Dr. William Paolillo with Dean Smith
“You can’t really know where you are going until you know where you have been,” Maya Angelou
Amid the chaos of war, the boundary between life and death becomes blurred. For Bill, survival was about avoiding bullets and enduring when all hope seemed lost.
Inspired by Pvt. William Stair
The air was thick with gunpowder and blood. Uncle Bill lay there, motionless, half-buried in the dirt. The sky overhead was pale and indifferent, offering no comfort, no reprieve. Time had lost all meaning. It could’ve been hours or minutes. Only the throbbing pain in his body reminded him he was alive. It was sharp and unrelenting, threatening to pull him under. Boots crunched closer—heavy, deliberate. Then came the cold touch of a toe tag on his ankle. They thought he was dead.
By 1943, Private William F. Stair found himself under the scorching African sun, part of the Allied forces sent to halt Rommel’s Afrika Korps in Tunisia. The Battle of Kasserine Pass was his brutal introduction to combat. The American forces, green and untested, were no match for Rommel’s seasoned troops. Chaos reigned, and many soldiers received a swift and harsh awakening to the true nature of war.
Bill’s unit was to hold the line. But Rommel’s tanks ripped through the American defenses. Men fell all around him, but Bill kept his head down, and his every movement was a deliberate effort to survive. The desert was unforgiving—dusty, jagged, with no cover in sight. The enemy was close, far too near.
Amid the carnage, a fellow soldier named Private Ryan got hit and fell hard. Bill saw him lying there, bleeding out in the open. He knew he shouldn’t move—knew that the smart thing would be to stay put. But Bill wasn’t the kind of man who could leave someone behind. Not if there was a chance, he could save him. Bill rose from his cover and sprinted toward Ryan. Bullets whizzed past him, kicking up dust. He grabbed Ryan by the collar and started hauling him toward the nearest semblance of safety. But before he could make it, something sharp and searing tore through Bill’s back.
The pain hit him like a wave, knocking him to the ground beside Ryan. His body betrayed him, darkness creeping into his vision. The sounds of battle faded in and out like the distant echo of a storm. He drifted unconscious.
When Bill awoke, it was night. He was still lying in the dirt, the battle long over. Medics, combing the battlefield for survivors, mistook him for one of the dead. They tagged him, preparing to move his body. Only then did they hear a faint gurgle from his throat. It was a barely audible noise. They realized he was still alive. “This kid’s not dead!” one of the medics shouted, rushing to get him onto a stretcher.
Bill was born in Brooklyn, New York. After the Pearl Harbor attack, he enlisted, like many young men of his generation. It hadn’t been a decision he’d agonized over. It was a matter of duty that ran deep in men like Bill. You didn’t question why or what it might cost you. You went because it was the right thing to do. War was happening, and America needed men to fight.
Bill’s recovery from his injuries was long and difficult. He was transferred to a field hospital in Tunisia, where the doctors stabilized him. But his injuries were severe. The bullet had damaged his spine, and for a time, it seemed he might never walk again. The doctors were honest with him—they told him he’d be lucky if he ever stood up, let alone walked.
He was eventually shipped back to the United States, where he spent two years in a VA hospital in New York. For months, Bill lay in a body cast, immobile. His mind wandered back to the battlefield when he thought he wouldn’t make it. The doctors told him to get used to the idea of a wheelchair. But Bill wasn’t the kind of man to accept that fate. He had always been stubborn, and this wouldn’t be any different.
Bill watched other men fitted with leg braces at the VA, a new treatment. The doctors told him it wouldn’t work for him as his injuries were too severe. But Bill insisted. “You don’t know until you try,” he said, his voice calm but unwavering. So, they gave in, more to humor him than anything else.
The braces hurt. Every step was agony, but Bill fought through it. He had no choice. He couldn’t see himself as anything less than whole or a man who could stand on his own two feet. It wasn’t pretty at first. He moved like a marionette—stiff and unnatural—but he moved. The doctors were astonished. But to Bill, it wasn’t a miracle. It was simply what you did. You got up. You kept moving.
After the war, Bill returned to civilian life. He worked for the state government, ensuring taxpayer money was well spent. But the war never really left him. It lingered in his bones, in the nightmares that woke him in the middle of the night. He’d wake up drenched in sweat, screaming, reliving those moments on the battlefield. Reliving the bullet that had almost ended his life.
But Bill never complained. He rarely talked about the war; when he did, it was with a detached resignation. He had done his job. The medals, the Purple Heart, didn’t mean much to him. He didn’t consider himself a hero. The real heroes, he said, were the ones who didn’t make it back.
Years later, Bill found himself at an Army-Navy football game. He didn’t go for the fanfare but for the company. Bill sat with his nephew, Dean, watching the game when a colonel from the Blue Angels spotted him. The man approached, noticing Bill’s veteran’s cap, and asked where he had served. The colonel was in awe. He had studied the Battle of Kasserine Pass, and Bill had fought in it. “You look at me like I’m a hero,” the colonel said to the crowd, “but this man here—Private Bill—is a true American hero.”
For Bill, it was never about the medals or the praise. It was about duty, sacrifice, and the simple belief that doing what was right was reward enough. Despite it all, Bill lived with quiet dignity. When people asked about his Purple Heart, he’d just shrug and say, “I was doing my job.”
As the years passed, Bill’s body began to show the wear of time and war. His walk became slower and more labored, but he never let that stop him. He loved sports, especially hockey. One night, he took his young nephew, Billy, to a minor league hockey game on Long Island. The rink was packed with fans, the air thick with cold and excitement. Bill fed off the energy, soaking in the chaos of the game.
As the game ended, Bill and Billy made their way through the parking lot, the ground slick with ice. Bill’s legs, supported by braces and steadied by a cane, gave out. He fell hard. Billy, just a ten-year-old kid, tried to help him up, but Bill was too big—six foot four and 240 pounds. The boy couldn’t lift him.
Billy ran off to get help, and soon, a stranger came to lift Bill back onto his feet. They brushed the snow off his coat and got him into the car. Billy, still shaken, sat beside his uncle, his eyes wide with worry. Bill looked at him and said, “Why are you crying, kid?” I thought you were hurt,” Billy replied. Bill chuckled; his breath was visible in the cold air. “This is America, Billy. Greatest country in the world. All you gotta do is ask for help, and someone will give it. You remember that.”
It was a simple truth that stuck with Billy for the rest of his life. Uncle Bill had been through hell and back but never lost faith in people. He didn’t talk about heroism or sacrifice. Those words didn’t mean much to him. What mattered was getting up after you fell down. even if it took someone else to help you to your feet.
Bill’s resilience was a quiet strength, one that ran deep. He never saw himself as unique and never wanted to be called a hero. But to those who knew him, Bill was a hero. It was not just because of the battles he fought. It was also because of how he carried himself after the war. He embodied resilience, humility, and a determination that never wavered. When Bill was finally laid to rest, it wasn’t in the simple veteran’s cemetery he had requested. Thanks to Dean, Bill was buried in Arlington National Cemetery—a fitting place for a man who had given so much.
Like the story of Appalachia and the Voltage Valley Revolution, Uncle Bill’s story is one of resilience. The people of Appalachia, like Bill, have faced many hardships. Time and again, they have been knocked down, but they continue to rise. They continue fighting for their future, families, and communities.
Just as Bill refused to stay down, so too does the spirit of Appalachia. It’s a region filled with people who, despite the odds, push forward. As the Voltage Valley Revolution provides the opportunity to revive Appalachia, Uncle Bill’s legacy lives on in every person who refuses to give up. His story is a beacon of hope. It shows that resilience and will can overcome even the most brutal battles.
William F. Stair is my uncle, and I am proud to be named after him. I write the stories in the book, “Voltage Valley Revolution,” with Uncle Bill in my heart. I know that his legacy lives on in the strength and spirit of Appalachia. The doctors said Uncle Bill would never stand or walk again. “You do not know until you try….” Uncle Bill