Trevor Lock the only hero of the Iranian Embassy Siege 1980.
He was out. Trevor was out!
I saw Trevor through the gas and smoke as he came clear at the bottom of the stairs. He was coughing and spluttering, his eyes were awash with tears, but he was on his feet holding his policeman’s cap in one hand. I shouted his name.
‘Trevor. Over here Trevor!’
He turned towards me as I took his arm and guided him towards the back entrance of the Iranian Embassy where only seconds before my partner had created an entry point through the patio doors with an eight-pound sledgehammer.
He was out. Trevor was out!
The Diplomatic protection officer who had been held hostage by six terrorists had been rescued alive. Trevor was one of the three British hostages rescued on that day. The remaining sixteen were Iranian Embassy staff. He was our priority, not in our orders, but in our minds. Operation Nimrod had been run in close coordination with the police and his life was vitally important to the successful completion of our mission. For six days he had leaned from windows and acted as the go between from terrorists to the negotiators. Always calm and controlled he had never been searched. In those days it was common knowledge that UK policemen were unarmed. Not as it happened, for those on diplomatic protection duties. For six days he kept his overcoat on, concealing his pistol.
If there was a man who acted exceptionally in the days between April 30th and May 5th, 1980, it was Trevor Lock. Assisted by Mustapha Karkouti and Sim Harris, two other British hostages, Lock prevented a dangerous and volatile situation from exploding into a blood bath. He was cooperative and firm but always maintained an aura of respect and authority.
On the final day, the Iranian Charge D’affair was executed with two shots to the head. Lock often criticised himself for not attempting to prevent this murder by drawing his weapon.
Many years later we met again along with Kate Adie to be interviewed on BBC Radio 4. I spent several hours with him. He was still distressed about what he considered to be a failure on his part, so I reassured him that everything he did was absolutely correct. His eyes held a great sadness about the incident. He took no pleasure from it or his personal fame. Had he attempted to mount his own rescue we would have rushed into the building in support, and it is highly likely that more than one hostage would have died (two, if we include the hostage murdered as we made our planned entry). I told him in my opinion he deserved his George Medal, and he was in my mind a truly brave man. I stand by that.
The untold story about Trevor Lock was the abuse and jealousy that he was afterwards subjected to within the Metropolitan Police. In those days counselling for PTSD were unheard of. He simply went back to work, while the media, deprived of contact with us in the SAS turned him into their favourite subject for further investigation. He considered the medal a curse rather than a reward.
Colleagues who were never in his situation, who never had to make the decisions he made constantly belittled him for not using his weapon. They hated the fact that this regular man doing a regular job was called ‘hero.’ He told me on one occasion a packet of dog shit was posted through his front door. All policemen are not heroes, all policemen are not even good men. Trevor Lock in contrast, was a class act, a decent unassuming gentle man, and a gentleman.
In later years I met Sim Harris and Mustapha Karkouti, Max Vernon (the police negotiator) and Trevor once more. It became clear to me that the only people not traumatised by the events of that day when we killed five terrorists and captured one, were us the assaulting soldiers. Everyone else had a burden to bear.
The weight of that burden weighed heavily on Trevor’s shoulders.
He was one of the few heroes I have ever met.
We should remember him as such. Rest in Peace.
Robin Horsfall
B Squadron 22 SAS May 5th, 1980.
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