The Horrors and the Humanity of the Battle of the Somme

The Horrors and the Humanity of the Battle of the Somme

Throughout my years living in Scotland, once I finally had a car, I discovered a great fondness for driving to France. There’s something wonderfully stimulating about the place—the food, the sport, the bright architecture, even the trains. Everything has a certain vitality.

It’s roughly an 800-kilometre drive from Edinburgh to Dover, the main departure point for France. The government back home isn’t too keen on Scotland having connections with the outside world, so naturally, I always made a point of doing just that. On this particular trip, I took the hovercraft across the Channel—a quick 40-minute crossing compared to the two and a half hours on the ferry. My plan was to explore the region of the Somme, where millions of men lost their lives during the First World War.

A Night in Guînes

My first night, after a long day in the saddle, was in a small commune outside Calais called Guînes. The road there was a narrow, tree-lined “D” road running alongside deep ditches on either side. Once I arrived in the village square, I found a tiny guesthouse with a narrow front but plenty of charm.

By the time I checked in, it was close to 9 pm and I wondered whether anything was still open for dinner. The owner smiled and said—in French—that they had a little restaurant out the back. And what a treasure it was: simple, warm and unpretentious, with food that stopped me in my tracks. I ordered Steak Frites, and I’m still convinced nobody on earth makes steak and chips like the French.

A Kilt, a Coffee, and a Reminder

The next morning began with coffee and croissants before I hit the road. In my enthusiasm, I completely forgot that French traffic drives on the right. I turned onto the road exactly as I would in Scotland and carried on blissfully unaware for nearly two kilometres—until an oncoming driver flashed his lights at me. I waved apologetically; he laughed and waved back.

Soon I joined the A16 heading south. The September air was cool, and on a whim I pulled over about 25 km outside Abbeville to change into my kilt. No real reason—just a sudden urge to represent home, I suppose.

In Abbeville, I parked near a pavement café and sat with a coffee. The waiter recognised immediately that I was Scottish. As I sat, cars passed with passengers leaning out windows, smiling and waving—the magic of the kilt at work again.

Then an elderly gentleman across the street began calling out to me, though I couldn’t quite make out his words. He approached slowly, dressed in a long fawn coat, black trousers, and a beret—he looked quintessentially French. When he reached my table, he clasped my hand in both of his and said, in French, “We are so grateful.”

I invited him to sit and bought him a coffee. What he told me next is something I’ll never forget.

An Act of Humanity Among the Horrors of War

He explained that he had been a young boy during the First World War. He pointed to my kilt and told me that Scottish and Australian soldiers had been garrisoned just outside Abbeville. During the worst periods of the fighting, the townspeople’s supply lines were cut—they had no food, no essentials, and no way to get help. The war raged only kilometres away, but starvation threatened them more immediately.

He became animated as he described how the Scots and Aussies, realising the plight of the local people, came into the town square every single day and laid half of their rations on the tables for the civilians to take. Half. In a war zone.

It was generosity on a level that defies military protocol and human fear. He told me the townspeople never forgot it, and he certainly hadn’t.

I later researched the garrisons. Scottish forces—especially the famed 51st Highland Division—were indeed stationed near Abbeville, as were Australian troops. While I found no official record of this act of kindness, knowing both Highlanders and Aussies, I can absolutely believe it happened unofficially—soldiers quietly defying orders to help a starving town.

The Endless White Crosses

I bid the gentleman farewell and continued my journey through the Somme. It is an overwhelmingly sobering place. Driving along one of the main roads, every few hundred metres another sign appears—French Cemetery, Commonwealth Cemetery, Belgian Cemetery—on and on, to the point your heart becomes heavy simply reading the names.

I pulled into a French cemetery and stood there among acres of white crosses stretching to the horizon. Each one was marked with the simple, devastating words: Mort pour la France—Died for France.

It is impossible to stand among those graves and not feel the full weight of what humanity is capable of—its horrors, yes, but also its kindness.

Reflection

Walking back to my car, I kept thinking about that old man in Abbeville. In a region defined by unimaginable slaughter, his strongest memory wasn’t of explosions or terror—but of Scottish and Australian soldiers sharing the little food they had with hungry civilians.

It reminded me that even in the darkest chapters of human history, small acts of compassion shine the brightest.

And perhaps that is the real lesson of the Somme:

war reveals the worst of humanity, but also—quietly, stubbornly—the best of it