had lobbied for his release, until Trump pardoned him on January 21 of this year. After an introductory video chronicling his years in prison followed by shots of him surfing, swimming, and diving into waterfalls, Ulbricht came out to warm applause. But the crowd had thinned since Saylor's commanding speech — some chairs sat empty — and would get thinner as Ulbricht went on. He tried to rouse the audience with a cry of "Freedom!" and a raised fist. "I'm so, so thankful that we elected him and he is who he is," Ulbricht said of Trump. "He's a man of integrity." However foundational Ulbricht had been to bitcoin's early growth, the movement seemed to have passed him by. In his speech, he acknowledged starting the Silk Road but said almost nothing about why he went to prison, the drug war, or the flawed criminal justice system (some Silk Road investigators were prosecuted for stealing evidence). There were some general appeals to principle, but it was a stilted, overlong presentation by a figurehead who seemed to have been far more appreciated when he was locked up out of view. Ulbricht offered a stem-winding anecdote about renting a secluded cabin, where he planned to grow magic mushrooms for his nascent drug market. He found the cabin covered in seven wasp nests. The wasps reflected some of Ulbricht's most treasured principles — freedom and decentralization. But they lacked another, unity, which made it easy for him to destroy each nest in turn. What kind of unity Ulbricht was looking for wasn't clear. No one seemed as jazzed about Ulbricht's stoic devotion to decentralization as they did about Saylor promising to share the everlasting cyberfire of half the world's wealth. The conference's closing keynote — an appearance by the bitcoin political cause celebre, on the 10th anniversary of his being sentenced to a lifetime in prison — ended with tepid applause and a rush to the exits. In a week of politically infused celebrations, this was supposed to be Ulbricht's moment. There had been a special lunch for him that day, one of many fundraisers since his release. The conference included the auctioning of his prison art and the jumpsuit he wore on the day of his release. "Free Ross," a mantra that had been printed on stickers handed out at every bitcoin event for a decade, had won. But bitcoin's top political prisoner, its once occluded hero, had bored a crowd with abstract talk of freedom and insects. That night, I went to another bitcoin-related party at a nightclub in the Venetian. A healthcare recruiter in her late 40s named Jen, who lived in Atlanta, told me about converting her retirement account to bitcoin tokens and shares in bitcoin ETFs. A DJ played some recent hits while a mix of middle-aged coiners and Gen Z club kids swayed and pawed at each other's bodies. Some women in gravity-defying dresses danced on an elevated bar while velvet ropes denoted exclusive areas, where tables could run a couple of thousand dollars. "I've had such a hard time orange-pilling my friends," she told me. But her bitcoin investments had gone up 140% in the past year. Wasn't that proof of something? She asked if I had done the same. 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Yahoo

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