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.
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.