The Guardian, April 19, 2005
By James Verini
Imagine yourself, one balmy morning, on patrol in the Sadr City section of Baghdad. You and your US army unit advance along abandoned streets strewn with the burned-out shells of cars. Minarets peek out over dingy apartment blocks. Suddenly, a young Iraqi boy appears in the street. You halt, guns raised. “Milk!” he yells, holding aloft a jug. You give him a few dinars. Pressing on, you find a dead horse lying in the street. One of your men reminds you to be careful of improvised explosive devices. But your suspicions aren’t piqued until you notice a pile of decaying steers nearby. This suggests something especially lethal, you surmise. And sure enough, not far away, you and your unit come upon a dubious warehouse. Entering it, you find a stash of anthrax. WMDs, at last! Read Full Story