Glenn Beck

It's July, 1755.

The wilderness of western Pennsylvania.

Not far from Fort Duquesne, a French stronghold that is key to colonial dominance.

British General Edward Braddock rushes on horseback toward complete chaos.

At his side rides a lanky young Virginian, somebody nobody knows yet.

George Washington, his face set in grim determination, heart pounding beneath his stifling uniform, and the air hangs heavy with a scent of gunpowder and damp summer earth.

The woods ahead teem with violence.

They weave through the horde of panicked soldiers in red uniforms, fleeing toward them, sweat-drenched faces covered in terror.

General Braddock, iron-willed and unyielding, rages at his troops to form lines and re-engage.

French troops and their Indian allies, masters in guerrilla warfare, melt into the trees like phantoms, their shots tearing through the British ranks with ease.

Washington squints through the smoke, trying to make sense of the scene.

Musket balls zip out of nowhere, bludgeoning men all around him.

Officers are struck from their horses, limp bodies dragged across the forest floor, limbs still caught in stirrups.

General Braddock waves his sword, growling at 30 men to scramble up a hillside.

But in the blind haze of battle, some troops panic, mistaking their own men for foes, and turn their fire toward the hill.

Some officers think the Redcoats on the hill are deserters and open fire.

Braddock's voice is overwhelmed by the din of war.

British bullets mix with those from seemingly invisible enemies, slicing through the smoke with brutal efficiency.

Within seconds, all 30 troops on the hill are dead.

A bullet finds General Braddock ripping through his arm and into his chest.