Special Agent Buster, 1944

Special Agent Buster - real name Lionel Crabb - was a British deep service agent, though perhaps not the kind one usually thinks of. His unusual career path had certainly led him to undertake perilous missions, risking his life in oppressive, shadowy conditions on countless occasions. Buster had a taste for adventure, and was proud to serve MI6, on His Majesty’s Secret Service – to Buster there was no greater justification for leading this double life. One life was already something, so two could only be better. Without this job, his existence would have been of little note. It was true that he’d always felt the call of the sea, but he was drawn to a pursuit more singular, more remarkable than the life of an ordinary sailor.

Buster had led a difficult yet somehow uneventful childhood, whose tedium meant he was forever dreaming of greater things. As soon as he could he started doing odd jobs for the merchant navy, until finally an opportunity arose for Buster to make a name for himself - the outbreak of the Second World War. It was then that he got to serve as a gunner in the army in the name of His Majesty the King. He quickly learned how to handle the weapons, but Buster knew that his was not a life to be lived on the water, but below the surface. It would be some time before he reached the ocean depths; first he would have to join the elite Royal Navy, being posted on a ship that carried him far from the troubles of home and family to the rock of Gibraltar. His double-life was beginning to take shape; Buster could finally escape and dream of a new love in an unfamiliar land. He imagined a beautiful paramour lounging in his bed in the morning, gulls crying outside, waking up to the sweet scent of her perfume, of her foreignness, before leaving her behind with a twinge of regret but his heart already yearning for the next adventure. His mission was to explode all the mines the Nazis had planted around Gibraltar. Buster wasn’t a diver yet, and so it was not his task to remove the underwater mines attached to the hulls of Allied boats. But soon he would join the ranks of the divers. Buster was full of ambition, unfazed by the infinite horizon as he gazed over the ship’s rail. Before even setting foot in Gibraltar he saw himself setting off in conquest of new lands and new women; a different life every day for as long as he kept breathing.

Buster wasn’t afraid to risk his life, and his hard work soon earned him the George Cross, a high honour for military heroes. Buster was promoted to lieutenant-commander, and decided to run with his luck and learn to become a diver. His dream was finally coming to fruition. He quickly proved to be an excellent diver; taking to the water like a fish - a predator, even. He was then chosen to lead a team of divers to clear mines from the ports of Livorno and Venice. Italy wasn’t too far a cry from home, but it was a start. And Italy was enchanting, in its way: the bitter coffee, the bustling markets, the countless bridges in Venice and the ceaseless churning of the water. That sing-song way they spoke; it was a pleasant sort of adventure. Of course, he’d have preferred to be diving in the Pacific or the Indian Ocean, swimming alongside strange animals or roasting in the hot sun on a desert island, but Italy’s charm was undeniable. His work at least gave him the adrenaline he needed; disabling an underwater mine required an incredible level of skill and composure. Each time he went on a mission his life hung by a thread, and he loved that feeling, living on that wire-edge that could snap without a moment’s warning. The stifling nights that followed his days had a taste of danger, too; every orange he bit into tasted just like the first time, and in Italy the wine flowed like water over the terraces of Venetian cafés.

When he returned home to Britain, Buster was left with only the bitter, lingering memory of his adventures in Italy. Every splash of milk his wife poured into his cup made him morose: tea time was torture after the thrill of deep water. The heavy fog in the streets of London, the blinding light of the street lamps, the black bowler hats, the black suits, the black ties, the black brogues and the sombre waters of the Thames dulled his spirits. That was, until one day adventure came knocking. It was her Majesty’s Secret Service: MI6 needed Buster’s help. His heart leapt; he was to be sent on a secret mission. No more milky tea, no more simple life devoid of the unexpected. He threw off his robe and left the house without hesitation, to his wife’s great confusion. Indeed, his majesty’s secret service had a highly delicate mission for him. Nikita Khrushchev and Nikolai Bulganin had arrived in the UK on board the Ordzhonikidze for a diplomatic visit, and Buster was to dive under the harbour of Portsmouth to investigate the Soviet boat.

When the day came, Buster dove into the icy waters of Portsmouth harbour. His palms felt around in the dark, the oxygen hissed into his mouth as it had always done, and Buster trembled with joy and excitement. His body became one with the water, focused, vigilant, tense and agile as an eel. All of a sudden, his MI6 overseer heard silence over the line. “Buster? Agent Buster?” he called into the walkie-talkie. “Buster, are you there?” repeated the MI6 agent. But Buster had disappeared, forever: neither his body nor any trace of him was ever found, and only the murky waters of Portsmouth harbour will ever know what became of Special Agent Buster.

Alan Alfredo Geday