It is, in fact, most unwholesome for a British patrol to be captured.  I recall a case in point which I witnessed and which is far enough in the past so that it can be told.  It occurred, not at Vimy Ridge, but further down the line, nearer the Somme.

I was out one night with another man, prowling in the dark, when I encountered a Canadian sergeant who was alone.  There was a Canadian battalion holding the next trench to us, and another farther down.  He was from the farther one.  We lay in the mud and compared notes.  Once, when a light floated down near us, I saw his face, and he was a man I knew, though not by name.

After a while we separated, and he went back, as he was considerably off his patrol.  An hour or so later the mist began to get gray, and it was evident that dawn was near.  I was a couple of hundred yards down from our battalion, and my man and I made for the trenches opposite where we were.  As we climbed into a sap head, I was greeted by a Canadian corporal.  He invited me to a tin of “char”, and I sent my man up the line to our own position.

We sat on the fire step drinking, and I told the corporal about meeting the sergeant out in front.  While we were at the “char” it kept getting lighter, and presently a pair of Lewises started to rattle a hundred yards or so away down the line.  Then came a sudden commotion and a kind of low, growling shout.  That is the best way I can describe it.  We stood up, and below we saw men going over the top.

“What the dickens can this be?” stuttered the corporal.  “There’s been no barrage.  There’s no orders for a charge.  What is it?  What is it?”

Well, there they were, going over, as many as two hundred of them—­growling.  The corporal and I climbed out of the trench at the rear, over the parados, and ran across lots down to a point opposite where the Canadians had gone over, and watched.

They swept across No Man’s Land and into the Boche trench.  There was the deuce of a ruckus over there for maybe two minutes, and then back they came—­carrying something.  Strangely enough there had been no machine-gun fire turned on them as they crossed, nor was there as they returned.  They had cleaned that German trench!  And they brought back the body of a man—­nailed to a rude crucifix.  The thing was more like a T than a cross.  It was made of planks, perhaps two by five, and the man was spiked on by his hands and feet.  Across the abdomen he was riddled with bullets and again with another row a little higher up near his chest.  The man was the sergeant I had talked to earlier in the night.  What had happened was this.  He had, no doubt, been taken by a German patrol.  Probably he had refused to answer questions.  Perhaps he had insulted an officer.  They had crucified him and held him up above the parapet.  With the first light his own comrades had naturally opened on the thing with the Lewises, not knowing what it was.  When it got lighter, and they recognized the hellish thing that had been done to one of their men, they went over.  Nothing in this world could have stopped them.