Free War of The Rats - A Novel of Stalingrad - [World War II 01] by David Robbins Page A

meters below the floor.
     
    Inside there was just enough room for two men to kneel side by side and swing pickaxes. The plan was to burrow to the opposite side of the hall. Once beneath the Russians’ stronghold, two and a half meters below them, the fuse would be lit. “Twenty kilos of dynamite.” One of the sappers grinned and spit on the tunnel floor. “That ought to lift those Bolshi bastards halfway to heaven ... or wherever.”
     
    Weary and dirty, Nikki slumped against a wall. Three more men were in the hole now, shoveling out dirt. This made very little noise, so no singing was required to mask it. Mercker told the men to rest for a few hours, then another strong medley would be needed before dawn. “Think up some new songs,” he said. “And no opera. I hate that shit. I want songs about women.”
     
    Mercker sat beside Nikki, drained and grimy. He offered a cigarette and closed his eyes. Nikki thought the young captain was funny, good for morale. He seemed a good leader with a ready ear and plenty of cigarettes. Nikki hoped the best for him, that he would not die here in Stalingrad and that he would live to hate opera as an old man.
     
    On the other side of the hall the Russian voices struck up another song. “Goddammit.” Mercker’s eyes were still shut. “Can’t there be five minutes without a blasted song?”
     
    The captain’s eyes sprang open. He sat off the wall, his face close to Nikki. “No,” he hissed, “there can’t.”
     
    Mercker jumped to his feet. He grabbed a pickax and handed it to a soldier who was not yet dirty. “Get in there! Dig!” He motioned one of the sappers into the hole. He pointed at another soldier and handed him a pick.
     
    “Let’s go. There’s no resting now,” he said urgently. “We can’t wait.”
     
    Mercker carried the last shovel to the middle of the room. He pointed the tool across the hall at the singing Russians. “Those bastards are trying to blow us up, too!”
     
    Nikki thumped his head against the wall. Of course. Damn. The Reds have a head start on us, maybe two hours.
     
    All the men were awake now, all staring at the floor. Nikki pictured the race beneath the surface, wondering who was in the lead and by what distance, afraid that two meters below him a cask of dynamite sat sizzling.
     
    “If the Reds stop singing,” Mercker called, “have a tune ready. And loud. Understand?” Everyone nodded. Mercker disappeared into the hole.
     
    The race was on. The men dug with a desperate strength. They worked under cover of the Russians’ singing as long as it lasted, an hour or so at a time, then picked up their own chorus whenever the Reds stopped. When their voices flagged, the enemy burst into song.
     
    Through the night, Nikki’s company did most of the singing. They gauged, the race in the tunnels by who flung the most verses across the corridor. We must be catching up, Nikki thought. We’ve even added a harmonica. The Reds don’t have a harmonica.
     
    Flickering lamplight glimmered from the tunnel. Silhouettes descended and the bent, blackened shapes of others staggered out. The round, glowing hole in the middle of the floor looked to Nikki like a threshold to the netherworld with its shadowy demons coming and going.
     
    At dawn, Mercker emerged, his face streaked with muddy sweat. He sat and motioned for Nikki.
     
    The man looked exhausted. He spoke in a rasping voice, his head hung.
     
    “The sappers say we’ve got one more hour of digging. Tell the men to get into their groups of ten.”
     
    Nikki nodded. The captain tugged Nikki’s tunic with a blackened hand. “You’re in the first group. Secure that trench. Hold there until I get the rest of us out.”
     
    Gathering their rifles, Nikki’s patrol moved to the windows. The guard nodded, and Nikki leaned out to search the debris-riddled street. He jumped down and waved for his men to follow. One by one they landed, and he pushed them toward the trench.
     
    The