AT 1147 hours on the Saturday, Ali Afrooz pleaded with the police to take the terrorists' threats to kill someone seriously. Trevor Lock then read out a prepared statement, in which he stated that the police's delaying tactics were causing great tension.
At 1530 hours, BBC boss Tony Crabb spoke with Sim Harris about broadcasting the terrorists' statement to the world. Harris was visibly frightened, and impatient with the lack of co-operation from the authorities. Didn't they realize his life was in danger? Salim, who was holding a gun on Harris, became visibly angry, so Tony Crabb agreed to make a broadcast as soon as possible. Salim relaxed, so Crabb asked whether he was prepared to make a goodwill gesture by releasing some hostages. Salim said he would.
By 1900 hours there was still nothing broadcast on the radio, so Salim sent Trevor Lock and Mustapha to the window to ask why. The police said that they would only allow the transmission to go ahead once two hostages had been released, and not before. On hearing this Salim lost his temper and declared that he was going to kill a hostage, but Mustapha managed to calm him down and persuaded him to release one of the captives, pointing out that if this got him his broadcast then that would be a considerable achievement. Mrs. Haydeh Kanji, another pregnant hostage, was released.
Subsequently it became clear that Salim was truly at the end of his tether, and not in the mood for further compromise. 'Either there is a broadcast, or a hostage will be shot,' he proclaimed. He added, however, that he was still prepared to release another hostage if the broadcast was made. The police confirmed that the broadcast would be made at 2100 hours.
At the appointed time a statement was read out word for word on the BBC World Service, and Salim, true to his word, released another hostage. For the moment the tension had eased.
Inside the college, however, tension was increasing. Soldiers who had never worn their ceramic plates during training started to insert them in their flak jackets. Some of these jackets had flaps that covered the lower waist. These had always been unpopular, as they were heavy, but now they were becoming as hard to find as rocking horse shit.
As night fell, the whole squadron was assembled in the ops room for orders. Hector briefed us on a full-scale assault on the building. As there were so many rooms in the embassy, the whole squadron would act as one assault team. Support would come from extra troops brought in from Hereford. As many access points as possible would be breached simultaneously, every floor would be hit at the same time. Entry points would be blown with special explosive charges, designed to remove windows and doors without killing anyone standing behind them. One team would move across the roof and lower a set of charges down into a chimney-like hollow in the centre of the building. At a given signal they would explode the charges, descend a small stairway from the roof and take out the top floor. Another team would abseil from the roof to the second floor, blow in the windows at the rear and take out this area. At the front of the building, a third team would jump across from the neighbouring first-floor balcony and enter the main hostage holding area. Team four was to blow the double doors at the rear on the ground floor and hold the stairs. (I was in team four.) Team five would take out the basement after also entering through the back door. Two men were to remain outside to control prisoners. This was the reception party. The extra dozen or so troops that had come up from Hereford would take the sniper rifles and offer cover from the surrounding buildings.
On Sunday, as we sat watching the Benson and Hedges snooker championships on TV, the police negotiations seemed to be going well. Aside from the broadcast, no concessions had been made to the terrorists, while hostages had been recovered and information had been gathered that would make any assault more likely to succeed.
Inside the embassy, however, nerves were beginning to fray to breaking point. Salim began writing anti-Khomeini slogans all over the walls. He knew that he was losing the psychological battle with the police and if he was going to make a stand, it would have to be soon. The alternative was to lose face in front of the world. He was torn between two options: to surrender, or to kill a hostage. First, he would scream and threaten, then he would calm down. He asked Sim Harris whether he thought he had gone about things in the right way. Harris told him that although most of the Western world sympathized with his cause, they would not tolerate the murder of hostages. If he killed someone, he could not hope to win.
Afrooz and one of the embassy workers, Lavasani, took great offence at Salim's insults to their highest religious leader. Lavasani lunged at one of the gunmen and was promptly wrestled to the ground. A weapon was cocked and held to his head. For a moment it looked like the man was going to die, but Trevor Lock intervened and bawled Lavasani out in front of everyone.
We were aware of the noise and confusion, and once again we stood ready to go. Our tasks hadn't changed, but in the event of an IA we in team four would now go in without using explosives, which were all deployed elsewhere. Sledgehammers would have to do the job instead. I knew that before we could go in there would be a hiatus while we took official control. I also knew that until someone was actually killed, it was unlikely that the attack would be authorized. I stood calmly at my position by the rear door of the college. My gas mask was pulled back and I was drinking a cup of tea. Now the police had no idea what to make of us: we had been buffoons before; but here we were, waiting to go into the building, calmly drinking tea and talking about missing the snooker on TV. I suppose they thought we were strange, but as far as I was concerned, all this had been going on for some time now and there was no point in getting excited until something was actually about to happen.
In the embassy things began to calm down again, but Lavasani had now become isolated from the group as someone the gunmen could hold a grudge against. It appeared as if he actually wanted to be a martyr: he had told Harris that he was single, with no responsibilities, and per haps he had deliberately set himself up as the victim should Salim decide to kill someone. Before the incident with Lavasani, the negotiators had believed they were winning; now the chances of the situation breaking down had increased, so, with this in mind, top military lawyers were brought in to brief us on the legal situation in the event of an assault taking place. We were still subject to the full weight of the British legal system: any action we took had to be justifiable in the eyes of the law. It was very similar to the situation in Northern Ireland. We couldn't just kill the terrorists: we had to take them prisoner unless we believed that our lives, or other people's lives, were in immediate danger. The law stated that we should rescue the hostages and, if necessary, kill the terrorists; in our hearts, we wanted to kill the terrorists and then save the hostages. What was important was that we knew what to say if something went wrong.
It is rarely what a man does, but what he says which convicts him of an offence. We were being protected from the possibility of someone, from the safety of his easy chair, later judging us for our behaviour in the face of an enemy who had been trying to kill us. We knew that if we attacked, we would win. We were committed to our task, and we outnumbered the enemy ten to one. Who would die was the only question remaining. I just hoped it wasn't going to be me.
At 1110 hours on Monday, 5 May, Trevor Lock told the police that Salim would kill a hostage at 1140 if his demands were not met. Ten minutes later he asked for the negotiators. He wanted them quickly.
The 1140 deadline passed without incident. At 1215 Lock told the negotiators over the phone that Lavasani was being tied up. Salim picked up the phone and calmly told the police that they had had enough time.
Within seconds three shots rang out. Salim came back on the phone and said, 'I will kill one now and another in forty-five minutes. The next time the telephone rings it should be to tell me that the ambassadors are coming. I do not want any more messages.'
At 1315 Trevor Lock informed the police that the gunmen had shot one hostage and that they would shoot another in thirty minutes. There was still some doubt as to whether someone had actually been shot or not. Was it a bluff? No one knew. Once again, the deadline passed. It was down to a face-off. Either Salim shot someone, or he surrendered. Salim knew that they were calling his bluff.
Police Commissioner David McNee sent a letter to Salim. It said:
“I think that it is right that I should explain to you clearly and in writing the way in which my police officers are dealing with the taking of hostages in the Iranian Embassy. I and my officers deeply wish to work to a peaceful solution of what has occurred. We fully understand how both the hostages and those that hold them feel, threatened and frightened. You are cut off from your families and friends. But you need not feel threatened or frightened by the police. It is not our way in Britain to resort to violence against those who are peaceful. You have nothing to fear from my officers provided you do not harm those in your care. I firmly hope that we can now bring this incident to a close peacefully and calmly.” Salim was not impressed!
We made our final preparations for the assault. Abseil ropes were fixed to the roof, explosives were prepared and moved close to the forming-up points, gas filters were checked, laces were tightened. Now it looked as though something might be happening, the police officers fell silent. They had done their best; now it was our turn.
As the siege approached its climax, we watched another battle reach its grand finale: Cliff Thorburn and Hurricane Higgins were slogging out the last few frames of the snooker final on TV. We were ready. There was nothing left to do but wait calmly for the order to go or to stand down.
In the Cabinet Office briefing room, the Prime Minister, the Home Secretary, the Police Commissioner and SAS Colonel Mike Rose were trying to come to a final decision as to whether to hand over control to the military and stage an assault on the embassy. Margaret Thatcher said that if the terrorists killed another hostage, the assault should go ahead. Shots had been fired; all we needed now was a body.
At 1913 hours four shots exploded from the interior of the embassy and a few seconds later Lavasani's body was thrown onto the front steps, in full view of the world's media. Five minutes later Lavasani was confirmed dead, and Margaret Thatcher gave the order to hand over control to the military. The assault was on.
I crept quietly out of the back door of the college and across the concrete patio towards the rear of the embassy. I looked ahead of me at Robert as he began to insert detonators into the explosives and place them on the back door, then I looked up. Above me, four men began to descend slowly from the roof on their abseil ropes. Behind me Big Bob was wielding an eight-pound sledgehammer as a back-up should it be needed to get through the door.
I gripped my MP-5 in both hands and thumbed the safety catch, assuring myself once again that it was off. The only sounds I could hear were the static hissing in my earpiece and the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. My greatest fear now was of making a mistake that might endanger a life- especially mine. My mind raced. Watch the windows, Robin. What do I do if someone looks out now? Don't rush. Is my pistol still in my holster? Where is my partner?
The police dogs, which were being held back just inside the doors of the college, began to feel the tension in their handlers and started barking and howling. Why don't you shut the bastard dogs up, I thought. The fear that had for so long been my greatest enemy welled up inside me like a balloon, waiting to escape from my throat. Hello, I thought. I'm glad you're here. Without you I wouldn't be functioning at my best. I need to be scared to be alert.
The smallest sounds were magnified, and time seemed to slow down.
Around me team members moved into position calmly and without undue haste. Only seven years earlier I had been a frightened young man on the brink of adventure, bullied and scared. Now I was walking forward into a firefight, the fear under control, my commitment to the task complete in the knowledge that I was ready, that I was the best man for the job.
Knowledge and training had dispelled my fear. I was in control. The sound of breaking glass made me look up. One of the descending abseilers had put his foot through the window. Ahead of me Robert struggled to finish preparing the explosives that would remove the door from its hinges. Hector had to make a decision, and fast. Had we been compromised early?
Salim was on the phone, talking to the negotiators, as the glass broke. 'I heard something, something is happening!' he shouted.
'Don't worry, it's OK: he was told by the man at the other end of the line. 'There's no problem, nothing to worry about.'
'Yes, there is, there is a noise!' Salim shouted.
Hector could hear the conversation as it took place. He took the microphone from the hands of his signaller and said, 'GO, GO, GO!' Now we had to improvise - only half the men were in their start positions. Boom! The explosives in the central chimney exploded. The team ran down the stairs and into the top floor as glass, debris and smoke shrouded them in a cloak of invisibility. The abseilers, already down on the rear balcony, broke the windows and threw stun-grenades into the room before following them in. At the front, two men leapt over the balcony and placed their own charge. Before they could move back it was fired, removing the window. In they went, just in time to see one of the terrorists raising his gun to a hostage's head. Two bursts and the gunman were dead.
In front of me Robert was trying to get the wires into the firing device to remove the back doors. 'Never mind ‘that; shouted Big Bob. He ran forward with the sledgehammer and mashed the door to pulp. His partner launched two stun-grenades and in they went.
I looked up as three bullet holes appeared in the window above my head. Dangling on his rope about twelve feet above the balcony and twenty feet from the ground was one of the assault team. He was stuck, his rope jammed in the figure-of-eight abseil device attached to his harness. The curtains beneath him had been set on fire by the grenades that had exploded when the first group had entered. The flames were climbing higher and higher and were now lapping against his legs. His screams of pain sounded over the radio.
I saw two of the team on the roof attempting to cut him down, but it was a difficult task as he was now kicking himself away from the wall to get free of the fire. The rope would have to be cut so that it parted on the in-swing, and he fell onto the balcony and not onto the solid concrete steps further down. I watched him dangle in the flames and considered what, if anything, I could do to save him. I felt helpless, but, realizing that I was not going to be able to do anything useful I took my place by the rear door and got on with my job.
I was a reserve, ready to respond in any area where help was needed. My partner, 'Ginge' from 8 Troop, was standing opposite me, staring into the gas and smoke-filled room. As the sound of gunfire swelled into an almost continuous crescendo, I saw a man stumbling around at the bottom of the stairs. He was wearing a large black over coat. His fair hair identified him to me immediately. 'Over here, Trevor!' I shouted. He turned and stumbled towards me, and I took his arm and led him to one of the reception parties on the back door. PC Trevor Lock had been our priority. He was one of us, one of the team. He had to come out alive, and the guys upstairs had indeed got him out first. As I returned to my position just inside the door, I could hear Hector shouting down the radio for information, but everyone was too busy to respond. In front of me a chain was beginning to form on the stairs: everything appeared to be going to plan. 'Reserves go in now!' Hector shouted on the radio. Ginge launched himself forward into the building, with me following behind. As we entered the front reception area by the stairs, hostages started to tumble down, thrown from man to man until they reached me. Ginge and I became an integral part of the chain and proceeded to launch hostage after hostage towards the door and the waiting reception party.
'Watch out, he's a terrorist!' shouted one of the men on the stairs. I looked across to where the shout had come from. One of the assault team hit the man with the butt of his weapon and launched him down to where the stairs cornered sharply to the right. He stumbled around the comer and down the last few steps. It was Faisal, and he held a grenade in his right hand. Without hesitation I fired one short burst of four rounds at his chest. All four of the team in the foyer also opened fire. Faisal slumped to the floor with twenty-seven holes in him. He didn't spasm or spurt blood everywhere. He simply crumpled up like a bundle of rags and died. More hostages were on their way down now, arriving thick and fast. The gunfire had subsided. One of the officers from the team upstairs came down shouting at all and sundry, 'Get out, get out, the buildings on fire.' He sounded a bit worked up, so I grabbed him by the arm and shouted, 'You get fucking out. I've got to make sure everyone else in front of me is out first.' He looked at me for a second and then, realizing the sense in what I'd said, went out the back door.
Now I saw the soldier who had messed up his abseiling come down. His eyes were glazed and one of his legs was terribly burned. He must have been in great pain, but he refused to let anyone help him. At least he was down safe -he had the two men on the roof to thank for that.
As the flames crackled around us, the different sections of the team started to report in. Their areas were clear, and their soldiers were out. Ginge and I pulled back and went to help with the prisoners.
Outside on the lawn, the hostages were laid face down with their wrists handcuffed behind their backs. They would not be released until they were all identified and calm. Sim Harris was twisting to one side and looking at one of the handcuffed men. 'He's a terrorist!' he shouted. Big Tony, one of the reception parties, pulled the man in question to his feet and began to walk him away from the group. At first, I thought he was going to lay him down a short distance away, but he continued walking, towards the rear door of the flaming building. I ran over with Ivan, a new member of 9 Troop, and made sure that Big Tony laid the man down on the ground where the police could see him. We never knew for sure what Big Tony had in mind, but I had my suspicions.
While the police and their dogs surrounded the prisoners and began to take over, we were ordered over the radio to return to the Royal College of Surgeons. As I walked through the back door I was assaulted once again, only this time by policemen. Their huge hands slammed down on my back and words of admiration flowed freely. 'Well done, lads, brilliant.' I was bowled forward into Stevie from 7 Troop. He stopped and turned to the worshipping throng. Pausing theatrically, he pulled up his gas mask, exposing his swarthy features, and smiled. The policemen fell silent, waiting for the heroic pearls of wisdom about to issue from this conqueror's lips. 'Who won the snooker?' he asked.
Our Job was done. All we had to do now was go home to Hereford. We had suffered only two casualties: the man on the rope, who had severe bums to his legs, and Gwyn, who had shot the end of his own left index finger off. He had been using a shortened version of the MP-5, the MP-5 Kurtz, and in the excitement, he allowed his finger to wander over the front of the barrel as he fired.
As we reorganized, we had to hand over any weapons that had been fired to the police so they could be checked by forensics and then matched to our stories at the inquest. As we handed them in, we had to state how many rounds we had fired. 'Twelve rounds,' said the man in front of me. 'Four rounds,' I said. The next two men in the line were old veterans of many campaigns, the elite. 'Three magazines each: they informed the policeman. I looked back, astounded. How on earth could they justify firing that much ammunition? They had been tasked to clear the basement area; there had been no terrorists in that zone. I hadn't been there, but all my training had taught me to fire only when I was presented with a clear target. These two men had apparently been room-clearing as though in a war zone. Thank heavens they hadn't been upstairs.
William Whitelaw arrived, and we were all called into the lobby of the college to hear what he had to say. He had tears of emotion in his eyes as he spoke. 'I always knew that you would do a good job: he said, 'but I never knew it would be this good.' He wanted us all to go out front, to be paraded in front of the world's press -to be famous for a day and have our pictures taken. Hector soon put a stop to that idea, and we packed ourselves into the back of police vans and the pantechnicon and disappeared back to Regent's Park Barracks, where our own vehicles were parked.
Shortly after we arrived, Margaret Thatcher turned up to see her 'boys', as she called us. We lined up and were introduced to the PM one at a time. As my turn approached, I was truly excited at the prospect of meeting her. She extended her hand, which was immediately crushed in my over-enthusiastic grip. Demonstrating years of practice, she allowed her hand to go limp in my grasp. She was small, much smaller than I had imagined, and her make-up looked like it was cracking from her skin in layers. Perhaps it was that way for the cameras she had been facing outside Downing Street. The older guys weren't fazed by her at all. 'When are we going to get a pay rise?' some of them asked.
The news came on, and we moved over to a TV in the corner of the room which had been brought in specially. There was no other furniture, so we sat down on the floor to watch the assault. Maggie Thatcher sat down with us and joined in the cheering as we watched ourselves in action.
Fighting Scared., 2002. Robin Horsfall
www.robinhorsfall.co
'If you come to our country, and you kill people, you're not going home again.'