Brian Wood - Double Crossed: A Code of Honour, A Complete Betrayal

Brian Wood MC, former Colour Sergeant, Princess of Waless Royal Regiment, was awarded the Military Cross, one of Britains highest awards for gallantry in combat, by the Queen, following his courageous leadership under enemy fire in Iraq.

During a 16-year military career, Brian led British troops across the spectrum of battle: from training to fighting; from operations in the Balkans to high-intensity combat in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Brian is a frequent broadcaster, and is also a highly inspirational public speaker, delivering compelling sessions on leadership and grit. This is his first book.

Brian lives in Hampshire, with his wife and their two children.

I dedicate this book to my wonderful parents who have raised me to be the person I am today.

My wife who I love so much.

My beautiful children Bailey and Charlie.

To all the men and women of our Armed Forces who have paid the ultimate sacrifice.

Lest We Forget.

The first RPG that hits the Warrior shakes the armoured vehicle to a screeching halt. Its followed by a hail of gunfire, a machine-gun rat-a-tat that pings its way along the side of the vehicle. The bullets are lighter, more insistent, than the boom of the rocket-propelled grenade. Hailstones after thunder, raining down on us.

Im in the back, in the dark. The rear of a Warrior is where the dismounts sit, poised and ready for action. Its all but black in there, the only light being one small, square window, and with the condensation, sand and grit you can see fuck all out of it. Its hot in there: a sweaty, sweltering, dehydrating heat that saps it out of you, fills the bottles you have to drink with nothing but boiling water. And with the gunfire outside, the temperature has just got that bit hotter.

What the fuck ? With me in the back are Rushforth and Tatawaqa, two privates under my command as lance corporal. Theyre good men, loyal and true. Brave and courageous, and I know that theyll have my back, just as much as Ill have theirs. Theyre looking at me for an answer, but Ive got about as little clue as to what is going on as they have. I shout up to Stick, Sergeant Broome, the vehicle commander who is up in the turret, and wait for a response.

Weve been in Iraq for about a month, in Maysan province. The tour was billed as a peacekeeping one, but thats turned out to be bollocks. Firefighting would have been a better description. Full-on war-fighting would have been more accurate. Over the last month, Ive seen more action than in the rest of my army career put together. Ive seen people pulled out of burning vehicles, colleagues being petrol-bombed, the supposed protective skin of a Warrior ripped apart by a rocket attack. Ive been in hospital having almost lost my sight and been under attack from everyone from armed militia positions to ten-year-old boys.

Were fighting a militia army who doesnt want to fight it out face-to-face. When we go in to confront them with force, they slink away. They wait for your guard to come down before they bring the fight to you. They mortar us in our beds at the camp, bomb the cookhouse when were trying to eat our dinner, send children in to do their deadly dirty work. The pace has been relentless: everyone is hot, frustrated, tired, confused. And now, here we are under attack again.

Its not even us who is meant to be under attack. Were the ones doing the rescue operation, for the troops who have been ambushed near Danny Boy, the checkpoint on Route 6 on the way to Majar al-Kabir. That town is a no-go zone for the British, ever since six members of the RMP (Royal Military Police) were cornered by an angry mob and murdered in June 2003. Today, its like that no-go area has been extended, the towns border creeping out a few kilometres into the desert.

We havent even made it to Danny Boy. Were God knows where out in the desert, in the middle of fucking nowhere and yet here we are, rattling around in the back of our Warrior as the RPGs and machine-gun fire rocket in. Ive been fired at so many times over the last few weeks Ive learned to read it pretty well. This bombardment, I know, is sustained. Theres a lot of it. This isnt some loan gunman chancing his arm. The size and the volume of it tell me that the whole thing was premeditated and has been carefully planned.

Stick issues a fire control order.

Up in the turret, he and JC Jean-Claude Fowler, the gunner return fire. I can hear the pair of them communicating to each other as they try to work out where the attack is coming from. With a click and a Fuck I can hear the chain gun jam and JC reaching for his light machine gun to continue firing.

Woody? Rushforth hisses. Whats happening?

I hold a hand up, the silhouette of which I can barely see in front of me. I want to know what is going on as much as he does, but I know that my task at this point is to be patient. You have to give the commander time, allow him to concentrate, rather than bombard him with questions. When there is finally a pause in the attack I ask Stick for an update.

A stronghold, he says. Ten, maybe fifteen militia. Then the gun battle starts up again.

Its not nice, sitting there in the back while this continues. You have to trust that the vehicle will take it, but Ive already had one episode on this tour where that wasnt the case.

Woody. Sticks voice crackles over the intercom. Prepare you and your men to dismount.

Prepare to what? As the gunfire continues, I think I must have misheard him. Dismount? Go out in that? But Stick is serious.

Were not having any effect here, Stick says. Theyre in these zigzag-type trench positions. Just popping up, engaging, getting down again. Let me know when youre ready.

What did he say? Rushforth and Tatawaqa look at me.

He says were to prepare to dismount. As I try to reassure them, I hope they cant hear my heart smashing against my armour plate. Were going to get out of this vehicle and launch out on to the stronghold, okay? Standby and get ready to go.

Theres a gully, Stick says. About ten oclock. If you go for that, Ill give you covering fire.

We make for the door. I take the lead. You ready, guys? They nod at me, but look as nervous as I feel.

H hour, Stick says. Five, four

And then the door is open and Im blinking into the bright light of the desert as my eyes readjust. The noise. Everything that has been muted and muffled in the back of the Warrior now comes into sharp, deafening focus. The kickback from the gunfire is spraying sand everywhere. Ten oclock, I remember. Stick said ten oclock. My heart is in my mouth and I start running, sprinting across the sand for all I am worth.

The air conditioning is making me cold. The holding room is fairly plain: clean and bright and quiet. Not like the click and bustle of the cameras and photographers when I arrived at the building. Through the doors I can hear the hum of the main inquiry room. Lawyers and clerks talking and taking their designated seats at various desks, complete with rows of computers being switched on and fired up. The public gallery opposite, full of the media and other interested parties. I havent got anyone there, didnt want to bring anyone with me. This is something I need to do on my own.