Push Me off the Cliff

Armen’s company of the dog tank-destroyers was assigned to the 174 Rifle Division of the 30th Army on the Kalinin Front. Their 2nd squad held defense some kilometers from Polunino. At the time other dogs went on accomplishing their missions and wrecked four enemy T-4s, Dragon was engaged in delivering explosives to the distant units.
The day came when, of the dogs trained to destroy tanks, only Norka—a middle-size husky—and Dragon were left.
“Junior Lieutenant Karapetian. Sergeant Nesterenko,” their superior addressed Armen and Norka’s instructor at the morning roll call. “According to our scouts’ reports, most likely the Germans are going to undertake a tank attack on the line of our defense. Be ready with your dogs.”
“Yes, we’ll be ready, Comrade Captain.” Armen saluted, and watching the superior walk away, felt ice spreading through his stomach. As though sensing his despair, Dragon brought his head up and looked at him with special awareness.
It took Armen time to compose himself before he could give Dragon’s head a few rubs then run his hand down his shoulder and along his ribcage. The dog relaxed noticeably and leaned into him as though signaling his trust. Armen knelt and draped his arms around him.

Dawn broke. Peaceful, clear, the air seemed to ring in the cold. Dragon, his fur black and shiny after the morning cleaning, lifted his head and kept looking in Armen’s eyes as though asking, “What troubles you, my master?” Then, his ears up, he seemed to discern sounds, and minutes later, Armen too heard German tanks’ caterpillar tracks clanking and saw them crawl farther and farther from the distant ravine, now only about three-hundred meters from the trench.
“They are coming,” came a raspy whisper, supported by a barrage of furious swearing from several mouths.
Armen rose his head over the breastworks. Camouflaged white, the Panthers moved at low speed, brazenly, as though on a walk.
One.
Two.
Three . . .
Till it hurt, Armen clutched the dog’s collar. Dragon pressed himself to the frozen ground, and listening closely to its vibration, almost imperceptibly trembled to its beat.
The tanks kept moving. The leftmost seemed to target Armen and Dragon’s position. It crept closer, closer. Fear like a thin, gooey stream slithered along Armen’s spine, evoking a rush of thoughts that interrupted each other in his mind. Throw yourself on Dragon. Shelter him from this merciless giant with a black-and-white cross. No, turn Dragon around and command him to run away, to hide in the maze of the trenches. As if shaming himself, the commissar’s words just days ago echoed in his ears: “Every destroyed tank means saving dozens of our fighters’ lives.”
Yes, he mentally reacted to the order, and when in the right position to let Dragon loose, he unleashed his four-legged friend and commanded, “Forwards.” Like a tightly pulled bow and arrow, at last, being released, Dragon sprang out of the trench, kicking up snow dust. Armen clamped his eyes shut, and several moments later, triumphant outcries from several throats made his heart squeeze. “There it is! On fire! The fifth one destroyed in the sector of our division!”
Maybe it wasn’t Dragon. Maybe it was—In a fleeting moment of hope, he forgot the name of the other dog. He opened his eyes and saw Norka turning around and running back. A shot went off. From their trench. According to Instruction. Another unleashed dog, a newly arrived one was gunned down from a German tank before she could reach it.
Dragon. He gasped and clutched at his throat.
To nobody’s surprise, two Junkers appeared in the sky. The death-bringing iron birds circled lower and lower as they approached. Within minutes, there was a whistling of released bombs, the roar as they exploded. The ground heaved; chunks of frozen soil rained on the soldiers’ heads. Armen pressed himself to the snow-and-dirt mush. Another blast.
The dead silence like a dark cloud descended on him.