The adrenaline was making me feel confident, elated. My mind was crystal-clear as we swept on through the library and headed for our first objective. I reached the head of the cellar stairs first, and was quickly joined by Tak and two of the call signs. The entry to the stairs was blocked by two sets of stepladders. I searched desperately with my eyes for any signs of booby-traps. There wasn't time for a thorough check. We had to risk it. We braced ourselves and wrenched the ladders out of the way.
Mercifully there was no explosion. The stairs were now cleared and we disappeared into the gloom of the basement. I fished a stun grenade out of my waistcoat and pulled the pin. Audio Armageddon, I thought as I tossed the grenade down into the darkness. We descended the stairs, squinting into the blinding flashes for any unexpected movement, any sign of the enemy, and then we were into the corridor at the bottom. We had no sledge, no Remington with us so we had to drill the locks with 9-milly, booting the doors in, clearing the rooms methodically as we went along. Minutes turned into seconds; it was the fastest room clearance I'd ever done.
It was when I entered the last room that I saw the dark shape crouched in the corner. Christ! This is it, I thought. We've hit the jackpot. We've found a terrorist. I jabbed my MP5 into the fire position and let off a burst of twenty rounds. There was a clang as the crouched figure crumpled and rolled over. It was a dustbin! Nothing, not a thing. The cellars were clear. I was now conscious of the sweat. It was stinging my eyes, and the rubber on the inside of the respirator was slimy. My mouth was dry and I could feel the blood pulsing through my temples. And then we were off again, no time to stop now, up the cellar stairs and into the Embassy reception area. As we advanced across the hallway, there was smoke, confusion, a tremendous clamour of noise coming from above us. The rest of the lads, having stormed over the balcony at the front and blasted their way into the first floor of the building with a well-placed explosive charge, were now systematically clearing the upper rooms, assisted by a winning combination of the stunning effect of the initial explosion, the choking fumes of CS gas, the chilling execution of well-practised manoeuvres and the sheer terror induced by their sinister, black-hooded appearance. We were intoxicated by the situation. Nothing could stop us now.
In the telex room the terrorist Makki had begun the executions with the words, 'Now I have a chance to get you, Afrouz!' He opened fire at the chargé d'affaires in the centre of the room, shooting in a psychopathic rage. The wild hail of gunfire hit Dr Afrouz in both legs.
Sitting next to Afrouz was the assistant press attaché, Ali Akhbar Samadzadeh. He received multiple gunshot wounds to the chest and died instantly. Ahmed Dadgar, the medical aide, was sitting on the other side of Afrouz and was also shot in the chest. The Embassy doorman, Abbas Fallahi, was also hit by Makki's hail of fire. But miraculously, a 50p piece in his pocket deflected a lethal bullet and saved his life.
For Red Team, who had just abseiled down onto the second-floor balcony, there was no time to lose. They had to get to the telex room. Tommy Palmer and the rest of the team swarmed through the windows and raced to the telex room. The team included Tom the Fijian, whose legs had suffered serious burns as he dangled helplessly above the window, his rope jammed, with flames taking hold below him. Despite his injuries, he raced into the Embassy with his team.
The terrorist Shai, standing in the doorway of the room, surveying the carnage, fished a grenade from his pocket and reached for the pin. He didn't get a chance to pull it. Tommy shot him in the back of the head.
Makki now tried to hide among the hostages. He lay face-down on the floor. But when confronted by another member of Red Team, he made a suspicious movement and was instantly shot dead. When he was turned over he was found to be holding a Russian fragmentation grenade.
Back on the ground floor, I stared through the swirling smoke and gloom in reception. I could see the masked and black-clad figures of the other team members forming a line on the main staircase. My radio earpiece crackled into life. 'The hostages are coming. Feed them out through the back. I repeat, out through the back.'
I joined a line with Tak. We were six or seven steps up from the hallway. There were more explosions. The hysterical voices of the women swept over us. Then the first hostages were passed down the line. I had my MP5 on a sling around my neck. My pistol was in its holster. My hands were free to help the hostages, to steady them, to reassure them, to point them in the right direction. They looked shocked and disorientated. Their eyes were streaming with CS gas. They stumbled down the stairs looking frightened and dishevelled. One woman had her blouse ripped and her breasts exposed. I lost count at fifteen and still they were coming, stumbling, confused, heading towards the library and freedom.
'This one's a terrorist!' The high-pitched yell cut through the atmosphere on the stairs like a screaming jet, adding to the confusion of the moment. A dark face ringed by an Afro-style haircut came into view; then the body, clothed in a green combat jacket, bent double, crouched in an unnatural pose, running the gauntlet of the blackhooded figures. He was punched and kicked as he made his descent of the stairs. He was running afraid. He knew he was close to death.
He drew level with me. Then I saw it – a fragmentation grenade. I could see the detonator cap protruding from his hand. I moved my hands to the MP5 and slipped the safety-catch to 'automatic'. Through the smoke and gloom I could see call signs at the bottom of the stairs in the hallway. Shit! I can't fire. They are in my line of sight, the bullets will go straight through the terrorist and into my mates. I've got to immobilize the bastard. I've got to do something. Instinctively, I raised the MP5 above my head and in one swift, sharp movement brought the stock of the weapon down on the back of his neck. I hit him as hard as I could. His head snapped backwards and for one fleeting second I caught sight of his tortured, hate-filled face. He collapsed forward and rolled down the remaining few stairs, hitting the carpet in the hallway, a sagging, crumpled heap. The sound of two magazines being emptied into him was deafening. As he twitched and vomited his life away, his hand opened and the grenade rolled out. In that split second my mind was so crystal-clear with adrenaline it zoomed straight in on the grenade pin and lever. I stared at the mechanism for what seemed like an eternity, and what I saw flooded the very core of me with relief and elation. The pin was still located in the lever. It was all over, everything was going to be OK.
But this was no time to rest, this was one of the most vulnerable periods of the operation, the closing stages. This was where inexperienced troops would drop their guard. The radio crackled into life. 'You must abandon the building. The other floors are ablaze. Make your way out through the library entrance at the rear. The Embassy is clear. I repeat, the Embassy is clear.'
I joined Tak and we filed out through the library, through the smoke and the debris. We turned left and headed back for No. 14, past the hostages, who were laid out and trussed up on the lawn ready for documentation, past the unexploded explosive charge, past the discarded sledgehammer and other pieces of assault equipment – all the trappings of battle in the middle of South Kensington. It was 8.07pm.
As we made our way through the French windows of No. 14, the Gonze, ex-Para, a new boy in the Regiment from one of the other call signs, removed his respirator and asked the Irish police sergeant on duty at the door what the Embassy World Snooker score was. A look of total disbelief spread across the policeman's face and he just stood there shaking his head from side to side.
I crossed the room to my holdall, and as I began pulling off my assault equipment I could feel the tiredness spreading through my limbs. It wasn't just the energy expended on the assault, it was the accumulation of six days of tension and high drama, of snatched sleep in a noisy room, of anxiety and worry over the outcome of the operation. I looked to my left. The Toad had just returned. He looked tired, his face was flushed and he was out of breath. He looked at me and shook his head. 'I'm getting too old for this sort of thing.'
'So am I,' I replied.
&nb
sp; Within fifteen minutes most of the team members had stripped off their assault kit, packed it into their holdalls and parcelled their MP5s into plastic bags to be taken away for forensic examination. Before moving out through the front door of No. 14 to the waiting Avis hire van, we had a dramatic visit from Home Secretary William Whitelaw, old 'Oyster Eyes' himself. He stood before us, tears of joy unashamedly running down his cheeks, wringing his hands in relief. He thanked the assembled team members for what they had done for the country that day. 'This operation will show that we in Britain will not tolerate terrorists. The world must learn this.' It was a fine personal gesture and rounded the operation off perfectly.
* * *
The day would live forever in Regimental history, of that we were sure, even though barely two hours had passed since the first explosion. Out of a total of twenty-six hostages taken in the Embassy, two had died, five had been released before the assault and nineteen had been rescued. The dramatic events were still reverberating through my senses: the first ear-stinging detonations, the bedlam of screaming women and snarling, yapping police dogs, the blanketing throb of 9-milly, the intense searing heat of the blazing Embassy. The tensions and stresses of the six-day siege now began to evaporate like a late-monsoon mist on a Dhofar morning, as a great feeling of relief and gladness washed over me, a feeling of anticipation of better things to come. Maybe the RTU and demotion was not such a bad thing after all. Maybe life with Six Troop was going to be better than I'd thought. I wouldn't have missed this action for a dozen overseas jaunts.
We were in London, the heart of the nation, the centre of excellence. You can't go any higher, I thought to myself. This is where the spotlight is. This is where the top people in their professions are to be found: actors, politicians, businessmen… and soldiers. We had been involved in a triumphant day; we had restored the nation's pride and morale. I felt light-headed, intoxicated by the powerful atmosphere pervading the conference room of Regent's Park Barracks. We stood around in small groups, sipping lukewarm Foster's lager straight from the can. Some switched-on character had stacked the hall with cartons before we arrived, and they stood in great piles around the edges of the long room. Tak's voice cut through the roar of elated conversation. 'A total success! The operation is a total success.' Team members, the Head Shed, the green slime, the whole war machine was milling around, faces flushed with victory.
I reached for a fresh can of lager and looked at the label. The red Foster's logo brought back memories of blue skies, clear water, golden sand dunes and beautiful nude female bodies. On a trip to Australia a few years earlier, we basha'd up at the Aussie SAS camp in Perth. The southern camp perimeter backed onto a beach, and there amongst the sand dunes were dozens of nudists, beautiful long-legged Australian girls, their shapely bodies bronzed a deep golden brown, their pubic hair bleached almost white by the sun. As that area of the beach was army property, the civvy police had no jurisdiction. It was the only place along that part of the coastline where the nudists could sunbathe without being disturbed. The army certainly had no intention of moving them off, that's for sure. Each afternoon we would have our daily run along the beach and over the sand dunes. It was the most interesting running circuit I'd ever known. And it gave a new meaning to physical fitness!
My thoughts of golden-haired beach beauties were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a well-dressed character at the main door of the conference hall. He was wearing a sharp pinstriped suit and an old school tie. He reeked of the Establishment. Oh God, I thought, not the red-tape wallahs, the bureaucratic brigade. Surely the form-filling and statement taking weren't going to start already. Surely they could leave us in peace for a couple of hours to drink the excitement pitch down a few degrees.
The man moved forward to speak. 'Gentlemen, the Prime Minister.' The unexpected announcement boomed out across the full length of the room. Heads turned and the buzz and chatter of conversation dropped like a stone as an air of expectancy descended on the gathering.
In swept the Prime Minister, magisterial, like a triumphant Caesar returning to the Senate, 'Gentlemen, there is nothing sweeter than success, and you boys have got it.' Her voice rose above the resounding cheers and the crack and hiss of newly opened lager cans. She expressed pride and joy at the brave and brilliant management of the Embassy assault, stressing that victory was gained not only through faultless teamwork and infinite patience, but also through immense physical courage and flexibility. As she continued, I stared at her with growing admiration. She definitely had the Nelson touch. At the battle of Cape St Vincent, Nelson had led the decisive charge when his sailors boarded the Spanish three-decker San Josef with a battle cry of 'Westminster Abbey or victory!' I could just imagine the thought that had run through Mrs Thatcher's mind as she made the decision to send in the SAS. 'Back benches or victory!'
As the heady atmosphere generated by the Prime Minister's dramatic entrance stabilized, the cool authority in her personality took over, and without a moment's hesitation she proceeded to wander freely about the conference room, meeting each individual team member and thanking us all personally. Denis, ever the faithful companion, followed in her footsteps. He asked me about my parent unit and told me he'd served in the artillery in the Second World War. They both expressed concern for Tom the Fijian, the abseiler who had suffered severe leg burns and who had been admitted to St Stephen's Hospital in Fulham. They learned that his abseil rope had become hopelessly tangled, that his legs, clothed in non-flameproof overalls, had dangled helplessly in the flames licking out of the window below; that he had eventually been cut down by other members of his team and that, even though suffering from serious burns, he had reorganized his assault team, gained entry to the Embassy and converged on the telex room. Tom was later awarded a high decoration for his actions.
As the clock on the wall moved rapidly to 10.00pm, a colour television was wheeled into the hall. It was suggested that the assembled company, including the Prime Minister, watch the news broadcast of the rescue.
'What an excellent idea,' exclaimed Mrs Thatcher. 'Come, let us all move to the viewing area.'
As the first dramatic newsreel shots of the explosive charge blasting the first-floor balcony window exploded onto the screen, we crowded round the TV set shining in the darkened corner of the room. 'Sit down, you in the front, and let the rest of us see it,' ordered a gruff Jock voice from the rear. Glowing with pride and contentment, the Prime Minister obediently sat down and joined members of Alpha Assault Group sitting cross-legged on the floor. The scent of her Chanel No. 5 filled the air as we stared, mesmerized, at the day's events unrolling with lethal ferocity on the screen.
* * *
There is nothing more threatening to the advancement of civilization than the man who thinks himself God. The Roman conqueror, riding victorious through a defeated city, would employ a jester to walk beside his horse and degrade the military glory through lampooning and buffoonery. With this historical perspective in mind, I walked up the gravel drive of one of Hereford's best hotels to collect a top 1980s jester and TV star, Jim Davidson. Being a keen student of military history, Jim had secretly agreed to put in a mystery appearance at the celebration thrash marking the siege victory. A champagne party was to take place at a well-known Hereford watering hole, and my job was to infiltrate Jim covertly into the pub.
He arrived in reception wearing a grey double-breasted two-piece suit, looking, with his slim figure and slightly suntanned face, as though he'd just come off a team job abroad. I shook Jim's hand and we made small-talk. I was impressed by his enthusiasm and I knew instinctively he was going to be the right man for the evening. We passed a few minutes in light conversation, then left the hotel and made for the car park. As I swung my legs into Jim's Mercedes 220SE, he shot me a conspiratorial glance. 'Have you got all the gear?'
'Yes, it's in the hotel room,' I assured him.
'What time do we start?'
'We'll kick off at 9.00pm prompt.'
Ji
m turned the ignition key and the engine purred into life. He put the Merc in gear and we glided out of the car park. I looked at my watch. It was just 8.00pm. That left plenty of time to organize the evening's cabaret. Feeling quite pleased with phase one of the operation, I settled back in the luxurious comfort of the car's passenger seat and proceeded to direct Jim to the location of the party.
By 8.15pm we were in downtown Hereford. We let ourselves into a hotel bedroom adjacent to the hall where the festivities were taking place. I could hear the clink of beer-mugs and the buzz of conversation from the early drinkers. The sound of Ricky Sickit and the Vomits on the downstairs jukebox was deafening. 'Who the hell's that?' said Jim as he closed the bedroom door. 'It sounds like the second coming of Sid Vicious!'
I glanced around the room. It looked like the duty NCO's bunk in a seedy NAAFI. The mattress and sheets on the single bed were only slightly cleaner than the olive-green holdall resting on top of them. I went over to the holdall, unzipped the top and checked the contents. Everything was there.
Soldier I Page 25
