This story was written by Lorraine Martha Blauvelt, Thomas Auld's Cousin:

Why do I say died? Beacause he didn't "just die", he was killed! Yes, he was killed just as surely as I am sitting at this desk typing this story. You see, it is entirely different when a person dies, and when a person is killed.

To me, dying sounds more peaceful. It's like a ship that is slowly slipping out of the harbor of Life; and while to be killed, why that brings to mind fear, pain, suffering and anguish like the treacherous bombing of the ships in Pearl Harbor. Yes, I think it is a likely comparison.

Do you question my right to say whether he suffered any pain or anguish before his time came? Well, perhaps you are right, for I was not there. I was not standing beside him to see whether or not he suffered, or if his time came quickly and mercifully. If I had been there, no doubt I would not be writing this type of morbid story, but you see, there is a doubt in my mind, a sort of gnawing, persistent question that keeps seeping up to the top of my other thoughts. The thought is this: Did he die, or was he killed?

Yes, that is the thought that keeps worming it's ugly head into my mind a dozen different ways, and after viewing some of his action pictures that were taken of the conquest of Iwo Jima, how else could his death be, but any other way?

I only know and pray for one thing; that is, that he was not afraid. He wasn't, I am sure, for he was not afraid of anybody or anything. Ernie Pyle, noted war-columnist, writes in one of his many interesting accounts that, "whoever entered the beaches of Iwo Jima and was engaged against the enemy knew, that if they were going to be killed, they would not be alone." So, that at least would be a comforting thought. Comforting to know that many, many of your buddies and comrades would also be murdered in cold blood? Oh no, there would not be any comfort in that knowledge. But, why then, does he say that?

Well, the way I have figured it, he means they feel that they alone will not have to face death. They do not want company, of course, but they know in their minds that perhaps that boy sitting next to him is also facing the possibility of never seeing a loved one again, and it's enough to give you power and courage to bear it a little more. To me that would be misery, and as the old saying goes, "misery loves company." No doubt misery played to a capacity audience that day.

Then, because you are a red-blood marine and you were trained to go in there and kill, you sort of shrug your shoulders physically, but mentally your thoughts are just where you left them a moment before. I might mention at this time that perhaps my interpretation is all wrong, that perhaps with the roar and din of battle going on, you can't possibly think, you can't even try to think. The noise and confusion must be terrific, as things are happening so fast and furiously during those moments before H-Hour, you probably do just was you were trained to do and act truly like a machine-run Marine.

No doubt, as you climb over the side of your ship, which has been home to you for quite a few days, ever since you left Pearl Harbor, you think to yourself, "well, so long ship, probably won't be seeing your familiar decks again, if I see any, it will be a hospital ship or if I'm not lucky, I won't ever see any ship again." As you climb down the network of rope and ladders, you slide your hands over the rope and suddenly you give the rough rope a last tight grip and squeeze, and it seems as though your hand wants to freeze there, but in a moment you find yourself sitting in a Landing craft with the other fellows, and you've already left the mother ship. By this time you can see the shoreline, and in the distance the out-line of Mt. Suribachi. Wave after wave of landing craft is heading for the beach. Soon the noise is unbearable, and you think surely your ear-drums are going to burst, then all of a sudden you feel a spray of salt water across your face. That does it. By; Thomas Auld Blauvelt's cousin's account and feelings about his final moments. Probably written in the 1950s by Lorraine Martha Blauvelt.