A Commemoration of F/Lt. D.G. Gribble
A Reflection on the life of Battle of Britain pilot F/Lt. Dorian George Gribble DFC, 54 Squadron, and the story of how I came to paint his Spitfire.
This painting had an unusual genesis, which somehow led to the unintended, but rather strange and poignant, convergence of its completion with the eightieth anniversary of the death of the pilot that it commemorated.
The pilot was F/Lt. Dorian George Gribble, an eminently brave and successful pilot, typical perhaps in many ways of so many of the undersung heroes of the conflict whose names become lost in the mists of history.
Born in 1919, and schooled in the Isle of Wight, he joined the RAF in 1938. He was posted to 54 Squadron, with which he remained throughout his service career and all too short life.
Gribble fought with the Squadron over France in early 1940. At one point, he had to force land his damaged Spitfire on the beach near Dunkirk, from where he managed to return by ship, all the while clutching the radio from his aircraft, concerned that it was too secret to fall into enemy hands.
He continued to fight with 54 Squadron throughout the Battle of Britain, flying from the famous Hornchurch aerodrome, as well as from Rochford and Manston in the thick of the hardest fighting. He was awarded the DFC at the height of the Battle for his service. The citation mentions ‘the courageous and determined manner’ of his leadership, and refers to one combat in which he led a section attack in, on six Dorniers under severe crossfire, despite having run out of ammunition himself, preventing a successful attack by the enemy on a convoy.
From his combat reports, Gribble appears unafraid to have pushed his attacks in close, with all the associated risks this brought. With all of this skill, he is also remembered for his sense of humour, fellow Squadron pilot, Al Deere, describing him affectionately as the ‘squadron joker’.
By the end of the Battle of Britain, Gribble was the only pilot still flying with the Squadron who had served with it since the start of the War.
His service continued into 1941, as the RAF now commenced offensive sweeps across occupied France. On the 4th of June 1941, flying as part of the ‘Hornchurch Wing’ over Calais, he led his section on what was to be his last attack, on two Me109 fighters. His section were attacked by further enemy fighters and his aircraft was hit, appearing to sustain damage to the engine. He was seen to bail out at a low height over the sea, but despite extensive aerial and sea searches, he was never found.
Further details of his life can be found either on the Battle of Britain London Monument biography for him or the Wikipedia page about him.
Strangely, I had not even heard of George Gribble when the first idea for the painting that was to feature him came to mind.
I had been working on another painting, a landscape work, with a peaceful summer sky. The weather however progressively began to turn, and later in the day I found myself gazing at an utterly spectacular sky, quite unlike what I was painting.
It seemed there were now strong thermal up currents there, which tore at the simple and settled looking summer skies and pulled the clouds upwards into fierce, almost menacing, but spectacular and towering forms, with sunlight playing mischievously with their edges. It turned some of the clouds into fiercely silhouetted forms and flattened others into shapes that oscillated between brilliantly reflective and ghost like disappearance.
This dramatic sky was crying out to be the subject of another painting. I know, however, the perils of having more than one painting on the go at once, so disciplined myself to the completion of the already started one and left this sky brooding in the background of my imagination.
It wasn’t long there though. Something about the sky entwined in my mind with the accounts of the evening combat on the Hardest Day in the Battle of Britain that I had been studying, a combat in which a similar turn of the weather had played a key part. It wasn’t long before the image of a Spitfire climbing through the shafts of light, between towering cumuli, in the aftermath of the engagement was planted firmly in my mind.
After a little trawling through the available combat reports for the engagement on the National Archives, I was drawn to portraying the aircraft of D.G. Gribble, whose brave and frenetic activity throughout the combat seemed to sit so exactly in how I pictured the moment and meaning of the painting. I hoped to portray the experience of the stark contrast between dramatic and beautiful quiet in the sky, as the pilot found himself suddenly alone after the intensity of combat.
The painting felt so compelling that it pushed its way to the front of the painting queue, and as soon as the last painting was complete, I moved straight to this one.
It was only as I studied Gribble’s biography more carefully, as I finished the painting, the revelation hit me that I had finished the painting exactly eighty years to the day he had lost his life over, or in, the English Channel, on his last combat mission, in 1941.
It was a heart tugging thought. Given the unusual way the art had come about and the speed with which I had executed it, it seemed a remarkable coincidence. I had read his biography as I started the painting, so perhaps my subconscious mind had registered this date and driven the whole process? I know my conscious mind definitely did not. It seemed though as if a whole chain of things had led to the creation and completion of the painting at this particular point, many of which were outside of my control.
Suffice it to say that here is an abiding image of George Gribble that will be forever transfixed in my mind. That of him tearing upwards in his Spitfire, in exultant release, accompanied by the song of a Merlin engine, whilst the shafts of sunlight dance through the unending towers of cloud around him.
The pilot was F/Lt. Dorian George Gribble, an eminently brave and successful pilot, typical perhaps in many ways of so many of the undersung heroes of the conflict whose names become lost in the mists of history.
Born in 1919, and schooled in the Isle of Wight, he joined the RAF in 1938. He was posted to 54 Squadron, with which he remained throughout his service career and all too short life.
Gribble fought with the Squadron over France in early 1940. At one point, he had to force land his damaged Spitfire on the beach near Dunkirk, from where he managed to return by ship, all the while clutching the radio from his aircraft, concerned that it was too secret to fall into enemy hands.
He continued to fight with 54 Squadron throughout the Battle of Britain, flying from the famous Hornchurch aerodrome, as well as from Rochford and Manston in the thick of the hardest fighting. He was awarded the DFC at the height of the Battle for his service. The citation mentions ‘the courageous and determined manner’ of his leadership, and refers to one combat in which he led a section attack in, on six Dorniers under severe crossfire, despite having run out of ammunition himself, preventing a successful attack by the enemy on a convoy.
From his combat reports, Gribble appears unafraid to have pushed his attacks in close, with all the associated risks this brought. With all of this skill, he is also remembered for his sense of humour, fellow Squadron pilot, Al Deere, describing him affectionately as the ‘squadron joker’.
By the end of the Battle of Britain, Gribble was the only pilot still flying with the Squadron who had served with it since the start of the War.
His service continued into 1941, as the RAF now commenced offensive sweeps across occupied France. On the 4th of June 1941, flying as part of the ‘Hornchurch Wing’ over Calais, he led his section on what was to be his last attack, on two Me109 fighters. His section were attacked by further enemy fighters and his aircraft was hit, appearing to sustain damage to the engine. He was seen to bail out at a low height over the sea, but despite extensive aerial and sea searches, he was never found.
Further details of his life can be found either on the Battle of Britain London Monument biography for him or the Wikipedia page about him.
Strangely, I had not even heard of George Gribble when the first idea for the painting that was to feature him came to mind.
I had been working on another painting, a landscape work, with a peaceful summer sky. The weather however progressively began to turn, and later in the day I found myself gazing at an utterly spectacular sky, quite unlike what I was painting.
It seemed there were now strong thermal up currents there, which tore at the simple and settled looking summer skies and pulled the clouds upwards into fierce, almost menacing, but spectacular and towering forms, with sunlight playing mischievously with their edges. It turned some of the clouds into fiercely silhouetted forms and flattened others into shapes that oscillated between brilliantly reflective and ghost like disappearance.
This dramatic sky was crying out to be the subject of another painting. I know, however, the perils of having more than one painting on the go at once, so disciplined myself to the completion of the already started one and left this sky brooding in the background of my imagination.
It wasn’t long there though. Something about the sky entwined in my mind with the accounts of the evening combat on the Hardest Day in the Battle of Britain that I had been studying, a combat in which a similar turn of the weather had played a key part. It wasn’t long before the image of a Spitfire climbing through the shafts of light, between towering cumuli, in the aftermath of the engagement was planted firmly in my mind.
After a little trawling through the available combat reports for the engagement on the National Archives, I was drawn to portraying the aircraft of D.G. Gribble, whose brave and frenetic activity throughout the combat seemed to sit so exactly in how I pictured the moment and meaning of the painting. I hoped to portray the experience of the stark contrast between dramatic and beautiful quiet in the sky, as the pilot found himself suddenly alone after the intensity of combat.
The painting felt so compelling that it pushed its way to the front of the painting queue, and as soon as the last painting was complete, I moved straight to this one.
It was only as I studied Gribble’s biography more carefully, as I finished the painting, the revelation hit me that I had finished the painting exactly eighty years to the day he had lost his life over, or in, the English Channel, on his last combat mission, in 1941.
It was a heart tugging thought. Given the unusual way the art had come about and the speed with which I had executed it, it seemed a remarkable coincidence. I had read his biography as I started the painting, so perhaps my subconscious mind had registered this date and driven the whole process? I know my conscious mind definitely did not. It seemed though as if a whole chain of things had led to the creation and completion of the painting at this particular point, many of which were outside of my control.
Suffice it to say that here is an abiding image of George Gribble that will be forever transfixed in my mind. That of him tearing upwards in his Spitfire, in exultant release, accompanied by the song of a Merlin engine, whilst the shafts of sunlight dance through the unending towers of cloud around him.