When I had the opportunity to ask a question of a Pulitzer Prize winning historian several years ago, he shared priceless insights for how to pull my haphazard accumulation of research together into a coherent and authentic story.
 
Rick Atkinson received his Pulitzer for An Army at Dawn, the first book in his Liberation Trilogy. Together, these three books tell the story of the Allies’ liberation of Europe in World War II.
 
When I saw that he was scheduled to give a reading to support The Guns at Last Light – the third book in his trilogy - at the Politics and Prose book store in Washington DC, I traveled by Amtrak and the DC Metro, and then hiked the last mile to get there early enough to ensure a good seat. Since I wanted to be one of the first in line to ask a question at the end of his presentation, instead of grabbing a seat I picked a good place to stand along the wall in the packed room.
 
In front of a crowd of about 400 people who were interested in Rick Atkinson’s stories about the War, my question – about how he organizes his research materials - was without a doubt the strangest of the night.
 
Fortunately he humored me, and during the course of a phenomenally helpful five-minute answer he discussed “the researching art,” and he proclaimed the outlining feature in Microsoft Word (which I hadn’t known about) to be ”the greatest invention since the plow.” Mr. Atkinson also shared this comment about how he enriches the stories that he writes:
 
“I’m always looking for fine brush-strokes that bring something or someone to life.”

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In the eight months before he became Prime Minister, Winston Churchill served as Britain’s First Lord of the Admiralty. Churchill had directed the Royal Navy in that same role from 1911 to 1915. When he accepted Neville Chamberlain’s request to return to his former post on September 3, 1939, the Admiralty flashed a signal to all of the ships in the British fleet: “Winston is back.”
 
One of Churchill’s goals as First Lord was to solidify the Royal Navy’s collaboration with their French counterparts. Along with First Sea Lord Sir Dudley Pound, Churchill traveled to the new French naval headquarters in Maintenon, forty miles southwest of Paris in early November, 1939.
 
France’s Rear Admiral Paul Auphan described the final stage of their journey in his book The French Navy in World War II.
 
“Admiral Darlan, who, like General Gamelin, had a special train at his personal disposal, sent it to Cherbourg to pick up the distinguished guests. The French naval stewards who manned the dining car were ordered to make certain that there would be no lack of champagne and other spirituous refreshments. Consequently, the atmosphere of the meeting was particularly cordial.”
 
A private rail car stocked with champagne and other spirituous refreshments initially struck me as an incredibly fine brush stroke, one that would enrich the story of an otherwise dull meeting … if only I could believe it. But the story of that rail car provides a dimension that just too easily plays to the caricature of Churchill as a champagne-swilling hedonist. Also, the book was written after the War by a French Admiral at a time when most French Admirals absolutely detested Churchill as a result of the Royal Navy’s deadly action against the French fleet.
 
In his memoir of the War, Churchill described that same trip this way: “In the first days of November, I paid a visit to France for a conference on our joint operations with the French naval authorities. Admiral Pound and I drove out about forty miles from Paris to the French Marine Headquarters….” Of course, you would not expect Churchill to gloat in his memoir about a Champagne-fueled train ride through the French countryside, even if such a ride had taken place.
 
Writers get to make choices. Writers have to make choices. I'm well aware that Churchill had flaws and faults, but in this case my choice is to ignore Admiral Auphan’s embellishment.
 
I want my book to be interesting and credible. I will be OK with critiques of my word choices and sentence structures. I will be horrified if anyone credibly questions my accuracy. To that end, as I filter, absorb, and floss out bits of information about sailors and soldiers, diplomats and prime ministers, I carefully vet my sources for authenticity and reliability.  

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When I visited the Churchill Archives Centre at Cambridge University, the first set of papers that I drilled into were those of Admiral Sir James Somerville. Admiral Somerville, who led the Royal Navy task force that attacked the French ships at Mers-el-Kebir on July 3, 1940, also played an instrumental role in the British evacuation from Dunkirk in late May and early June.
 
Admiral Somerville’s papers include a letter that he wrote to his wife Mary on May 30, 1940, at a time when the success of the Dunkirk evacuation still appeared to be very much in doubt. Somerville began that letter by writing: “We’re having a hell of a time as you may imagine and it’s not at all easy for us.”
 
He ended by sharing this aside with his wife: “Winston and I usually hold light converse on the telephone at 6.30 a.m. As he always has his teeth out then it’s not easy.”
 
Whoa, what?
 
At that time I don’t think I had read any stories that mentioned Churchill’s dentures. Their existence was trivial, not even remotely related to the details in my book. But I filed that story away in my memory as a potentially fine brush stroke, one that I would have to confirm if I eventually decided to use it.  

*      *      * 

My son, who is also named Bill Whiteside (he’s the 4th) is engaged to Daneen Zug, who happens to be a dentist. Daneen works with her father David in the family’s dental practice. Daneen’s mom Claudia helps run the business side of the practice.

As you might imagine, the intersection of Winston Churchill and dentures would be an inevitable topic of conversation during a dinner gathering of Whitesides and Zugs under any circumstances. Admiral Somerville’s story was actually nestled well in the back of my mind when, after our first round of spirituous refreshments at a local restaurant, Claudia happened to ask: “Bill, did you ever hear the story of Winston Churchill’s dentures?” Claudia told me about an article that not only mentioned Churchill’s dentures, but also claimed that his dentures had been crafted to ensure that his modest lisp was preserved.

Now this – a tale of lisp-enabled dentures – is the type of story I just live for. As much as I like and trust Claudia, however, I believe in vetting dentists’ moms every much as I vet French Admirals and other sources. The story is apparently true, at least if you go by this article that appeared in The Guardian on July 29, 2010. I will dig for additional confirmation, but In this case I’ve decided that I almost have to work this small anecdote into my book.

A lot can happen between now and when my book is finally published, but along with Sir Martin Gilbert, General Sir Edward Louis Spears, John Colville, Arthur J. Marder, William L. Shirer, and other eminent diarists and historians, I expect that you will one day find an entry for “Zug, Claudia” in the Notes and Sources section of my book.

Thanks for reading!
Bill

PS – If you would like to watch Rick Atkinson's absolutely engrossing 32-minute talk about World War II, you can view it here. For extra credit, if you’d like to watch me make an absolute fool of myself, my question, followed of course by his incredibly enlightening answer, begins a few seconds after the 45-minute mark in the video.

PPS – If you happen to live within driving distance of Manheim, PA and if you'd like to brighten or fix your smile, I hope you will check out Zug Family Dentistry.

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