Thanks to a gentle nudge from the ever-creative Randy Seaver of Genea-Musings, I recently revisited several AI-related genealogy posts I had bookmarked. One in particular—“Immersive Genealogy with ChatGPT-5: Turning Research into ‘A Day in the Life’ Stories” by Diane Henriks on Know Who Wears the Genes in Your Family—caught my attention again. Diane walks readers through how to use AI to transform dry historical facts into rich, immersive narratives that bring ancestors to life.
Inspired by her step-by-step suggestions, I decided to try the process for one of my own relatives: Leon R. Crawford, my World War I ancestor. I used Diane’s suggested structure and created the following prompt to feed into ChatGPT:
The Prompt I Used
Write a detailed “Day in the Life” story for Leon Crawford between 1918 and 1919 while he was serving in the U.S. Army, based on the following information. (Anything in italics is quoted from a source.)
- 22 Apr 1917 – Reported to the recruiting station in Dodge City.
- 22 Apr 1917 – Departed for Ft. Logan, Colorado.
- The Dodge City Globe (21 April 1917) reported:
“Leon R. Crawford enlisted for artillery service and will go to Ft. Logan tomorrow…”
- The Dodge City Globe (21 April 1917) reported:
- 26 Apr 1917 – Began military service; appointed wagoner, 2nd class gunner, 25th A.A. Battery, 1st A.A. Sector.
- Jun 1917 – Honored by the Methodist Sunday School for military service, along with his brother Marion.
- Dodge City Globe: “Twenty-three Dodge City boys have joined the army… Among those honored were Leon Crawford and his brother, Marion Crawford.”
- Nov 1917 – Stationed at Ft. Barry, San Francisco.
- Jan 1918 – Mailing address listed as 14th Co., Anti-Aircraft Battalion of San Francisco, AEF, via New York.
- Mar–May 1918 – Served at St. Mihiel during the buildup to the Second Battle of the Marne.
- In a published letter home, Leon wrote:
“We can surely make it hot for the Huns… We helped dismount a German plane with two of them.”
- In a published letter home, Leon wrote:
- 28 Jun–8 Nov 1918 – Served as wagoner in the outer defenses of Paris.
- 20 Feb 1919 – Departed France aboard the U.S.S. Ohio.
- 15 Mar 1919 – Telegram to parents from Camp Stuart, VA:
“Arrived here all OK am well and have written.” - 28 Mar 1919 – Received honorable discharge at Camp Funston, Kansas.
- 10 Apr 1919 – Returned home to Dodge City.
- Dodge City Journal: “Leon Crawford… was in several of the severe engagements on the western front but escaped without injury.”
The final instruction was:
Use historically accurate details about the time period, location, and occupation to make the scene vivid. Blend the documented facts with realistic daily activities for that era, but avoid adding major fictional events. Keep the tone immersive and narrative, as if the reader is experiencing the day alongside the person. Include sensory details (sounds, smells, sights) and interactions with family or community.
What ChatGPT Produced
Using this prompt, ChatGPT generated the following immersive historical narrative:
A Day in the Life of Wagoner Leon R. Crawford — France, 1918
The morning began before the sun thought to rise. A thin fog clung to the French fields near the outer defenses of Paris, the kind of mist that muffled sound and carried the sharp scent of damp earth and coal smoke from the nearby encampment. Wagoner Leon R. Crawford, Battery D, 1st Anti-Aircraft Battalion, rolled from his blankets at the first call of the bugle—a sound he had long ago learned to wake to before the final note.
It was late summer of 1918, during his months serving in the outer defenses of Paris (28 June–8 November 1918). His hands were already roughened by a year of military service that had begun far from this place: the dusty recruiting office in Dodge City, the train west to Fort Logan, the coastal winds of Fort Barry near San Francisco, and finally the long, anxious crossing to France. Now he moved with the steady rhythm of someone who had survived the spring months near St. Mihiel, hauling ammunition and supplies amid the thunder of artillery and the whine of enemy aircraft. Compared to those days, this shallow dawn around Paris felt nearly peaceful.
Nearly.
The Morning Routine
Leon brushed the last of the straw from his uniform and stepped outside the tent. The world smelled of woodsmoke, wet canvas, and yesterday’s spilled gasoline. A few men were already leading the horses to the watering line—massive draft animals that powered much of the Anti-Aircraft Battalion’s work. Though they served next to machines and large guns, the battalion still depended on teams of horses to haul ammunition, spare parts, and the French 75-millimeter guns he had written home about.
He greeted one of the men with a familiar nod.
“Morning, Crawford,” the soldier muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Looks like fog’s thick enough to keep the Huns grounded.”
“Fine by me,” Leon replied, tugging his jacket closed against the chill. “We gave them enough to think about back at St. Mihiel.”
He didn’t say it boastfully. It was the tone of someone recounting a job done, not bragging. Still, he remembered it well: their battery firing rapidly, the French 75s kicking up dirt as the crews worked at a pace so fast the barrels ran hot. We helped dismount a German plane with two of them, he had written proudly to his mother—a letter published back home in the Dodge City Globe.
The cook tent rattled with pans. A line began to form: tin cups ready for black coffee strong enough to wake the dead, and a ladle of oatmeal or hardtack if supplies were thin. Leon accepted both with gratitude, then found a place on an overturned crate beside two gunners.
“Mail call today?” one of them asked.
“Maybe,” Leon said. “Haven’t heard since July. Too much moving around, I guess.”
He did not say how much he treasured every envelope bearing his mother’s careful handwriting or the Methodist class’s honor roll news. Back in June 1917 they had unveiled a tribute at church, bouquets laid on the list of volunteers. His name and Marion’s—both Crawford boys—had been spoken in front of neighbors who knew them since childhood. He carried that memory like armor.
Midday: The Work of a Wagoner
By midmorning, the fog thinned enough for the day’s duties. Leon checked harnesses, inspected wheel rims, and tightened bolts on the wagons assigned to Battery D. The guns needed constant feed: crates of shells, spare gears, sandbags, and food for the crews. Even when he wasn’t directly working the guns, he stayed close enough to hear the bark of firing drills or the grinding spin of searchlight generators.
A sergeant strode over, clipboard in hand.
“Crawford, you’re taking two loads to the northern emplacement. Roads are rough — rain last night.”
Leon gave a short nod, already turning toward his team. “Yes, Sergeant. I’ll take Corporal Miller with me.”
The route wound past farmhouses scarred by shrapnel and fields trampled by months of troop movement. Civilians emerged from doorways to watch the column pass, some raising a hand in tired gratitude. Children, braver than adults, waved from behind stone walls.
Leon tipped his cap to them. Even after months in France, small gestures of kindness steadied him.
At the gun site, the men welcomed the delivery with relief. The air smelled of gun oil, hot metal, and trampled grass. One of the gunners clapped Leon on the shoulder.
“Good timing. Rumor is the Boche tried a night raid east of here. They might send scouts again.”
Leon simply said, “Then let’s keep you supplied.”
The anti-aircraft teams were weary but sharp. The large AA guns—some American, some French—pointed permanently skyward, their crews trained to swing into action at the faintest hum of an aircraft. Even in downtime, ears stayed tuned for the distant buzz of an engine.
Afternoon: A Rare Pause
By late afternoon, the supply wagons were empty and the horses watered again. Leon’s stomach growled as he settled on a low stone wall near camp to eat preserved meat and a stale biscuit. A few men played cards, shuffling worn decks. Another whittled a tiny wooden brooch to send home to his sweetheart.
Leon pulled from his pocket a sheet of paper and pencil stub—paper was precious, but moments like this were rarer still. He began a letter to his mother:
*“Dear Mother,
We are still helping hold the defenses of Paris. You’d be proud of the men—they are steady under pressure, and the big guns give the Huns plenty to think about…”*
He paused to listen as a distant church bell rang across the French countryside. He wondered if Dodge City had heard word yet of his latest location. He wondered if she worried.
He knew she did.
Evening: The Sky Above Paris
Toward evening, the sky burned orange over the distant city. The Eiffel Tower—just barely visible on a clear day—stood like a faint silhouette against the horizon. Soldiers never forgot they were defending one of the world’s great cities.
As darkness settled, the searchlight crews ran their checks. The low hum of generators filled the air, mingling with the chirp of insects and the muffled clatter of boots on gravel.
Leon finished stowing the horses and lingered near the gun pits. The great AA barrels pointed skyward like fingers ready to accuse any intruder overhead.
A private beside him whispered, “Hear that?”
A distant drone rolled across the night.
The men froze—not panicked, just attentive. It turned out to be an allied plane returning late to base, but the moment reminded them of why they were here, why Leon had spent months hauling supplies, tightening harnesses, and ensuring the guns never wanted for ammunition.
“Won’t miss that sound when this is over,” Leon murmured.
“No,” the private agreed. “But we’ll miss each other, I reckon.”
Leon nodded. “That, we will.”
Night: Thoughts of Home
Back in his tent, lanterns flickered low. Outside, someone coughed; another man softly hummed a tune from Kansas or Oklahoma or someplace equally far from France. Leon stretched out on his cot, boots tucked beside him. He traced with a finger the outline of his dog tags, then folded his arms behind his head.
He thought of home—of Avenue G, the Methodist Sunday School, and the newspaper clipping that told the town he’d helped bring down a German plane. He thought of his brother Marion, still fighting somewhere on the front. He wondered if they’d end up on the same train home someday.
Sleep came slowly but steadily, the way it often did after long days of labor. Tomorrow would bring more hauling, more guns, more vigilance. But each day, though wearying, brought them closer to the end of the war.
In a few months he would board the USS Ohio at Brest (20 Feb 1919). In a few more, he’d send a telegram from Camp Stuart, Virginia: “Arrived here all OK am well and have written.” And on a bright morning in April 1919, he’d walk through Dodge City again with his honorable discharge in hand, the war behind him.
But tonight, in 1918, Wagoner Leon Crawford slept under canvas in a quiet moment between battles, one of thousands who helped keep the skies above Paris safe.
The result amazed me—not only because it brought Leon’s experiences to life, but because it showed how AI can help genealogists transform scattered records, newspaper clippings, and military notes into a cohesive, emotionally resonant story.
This technique doesn’t replace research, but it does offer a powerful new way to interpret and share it.
This experiment showed me that AI can be a valuable storytelling tool—one that helps bridge the gap between research and family history. If you’re looking for a fresh way to present your findings, I encourage you to try Diane Henriks’ method. You may be surprised at how vividly your ancestors come alive when their daily worlds are fully imagined.