Hey guys, Andy here. I have been quiet as of late as I have busied myself diving into grandfather Denis’ personal items. The longer I spend on the project the clearer it becomes; the repetition of names, faces and events helps give Denis’ time line a sense of order, though the nature of war means that some names abruptly disappear and are replaced with new ones. However a constant amongst the chaos is Denis’ wife, later my grandmother, Diana (née Frith).
Anyone who has read Denis’ book, One Man’s Window (republished in 2010 under the title Malta Spitfire Pilot), will be familiar with Diana on account of how often Denis mentions her (she also wrote the forward to and appeared in multiple photos in the 2010 edition). This is reflected in Denis’ photo albums and other materials I am currently combing through, which are given extra weight by the bundle of letters to her which she kept. It is somewhat strange seeing a snapshot of my grandmother, during wartime, as devotedly seen through Denis’ eyes. It is clear she quickly became a central pillar in his life but, from to the fact that she is rarely an active persona in the materials, she is for all intensive purposes a witness to events. Her presence in the project is veritably spectral.
Denis recounts Diana’s entrance into his life, or rather his into hers;
I heard many people speak of Diana Frith, the Brigadier’s daughter, but it was’nt until June 28th that I first met her, when full of champagne and confidence at a party that I grew far too jealous of Smith the tall Australian who appeared to be her partner, I walked across and introduced myself to the Brig, Mrs and Diana, Lady Londesborough and others at their table. This was four days after first going into action when the 12 Group wing started operating from West Maling with our squadron in their company. There were more sweeps on July 8, and the 11th. Howe was killed. On the 8th I found myself tout seul over Dunkirk and was chased home by 20+ Me109s, or maybe I imagined it. On the days between I lay in the sunshine on the canal banks with Diana and bathed.
This one paragraph, with warts and all spelling and grammar, conveys a wealth of information but, staying on track, family history has Denis proposing to Diana the very next day which she rebuffed. Undeterred Denis started writing to and spending time with her which she did not object to, ultimately leading to their wedding less than six months later on 24th January 1942.
The wedding photo, of the newlyweds, their parents, Diana’s sister and Denis’ best man is telling; while Denis looks as pleased as punch only one of the parents (Diana’s mother) looks even remotely cheerful while the rest look at the camera rather solemnly. My best guess is they were concerned for the life ahead of the young couple, especially in Denis’ case as a pilot.
The first year of their married life began tumultuously; initially living apart Denis writes, at the end of February, of persuading the local vicar and his wife to take Diana on as a paying guest but that Diana, due to problems with the servants, will have to help around the house. Three days later, just prior to Diana’s arrival to live with him, Denis talks of his squadron becoming day operational with the possibility of moving location. Three weeks after this news, in mid March, Denis himself is posted to a different squadron in a new location, and sets sail for Malta in mid April. The speed of change in their personal lives is best exemplified via Diana’s receiving of a telegram from a friend in the Middle East, congratulating her on her marriage, in May by which time Denis had already flown half a dozen sorties in Malta.
Denis’ letters to Diana present a marked dichotomy in his life; between the job of Spitfire pilot and restrictions in what he could tell her and his passion as a painter connecting with the accomplished piano playing musician in Diana. His writing speaks little of the day to day of flying and his role as a leader and keeping his charges safe; instead they are filled with romance and colour which, presumably, were topics of little interest to his fellow pilots in the mess.
July 17 1941
I am writing in my room now and it is filled with golden light. And what is so strange about that? Well we have had low clouds and fine drizzle since lunch time on the top of Biggin Hill- and now the sun has also dropped out of the low clouds to the west of us, and there is a patch of sky just above the tree tops which is brilliant gold and pale green. In this gap the circle of the London baloon barrage is quite clear. It is a fantastic contrast, the bright peaceful sunset to the west, while all around here are rattling windows, the rustling trees and the moaning of the wind over the roofs and through the chimney pots. The landscape here is of subtle greys and the drooping clouds are a broken black colour. It’s the night to go to bed and think of human joy and security under a strong roof. I’m on at dawn tomorrow morning at 4am.
