Staring out the window from his desk in Pensacola, Florida, Commander Lloyd Baker should have been happy, for the weather was beautiful. Having grown up in Boston, he was accustomed to heavy snows, freezing weather, and generally miserable conditions. Miserable for flying, that is, which pretty much consumed his life. Now the sun shone bright and brilliant, even in mid-December. He noticed a group of his pilots throwing a baseball around laughing, most of them wearing shorts and T-shirts. “They’d better enjoy that,” Commander Baker growled deep in his throat. “Where they’re going, they won’t be tossing a baseball around very much.” Glancing up at the calendar on the wall, he noted the date: December 15, 1941. Only eight days since Japan had opened the door to an all-out war for the United States of America. The bright sunshine outside made a stark contrast with the dark gloominess that filled Lloyd Baker’s mind. He, along with other pilots who flew for the U.S.
