The island remained infected for the next fifty years before we dealt with the problem. Luckily we learned our lesson and filed the plans under ‘what the fuck were we thinking’ and scrapped them. I am, of course, taking the piss. In 1943 and 1944, we cooked up five million anthrax cakes and created customised RAF planes to drop them. We didn’t do it only because it looked like Germany was close to surrendering, and we knew that the mess would take decades to clear up.
