Our first real appreciation of CSM Squib came about ten days later. We had been sent on a fatigue party to the Engineers for a week and assisted in the building of the plank road near Thelus, and when we came back the battalion was in dugouts on the east side of the slope. The first day we were there, Bill came along and invited us out into the sunshine.
The trench was only about three feet deep here and up to this point we hadn't used it. Here a fine view could be had of the entire region towards Fresnoy and Lens on the north. Bill pointed it all out to us, and in the midst of the narrative we heard a shell coming with startling precipitation. We had become somewhat familiar with the sound the previous few weeks, but this was a big one and was going to be close. Some of the boys eased into the dugout. The shell landed above us near the top, but Bill betrayed no sign whatever of interest, going on more earnestly than ever with his story. Three minutes later another shell came and we again experienced the same funny feeling in the pits of our stomachs. This one was below us and closer, but still Bill was unmoved, and despite our own misgivings we held our ground. For two minutes he continued to chat and pass remarks, and then said, "Well boys, he's apparently got us spotted, you'd better get inside." We needed no further invitation and Bill, without hurrying in the least, made his way along the slope and towards the next dugout. The next shell was just about due and in a wordless prayer I hoped to hell he'd just get around the corner into the deeper trench ahead of it. He just did and the next one was really close. It sprayed dirt all around our abode and shell splinters screamed through the air for a long time. You can readily imagine Bill made a wonderful hit with us new fellows that day.
I got another glimpse of him at Fresnoy not so long afterward. We had retired a thousand yards to Winnipeg Road abandoning the deep salient where our losses were were so heavy that day. The word came, "Stand to, Heinie is coming over." Remember? It was the evening. Harry Dibble and I had thrown away our rifles in order to carry out "Purvis" who had been wounded. Harry had found another, however, and I had a little pocket revolver I had won in a poker game on the way across the pond. Bill Squib, picking out the two newest recruits, parked right beside Harry and I, and proud boys we were too as Bill waved his old hat in the air and with fulsome oaths, called the old bastards to come on. Then he looked down at me, tensed and white of face as I no doubt was after the strenuous night and day we had had, and burst out laughing. "Well for God's sakes kid, what the hell do you expect to hit with that pea shooter?" I had to smile too for I was no longer "skeered" but ready and hopeful for them to come.
Poor old Bill, he was the best Sergeant Major I ever had the honour to meet, and the friendship which we shared is one of my proudest recollections. We had come to look upon him as impregnable, steady as a rock, without any nerves... I slept on a bank beneath him at Gouay Servins the night before the move south in March 1918. He was restless that night tossing about considerably and I wondered... It seemed almost unbelievable... "Has Bill got a hunch?" Perhaps he had. It was his last trek and he died as he had lived waiving an old French sword in the face of the enemy that morning when they came over at Beillecourt.
To me Bill Squib was the supreme example of courage and inspiration to his men. When he passed on there was a feeling of gloom throughout the whole Battalion.
Canadian Expeditionary Force, 19th Battalion - Experiences in WW1
