- from the book by Granville Fortescue Special correspondent of the Daily Telegraph
- 'At the Front with Three Armies'
- 'My Adventures in the Great War'
The Battle of Dinant
An illustration from a British weekly newsmagazine. French troops charge the citadel of Dinant
Chapter IV
THE BATTLE OF DINANT
Shortly after we left Namur we ran into the first of the French Army of the North. This was a battalion of the 148th regiment of the line which had been divided up into detachments and detailed to guard the bridges across the Meuse. For the most part they contented themselves with building a sand-bag breast-work and covering the bridge itself with a labyrinth of wire. I was informed that all the abutments were mined, but this I could not verify myself. It was curious to contrast the French and the Belgian soldier. The latter was the stolid, serious type that in no case saw anything amusing in the incidents of soldiering. But the Frenchman met every circumstance of warfare with a smile. The strain of picket duty at night, the travail of trench digging under a broiling August sun in a uniform more suitable for winter than for summer campaigning, the sleepless nights of scouting, are all subjects for joking. I conceived a great respect and affection for the French conscript during the time I had the chance to see him in the firing line. He has a great soul.
From Namur to Dinant we had constant news of encounters between the patrols of the two armies, French and German. There were only a few Belgians down in this section of their country. These were Lancers who had all the burden of scouting the whole front across the Meuse. Where the French cavalry were, I have never been able to find out. The Germans were using their cavalry as a screen in the same manner as they had in the Koniggratz campaign and again in 1870. How they managed to keep the secret of their advance I shall try to explain in a later chapter. It is one of the salient points of the commencement of the war. As we now know, there were over two hundred thousand Germans all moving across Belgium from the North, and yet the aeroplanes that circled constantly overhead seemed to be entirely unaware of their presence. When we passed Yvoir we saw the bodies of five Uhlans that had been killed there the previous day. The population of the little town gathered to see the gruesome sight. This was their first view of war at close range. They did not know how soon they were to come under the iron heel of the invader.
It is the fashion to surround the science of strategy with much mystery. As a matter of fact, the whole foundation of military success has been picturesquely summarized by General Forrest of the Confederate army, - 'Getting the mostest men thar fust." And it was on that principle that the Germans were working. Their grey-coated cohorts were coming on like a tide at flood. And the most remarkable feature of it all was that neither the French nor the English seemed to realize this portentous fact.
Nearing Dinant the military activity increased. The blue coat and red breeches of the Frenchman became more and more a detail of the picture. Another battalion of the i48th regiment occupied the village immediately north of the city. They were a capable looking lot. When I first saw them, they were taking a position on the heights at the back of the town which commanded the road across the river. The men of this regiment were all of the correct military age. Not one of them, save certain non-commissioned officers, was more than thirty, and they had all the esprit for which the French are famous. Arrived in the town, I took leave of M. Gillan, who went in his motor back to Namur. I have not seen or heard from him since that day; I hope that the fortunes of war have been with him.
The first thing I noticed in Dinant was the confidence shown by the civilian population in the French troops who were guarding their homes.
I went at first to the Tete d'Or, a famous hostelry which nestles close to the citadel. Here I met the proprietor-M. Bourgemont, I think was his name. He did not look like a hero - in appearance he was the typical bonhomme. He wore a baggy brown suit. He was fat and pasty faced with straw-coloured hair and moustache. His eyes, however, were always bright when he spoke.
“You are on the wrong side of the river, if the Germans come." I made this remark as he escorted me to my rooms.
"We are safe enough here, monsieur. Our French are in the citadel. They can never drive them out." He was certain the Germans were not coming by the northern route. The commandant had said so.
Dinant is one of a dozen picturesque towns that dot the Meuse. It has been a Mecca of tourists for years. Here the river runs abreast of a high limestone cliff on the east, while on the west the bank slopes up to a ridge. The town itself is flat on the banks of the river. As you read later on of the fight here, remember that the limestone cliffs on the German side of the river commanded the ridge. The citadel is the pride of Dinant. It is an ancient fortress built on the cliffs with some five hundred odd steps leading up to it from the river level. These steps are cut into the solid rock.
The houses of the town sprawl on both sides of the Meuse; a fine bridge of stone and iron led at that time from one side to the other. It was this bridge that gave the town its value to the advancing Germans. The problem of the French Commander was the defence of this bridge. What made this problem difficult with the small force at his disposal, was the citadel. This ancient fortress frowned down on top of the city; a force holding it would have the bridge and the road beyond at its mercy. Major Bertrand could not place his main force on the heights as the peculiar character of the cliffs made it possible to cut oft the citadel from the river; also it would have been folly for him to place his troops with the river at their back. Under these circumstances he did all he could in the matter. A half company was detailed to hold the city as long as possible, in face of attack, and then retreat across the river. As the only line of retreat was down the steps cut into the side of the cliff it was easy to foresee what was going to happen to that half company if the Germans came; but here again I was alone in my belief that the invaders were to be feared ; already the French soldiers were feasting themselves on the news of the successes at Mulhausen. The 148th were wishing themselves in Lorraine where the real fighting was going on. When I told a sergeant that he would soon get all the fighting he wanted, he answered with a sceptical, "You think so, monsieur ?”
I spent the fourteenth of August looking over the ground. I put myself in the position of the oncoming German Commander and thought over how I could dispose an attacking force. I discovered that the street leading past my hotel was the main line of communication with the country outside the city to the east; it was called the Rue Sainte Jacques. That evening I decided to move to the other side of the river. I had met Captain J. A. A. F. Cuft, R.M.L.I., who was here as a sort of military observer; he had with him three or four men on motor-cycles who had been scouting the country on the far side of the river, and reported Germans advancing along every road; Ciney was occupied, but what the number of the force was they could not estimate. The most significant happening of the day was the ambush of a French Dragoon squadron. One hundred of them had ridden out in the morning to reconnoitre on the German side of the river, and of the hundred, just thirteen rode in at night, and of these half were wounded. I was not allowed to hear their report, but they told their own story. The exhausted horses flecked with sweat showed how the survivors had ridden to save themselves; there was no doubt now that the Germans were coming. Major Bertrand gave the order that all who wished to leave the town should do so at once; after a certain hour no civilian would be allowed in the streets.
It was with Lieutenant Parent, who could speak English and who therefore constituted himself my especial guide, that I inspected the defences of the bridge that night. It was a picture that might well have inspired Detaille; hardly a ripple showed in the surface of the broad river, the clustering houses on the banks somehow reminded me of cattle crowding down to drink; the church with its curious minaret tower smiled at us from across the bridge. I could just distinguish the white walls of the Tete d’Or. On the top of the citadel a sentinel stood out sharp against the sky line. The bridge with its field of barbed wire stretched away before us ; on either side, where the winged abutments turned oft at right angles, soldiers in blue and red were grouped; they had made these wall wings into a little fort, their rifles were stacked beside them, some smoked, others chatted and one sang in a low voice; it was an old Norman folk song, Parent told me, and was cast in a mournful minor key. I had seen war; many of these men - perhaps all of them - had not; they had no disquieting visions of the morrow. As we turned to the town again I caught sight of a belated fisherman a few hundred yards down stream. Why not? It was dusk now. Lieutenant Parent pointed out where the machine-guns were placed, in the upper storeys of the house bordering the stream.
“In that corner, there," he said, pointing to a window that gave on the bridge, "is my special gun. She sweeps the road."
I could hear the low voices of the men as they climbed to their posts, and at times I caught the sharp click of steel on steel. Sounds I had not heard for years set my nerves tingling, but to these men they meant nothing. Later, the sentinel on the citadel signalled with a lantern that all was well from that side. I crossed the bridge and sent a despatch of about fifty words. I tried to put a warning in that telegram, but when my French friends had censored it, it was innocuous. I looked up at the darkened windows of the Tete d'Or as I passed and wondered if M. Bourgemont still disbelieved in the approach of the Germans.
The next morning I was brought out of my bed with a spring by a loud explosion which seemed to come from the next room; immediately there followed the most mournful wailing I have ever heard; it was a dog in agony. While I hurried into my clothes I heard another explosion duplicating the first, and now that I was fully awake I knew the sound; it was a small shell bursting. The shell had passed directly over the Hotel du Nord, and smashed through the roof of the railway station within two feet of the clock which marked ten minutes past six. It did little damage except shatter a dozen windows. The third shell carried away the chimney of the hotel, leaving a great hole in the roof and incidentally spoiling the morning coffee. This seemed to worry the proprietor more than the presence of the Germans; while he was bewailing the spilt coffee, his guests scuttled to the cellar. Captain Cuft, with his escort of motor-cycle scouts, made his escape in a motor. I got little satisfaction out of watching him go.
The Germans continued the shelling of the town with little effect for nearly an hour. The population had all gone under ground and only the military showed themselves in the streets. I found a good look-out position and turned my glass on the citadel across the river. Up to this time I had heard very little infantry fire. The detachment, which occupied the ancient fortress, had not been able to locate the mountain battery that was dropping the German visiting cards within the town. The enemy's infantry had not, up to the moment, put in an appearance, so at least I judged.
About seven I noticed a good deal of movement on the crest of the citadel. In a few minutes the echo of a scattering volley drifted back to me; that was the beginning of the end of the little band of defenders holding the post beyond the river. I could only judge how the fight was going from the firing of the French soldiers I could see; but it was soon evident that the Germans were attacking them on all sides. From our side there was nothing we could do. Shells continued to drop into the streets and I picked up the fuse of one of these; it was a drop with the fuse cut at 4,000 metres. As it was about two thousand metres across to the citadel the German guns must be another two thousand metres beyond; but the infantry was closing in on the fortress. Now I saw that the half company, or rather what was left of it, had drawn together in one angle of the wall. But now the Germans began to make their appearance in the main street of that part of the town that lay on the other side of the river, thus they were able to take the defenders in reverse.
Soon what was left of the French began to waver; first one slipped down the stone steps leading down the face of the cliff and then another followed. Most of those who came were evidently wounded, and as they crawled from step to step they were fair marks for the Germans who had occupied the outskirts of the town. Word must have passed to those still holding on to the citadel, that their retreat would be soon cut oft, for suddenly the group of them fired a parting volley and dropped back to the path leading to the steps. It was then that a veritable slaughter began.
The Germans had now possession of the crest of the citadel and rained a perfect hail of death on the French; a few stumbled on the steps and lay blocking the path of those coming behind, one rolled all the way down. Now I could see half a dozen bodies, in blue and red, stretched out at intervals down the stone staircase; a few reached the street below in safety. At the foot of the stairs behind the church there is what in military terms is called a "dead angle." This means a position under a wall protected from hostile fire. The retreating French paused there a moment. Then they caught sight of M. Bourgemont, who stood in the open door of his hotel, waving to them frantically. He too was in a protected angle, safe from the enemy's fire. What was left of the little band ran like sheep to the Tete d'Or, but of the number one fell. He was not dead, for in a moment he struggled up on his knees, trying to move forward. Then a rather grotesque figure in brown ran out into the shot-swept street. It was M. Bourgemont. Stooping over the limp figure in blue and red, he started dragging it to the zone of safety. He staggered a dozen paces. Then, in the absurd way fat men do, he fell. A bullet had passed through his brain.
The citadel was now completely in the hands of the Germans. For the rest of the morning they. concentrated their efforts on the assault of the bridge; now the whole force on our side of the river was engaged. At once I saw how few we were, and how impossible it was for such a force to hold out against the Germans. For a time it looked as if nothing could keep the enemy from passing the bridge. I had joined Major Bertrand and Lieutenant Parent, who were with the detachment holding the abutments. Lieutenant Parent's machine-gun had been spitting a leaden stream across the bridge, and not a German dared face it. The losses among the men holding the wings of the abutments had been severe. The Germans were firing lying down, and seemed to be men who could pick oft a head as far as they could see it. The noise of the irregular explosions of rifles, the mechanical spluttering of machine-guns, punctuated by the explosion shock of shell fire, continued all through the morning hours. At eleven o'clock it began to rain, but this in no way affected the fighting. About thirty newly-wounded men were brought in. Things were at their worst just then, and I frankly admit I was choosing my own line of retreat in case the town could not be held.
At this juncture, when Commandant Bertrand. was moving his men to the heights behind the town, there was a sudden increase in the volume of firing from our side of the river. It was the long expected reinforcements. The 33rd regiment of the line now deployed along the line of the ridge and some of them took position in the lower part of the town. I met a sergeant and a squad of these and sent them on to the aid of the remnant defending the bridge. Soon the French fire was smothering the German, whose attack then slackened. When this happened I went back to the hotel; the proprietor had the coffee boiling again in spite of the absent chimney, and a cup was very welcome. The cafe' of the hotel was filled with wounded, and a doctor, the local physician, was doing what he could for them. Most of the wounds were slight; one man had been hit with a bit of shell in the head, but the skull was not even cracked; others had holes through their arms, but for the most part these were little more than flesh wounds.
While I was drinking my cup of coffee, the fire having, as I have said, slackened, I saw a woman cross the open place in front of the hotel to a pillar box and drop in a letter. I would like to have asked her at what time it was written!
At one o'clock I returned to my post of observation. I saw that the Germans had hoisted their flag over the citadel. This was the signal for renewed firing. The sight of the hated colours seemed to rouse the French to renewed fury. The machine-guns barked incessantly, infantry fire exploded without ceasing. Suddenly I heard a new sound in this infernal chorus, eight loud detonations, followed by hissing whistles, drowned the minor explosions; it was the French field artillery. Ask any soldier his sensations when he hears the welcome notes of his own guns; no music is more pleasant. This was the first time I had heard the French artillery, and instantly I recognized that experts were handling the pieces. They found the range at the first salvo; in less than five minutes they were dropping projectiles into the citadel so fast that the Germans went out helter-skelter; one shell cut right across the flag ripping the red from the black. Another infantry regiment comes up now, the 73rd, and these add the din of their rifles to the chorus. Curiously enough it was only about this time that I began to realize that troops, up and down the river from where I was, had been also engaged all the morning.
Now the action quickly turned in favour of the French. Those of the Germans who had come down into the streets of the part of the town which stood on the right bank of the river, were compelled to withdraw. After a most careful scrutiny I could not see the head of a German on the ramparts of the citadel. The shells of the mountain battery suddenly ceased to fall in Dinant, and before the station clock, which had marked the last hours of so many, stood again at six, the first day's fighting at Dinant was ended. Another regiment came into the town, the 84th, but these were too late for the fighting. They knew what had been going forward, for the road behind the bridge is dotted with the dead; they lie in all sorts of contorted positions, their blue coats are splashed with red, the red trousers are dyed a deeper crimson. The cheers of the troops arriving sink down as they pass this grim evidence of war.
Such was the first day's fighting for Dinant. The French had repulsed the German attack, but it was easy to see that they were not in a strong position. Their artillery had saved the day. At that time the Germans had not a single piece of field artillery in action here and the mountain battery was only a one-pounder. As a matter of fact; the action from the German side looked to me more like a reconnaissance in force than a serious attempt to carry the bridge. Of course, carried away by their first successes they naturally thought that they could carry the bridge with a rush, and had not the French reinforcement arrived just at the moment it did, there is every chance that the enemy would have taken the town that day. As it was, this was only a feat deferred.
I have heard that the French crossed the Dinant bridge and took the offensive against the Germans advancing from the east; this I have not been able to verify. If it was so, it was a grave error, which can only be put down to the fact that the French still persisted in the idea that no great force of the enemy was coming across the Meuse here.
It may not be amiss to record a few impressions from a military point of view. It was the intention of the French to hold the Dinant bridge at all hazards, and with this aim they posted their strongest force behind the wings that sprang from the abutments. These were built of limestone blocks and in themselves offered good cover; but as they were only three feet high they could have been vastly improved by the use of sand-bags for head cover. The German sharpshooters picked these men oft like experts in a shooting gallery. This was a minor oversight compared with the mistake made by not constructing covered approaches to the advanced positions. The citadel, as I have already said, commanded the whole town. It was impossible for the French with the troops available, to attempt to hold that point, therefore it was all the more important to protect such positions as would come under its fire. Actually when the men behind the bridge wall were picked oft and it became necessary to bring forward reinforcements, the men had to be rushed to an open field of fire where they suffered unnecessary losses. Again, when it became imperative to change the position of the French to the ridge behind the town, they had to be marched under fire all the distance. The road over which they passed was lined with dead. They were piled in two lines at either side as close as if they had been dominoes tumbled over in a row; there they lay in all the grotesque attitudes which men shot in action take, the first sacrifice of the French nation to Mars.
As I had seen two years' active service in the Philippines, where concealment was the first essential in all fighting, it is natural that the red breeches of the French infantryman struck me as the most incongruous uniform conceivable. This matter of conspicuous uniform is not a question of opinion as some of my French friends seem to think, it is a question of fact ; red is a more visible colour than grey or drab green, therefore it makes a better mark at which to shoot, and men in groups wearing this colour are more easily seen. The French had covered their red-topped caps but the trousers stood out as striking as claret stains on a clean tablecloth. I know that at two thousand yards it is difficult to distinguish troops wearing uniforms of any colour, but short of that distance red is the most conspicuous colour one could choose. I had an unusual chance to compare the visibility of the French and the German uniforms, and the superiority of the grey is incontestable. I found it difficult to pick up the individual men lined out along the crest of the citadel with the aid of a twelve-power glass; whereas the French troops I could pick up with the naked eye.
The night of the fight I started back towards French head-quarters with the intention of reporting my presence to the staff. While I was in Belgium and had passes from the Belgian authorities, I knew it was necessary to have these vised by the French. On the way back I passed five regiments of the line all being hurried to Dinant. What struck me immediately was the seriousness of the men; they were young and I felt sure that the Gallic temperament had not changed, yet these men wore expressions of seriousness unusual with the French; not that their spirit was extinguished, but they exhibited a solemnity only equalled by Scottish regiments. This solemnity was particularly noticeable in the officers, who were as grave as schoolmasters.
What struck me most on this walk against the tide of war was the total absence of cavalry I had been a cavalry officer, and as such, could not conceive how troops could move without a sufficient complement of the mounted army. Later I discovered the reason for the absence of cavalry, and I place it as one of the contributory causes of the defeat of Charleroi and Mons. What was lacking in horse-soldiers was made up for in artillery, and I state without hesitation that the French artillery is the best in the world. This opinion, which I expressed at the very outbreak of hostilities, has been confirmed on every battlefield where the French gunners have had chance to show their mettle. I had the opportunity of seeing the two batteries that drove the Germans oft the citadel at Dinant, in action; from the moment the officer commanding chose his position, every manoeuvre was carried out with machine-like promptitude. Not a pound of lost power. One of the thrilling sights of war is to see a battery gallop into position. I had seen Grimes' battery take its place on the side of El Pozo hill in Cuba, and have always since measured others against the American gunners. Not until I had seen the French did I find their superiors. Like the United States artillery officer, the Frenchman is wholly professional. It needs but a glance to see that he belongs to a corps d'élite. The two batteries at Dinant galloped up, unlimbered, took the range, loaded and fired in such a splendid manner that I almost applauded, and I am convinced that the French system of a smothering fire is the correct theory for the use of field artillery. Here I saw eight projectiles all dropped in a radius of fifty yards and the Germans in sight were driven helter-skelter. In the moral effect this system of firing is also superior. There is no more comforting sound than the whistle of the French shell passing over your head in the direction of the enemy. That I can testify to, personally.
That night I passed in a so-called inn which boasted only four rooms. All were crowded to suffocation with soldiers. I slept for a time in the corner of the room surrounded by them. A Division General and his staff occupied the adjoining room. Earlier in the night, officer and soldier mixed in what might be called easy familiarity. Such demarcation as exists in our army does not seem to exist with the French. I heard a Major of Artillery in violent argument with the Division General on a point of tactics, and he won the argument.
Motor bus after motor bus rolled up to the little village all through the night. They had journeyed all the way from the boulevards of Paris. A detachment of red-trousered troops would tumble out and the bus would lumber oft into the darkness. About midnight it rained. The troops who had not been able to crowd into the little inn now made a last effort to push into its shelter. A few bedraggled infantrymen got past the door. On the rough cloth of their blue coats the rain-drops stood out in the faint light like crystals. In vain they looked for a yard of space in which to stretch themselves. Finally they lean up against the wall and soon nod in overpowering sleep. All night long the road without echoed with the rumble of passing cannon.
