Dennis: a time to love and a time to die: In his RAF uniform, he was handsome and gallant. But just before D-Day he flew to France and didn't return. Fifty years later, Anne Mitchell still remembers him

My sister, Kay, received her ATS (Auxiliary Territorial Service) call-up papers in May 1942, so we decided to have a week in Torquay before she left. Birmingham had endured many air raids and we looked forward to the sea and sunshine.

We set off early one Saturday. When the train arrived, it seemed impossible to squeeze another passenger in, but soldiers hauled us in through the windows. Some pushed, others pulled. We laughed, tears running down our cheeks.

Torquay was beautiful. The sky and sea shimmered, blossom filled the air with its scent. But the beaches were rolled in barbed wire, with only a small space for holidaymakers. We couldn't swim as the shore was mined.

Our hotel cost pounds 3 for the week, full board. What a laugh that was. We had hot water soup flavoured with gravy browning. The main course was a sardine on toast.

One day Kay and I were seated by the window. We watched two planes flying very low. They roared over us. I saw a black object fall 100 yards away. No air raid warning had sounded. Then they came in for the kill, machine guns blasting. The glass shattered in the dining room, which was once a conservatory. Everyone fell in a heap. Kay's mouth was bleeding and she spat out a tooth.

I was an air raid warden so I left the hotel and ran towards a building that had half its side blown out. I climbed some stairs and heard a moaning sound. Next to an enormous bay window lay an old lady. I pulled her as gently as I could into the middle of the room. Her body and legs were cut in so many places.

'Did they get those Germans, duck?' she said. I moistened her lips with water and cradled her head in my lap. Soon she lapsed into unconsciousness. The air raid warning sounded. Still no one came. I pleaded with God to send help. Suddenly I heard footsteps running up the stairs and there stood two young airmen. They reassured me the ambulance was on its way. In minutes the room was full of people. The ceiling and walls were marked with her flesh and blood. I felt very sick.

I went back to the hotel. Kay was frantic with worry at my disappearance. She cried when she saw me. My beautiful turquoise blue dress was covered in blood, my best shoes also. Later, to get over the shock, we took a bus ride. We walked back along the promenade, trying to forget the horror. Suddenly we heard shouts from a pub and a crowd of young airmen called us to join them. It was a celebration party at the end of basic aircrew training.

The most wonderful event of my young life happened next. After more than 50 years I can still recall the joy of it. Dennis was not very tall. He had broad shoulders, slim hips, deep blue eyes, long curly lashes, good teeth. His hair and moustache were brown and he smoked a pipe. His smile was unforgettable. I had never before been aware of masculine beauty. I fell in love at first sight. We talked so easily. He said he knew I must be Irish. No one could have such big blue eyes and black hair unless they were, he said. He walked me back to the hotel. I was left with a sweet little kiss.

Next morning I rang the hospital. My dear old lady had died that night. I met Dennis and we walked up the hill overlooking the bay. There was one red sailing boat out at sea. The sun and sky were still brilliant blue. We sat on the grass surrounded by forget-me-nots and the smell of hawthorn blossom. Dennis told me about his two special friends, Roy and his fiancee Marie, his mother and sisters, his school, his love of literature and poetry. He was only 20.

The next evening there was a dance on the pier. It was absolute heaven. The sea surrounded us and we danced until the sun had set. I was walking on air. On Sunday, Dennis came to see us off at the station. He gave me his chocolate ration. We promised to write and I invited him to my 21st birthday party.

I did not hear from him for about six weeks but never doubted that the longed-for letter would arrive. It did, from South Africa, where he was continuing his training. The letters continued until April 1943. By this time I had been sent to train as an assistant in a wartime nursery near home. I hated the work. The only saving grace was meeting Peggy Kingsly-Read, our staff nurse. She was an angel and knew how sick I felt when it was my turn to sluice the nappies and often did it for me.

The air raids were on again. People slept in shelters. I was still a warden, working all night. Two of our wardens were killed and three injured. The days followed each other monotonously.

In May 1943, Peggy and I had a holiday in the Lakes. There was no public transport and we walked for miles. It was idyllic. When we returned home there was a note pushed through the door: 'I am next door - Dennis.' I flew round. There he was. My beloved. Playing chess with our neighbour.

We made tea and talked non- stop. He had been commissioned a pilot officer navigator. I asked Peggy to tell a lie for me to Matron and I had two days with Dennis. We spent hours in W H Smith. He bought me an anthology of English verse, bound in green leather with gilt edgings. Inside the flyleaf he had written: 'For those two days in Heaven. Dennis.'

We revelled in that beautiful English spring and each other's company. How we laughed. He sang Bing Crosby songs to me. We walked on the Lickey Hills and rode for miles on the old bone-shaking trams. No one ever, since time began, was as happy as I was. Dennis was now in love with me. His eyes told me so. He knew I was a virgin and adored me even more. We walked in the blackout when the stars were big and brilliant.

Dennis could not reconcile his conscience with killing innocent civilians. But his family pleaded with him not to register as a conscientious objector and when the opportunity came to be part of an aircrew he volunteered.

In October 1943 the daily letters began to arrive from Tempsford, Bedfordshire. The words 'Careless talk costs lives', were printed on every billboard and in every railway station so we had to watch what we said to one another, but of course I knew that Dennis belonged to a bomber squadron and that his Australian pilot, Doug, was the best in the squadron. Doug was a dear boy. He looked so handsome in his air force blues.

1943 was the most wonderful year. Dennis was on leave frequently. He loved me as I was: poorly educated, a devout Roman Catholic, a prude, an immature girl who had never had to cope with any unpleasantness.

On 29 December, Dennis took me to Southport to meet Roy and Marie. For weeks, we had planned to stay in the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool. A whole night together. Two innocent babes finding out about sexual love. Marie stayed with us to protect my reputation. Dennis had booked one double and one single room.

He had saved his clothing coupons for me. I went into Etam and chose a white rayon nightie. It had a scarf tie edged with blue. There were enough coupons to buy a pair of rayon stockings as well. It was as exciting as a honeymoon.

I was too shy to undress in front of him. I bathed and came into the bedroom in my new nightie. We lay in each other's arms. My head was on his shoulder. He stroked my hair. 'This is what my chest is for, Anne,' he said. 'We were meant to sleep this way for ever.' I was united with my soulmate, my heart was his for ever.

My life had changed. I longed only for the times when Dennis was on leave. When he had to say goodbye to his mother she always broke down and clung to him. I was embarrassed by this. I knew he was going to survive. God would never, never let him die.

By March 1944 Dennis was changing. He found it harder to laugh. What terror he and Doug faced while the moon was full for three or four nights each month. They flew without conventional navigational instruments, hedge-hopping into France to avoid the ack-ack.

Dennis told me the Allies would be on the attack soon. He and Doug must have been by now the most experienced crew at Tempsford. The most dangerous mission, deep into France, awaited them.

On 10 April 1944 a letter arrived: 'Darling, made a sad little bonfire last night in my room. I burnt all your letters in my fireplace. We wouldn't want anyone else to read them, would we?' What could he mean? I would not think about it.

One morning the news told us of heavy losses among our bomber crews. I was in agony all day. That evening I rang the mess. 'Denny has just gone out. Is there any message?' Oh, the relief. He was alive.

Later in the month we had one whole week together in the Lakes. What bliss. We found two rooms in a farmhouse in Borrowdale. The farmer's wife gave us a sitting room and lit the fire each day. We walked, talked and read a lot. We didn't make love. He wasn't allowed to marry until his tour was over and he wasn't going to leave me with his child. There was no room in his life for selfishness. In so many ways, in letters, poems, Dennis was preparing me for his death. I couldn't accept it.

On Friday, 12 May I met him and Doug in Birmingham. When we got on a tram Dennis said: 'I'm going to buy you an engagement ring tomorrow.' I was overjoyed. It meant that his tour was nearly over and we would marry within weeks. We chose my ring - two diamonds, crossed and set in platinum. It was much too big but I put cotton round it and wore it.

On the Monday I had to go to work. I rushed home to Dennis and we spent our last evening together, talking about nothing of importance. We were a little irritable with each other, both dreading the morning when we had to part.

We were up early the next day. I sat in my dressing gown while mother fussed over his breakfast. He took me in his arms and kissed me without passion. He couldn't bear to let go. He knew it was the end. His face was full of sadness. He walked away. He wouldn't look back. Were there tears he didn't want me to see? I didn't know he was leaving my life.

We had a happy week at the nursery. Congratulations on my engagement from everyone. I sang to myself on my way to the bus. How wonderful life was. I was soon to marry my beloved.

On Saturday, 2 June I rushed down to hear the 8 o'clock news. The usual air raids over Germany. The BBC announced: 'None of our aircraft is missing' - a lie. Then a letter arrived: 'Flying Officer Dennis Hargreaves missing, believed killed.'

The shock was too terrible. He couldn't be dead. God wouldn't take away my love, my happiness. I would die of grief. My eyes ached with tears. Mary, my little sister, cried for him; my father, too. Dearest mother never broke down. She felt so much for me. I gave up completely, praying each night that I might die in my sleep rather than face another day without him.

D-Day passed. I felt nothing - no interest, no hope. July and August were the same. Dreams of Dennis knocking on our door. His face full of laughter. The next few months were even more terrible. I lost two stone in weight. I had hepatitis twice. It seemed life would never be the same. All the laughter and joy had disappeared. I did not receive this letter until August 1948, four years after Dennis died.

'Dearest Anne, When you receive this letter you will see me no more. I do not know where I will be, but I do know I will be with so many of my friends who have gone before me.

'Do not grieve for me, Anne. Remember all the love, happiness and laughter we have shared. Keep the sparkle in your blue eyes, my darling. Dennis.'

I have written this for my grandchildren, with the encouragement of my husband, Derrick, to whom I have been happily married for 43 years. (By a strange coincidence, our son, Simon, was born on the anniversary of Dennis's death.)

One day, when they are older, I want the story of these gallant young men to be an inspiration to them. It is my tribute to all the heroic people who died in the war.

(Photographs omitted)