To the spouses of these men and women that did wear the uniform, we might not say it enough but “Thank You for your love and compassion”.
“DOGS OF WAR”
For the longest time, he had been doing almost fine. When he had chosen six years ago to deliberately live a simple semi-secluded lifestyle, this had helped tremendously in forgetting that “previous life”. His nightmares were re-occurring less often, his mood swings were less intense and he could actually find that urge to laugh out loud when in good company.
But unfortunately this was not the case during this month of October as a multitude of events were making it that this “someone” had crept up in his head and this person wasn’t the “musher”. This uninvited guess was that entity that he knew so well but also that despised “evil side” that he had learnt to keep under lock and key. This “someone” was at best, a “beast of a man” that had been created by a well oiled and finely tuned military establishment. Like the many others before, during and after, he had been molded for one purpose and one purpose only and the mandate was quite clear – Produce super soldiers with robot like behaviors that can be controlled and can be unleashed by the governing body anytime they see the necessity arise. Unknown to him then, he had become one of the millions of “pawns” in the various World Class Chess Matches who had been brain washed in thinking that their services to their countries were absolutely indispensable. Like the other Chess pieces on the front line, he then would walk around nonchalantly, chest pumped and head high, truly believing that it was allowed to sanction someone else in a “Kill or be killed” scenario…
Anyway, that was to be the theory behind this doctrine and it would have been more than all right if the “puppet masters” could have controlled completely the minds of these individuals. However, this would never be the case as somewhere and sometimes maybe buried real deep inside under that “Kevlar” armored plated vest, exists the soul and beating heart of a person of good scruples. And that Ladies and Gentlemen is where it gets complicated.
The soldier that is asked to go to far away lands so to enforce the dictated policies of his country, does it because that’s what he’s trained for and that’s what he was ordered to do. The stressful external conditions that he encounters are way beyond what the common mortal will deal with on a daily basis and something that if you haven’t experienced it, you will never understand. Under these hostile and dangerous conditions, if the soldier is to survive, he must develop that much needed sixth sense that could be categorized as a constant state of “hyper-vigilance”. When in this mode, he becomes super alert and like “Spiderman” all his senses are tingling. If this is not grand enough, when he is to be “combat tested”, he enters an even higher sphere of euphoria which the new generation of veterans refers to as being in the “zone”. That’s when the brain is invaded by this sensation that can best be described as being on “morphine laced with steroids”. What this intriguing and very addictive “high” is all about, is what we call that “Adrenaline Rush”. This hormone/neurotransmitter is found in the body and when called upon, it increases heart rate, constricts blood vessels, dilates air passages and assists the nervous system when dealing with the phenomena called the “the fight or flight” syndrom.
In lameman’s terms, it is a chemical that is released as a defense mechanism through the entire body and brain. Its sole function is to put the recipient in a highest state of alertness when facing any type of threatening situation. It is most useful when facing danger but also most addictive. Consequently, with these high levels of euphoric episodes comes real serious downsides. Depleted of its reserve of adrenaline, the body goes into recuperation mode and tiredness sets in. The soldier that has to deal with an environment where violence and death is a daily determinant, lives with these “Ups and Downs” cycles constantly. And if continuously bombarded and that the body has no time to replenish itself with a new supply of these hormones, the brain warns the body of this shortfall and orders it to go into self-preservation mode. At this time, the body automatically shuts down certain functions that it considers non essential and sets itself up in survival mode, something that we would recognize as “depression”. The more you tax your system for the adrenaline, the more acute the delivery of the hormone is. Of course there is to be a downside to this and it’s the fact that it takes longer and longer for the body to recuperate from the last “rush”. So when the soldier has pushed his luck way beyond what his body can supply in adrenaline, it stops to function properly and he can and probably will develop a medical condition associated with “chronic depression”.
You think that this is complicated? Well let me tell you! We’ve just started scratching the surface. In the combat environment, this acquired taste for the “stuff” is most valuable if our soldier is to stay alive. However, he eventually develops some sort of habit and becomes what they call an “Adrenaline Junkie”. Just like any other addict hooked on whatever the addiction is, in his case, he needs to have this “hyper-vigilance” state of mind stimulated and this constantly. This is where another additional problem lies. The brain doesn’t recognize the nature of the threat. It simply automatically and unconsciously responds to a demand and that’s what makes it hard for the soldier to adapt to a lifestyle outside that combat environment. Although he is conscious that he is back home safe amongst friends, tucked away, locked in the back of his mind, he’s still in “full alert” ready to “rock and roll”. And that’s what makes it dangerous. He is so accustomed to counter violence with violence that it becomes his main tool used to address any stressful situation, regardless of the size. It doesn’t matter what the stress factor is, he lashes out with this most basic instinct of survival. Now, if he’s lucky enough to be aware of this downfall, he tries to control these bouts of fury but unfortunately, the anger boils inside of him and just like a pressure cooker that’s left on the stove on high heat for too long, he’s ready to explode at any moment. This makes it that his existence is chaotic. He walks around all day with this feeling of animosity and resentment towards his fellowman and brings this to bed with him at night. Of course, still upset and even angered, he’ll have a hard time falling asleep and if he does get to “catnap”, this is certainly not a peaceful rest. An “Up and Down Yo-Yo like mood swing” pattern eventually sets in, leaving this walking wounded tired, depressed and living in some sort of “Zombie” world. In World War One, they used to call it “Shell Shock”. During World War Two, the new name given then for this condition was “Battle Fatigue”. Today, it is known as “Post Traumatic Stress” and is identified by the medical profession as a psychological disorder that develops in some individuals who have had major traumatic experiences (for example, have been in a serious accident or gone through a war like arena). The “zoned out” person is typically numb at first but later certain symptoms eventually evolve to include depression, excessive irritability, guilt (for having survived while others died), recurring nightmares, flashbacks to a traumatic scene and of course over exaggerated reaction to stressful situations and/or sudden noises. Referred to in its abbreviated form as PTSD, it became known as such in the 70s when adjustment problems to a civilian life of some Vietnam veterans were to be recognized. “The truth has got to come out, Gino! The truth has got to come out!” That’s what this head attached to this exposed rib cage was always repeating to him in this same repetitious dream. It had been ages since being visited by the ghost of this army buddy “Daniel Gunther” and this particular nightmare had sort of faded away over time. However the accumulated stressors and lack of proper sleep during the last few weeks had provided the right conditions so to make it resurface.
It was always the same reverie. The Military Police would enter an autopsy room to identify the remains of this soldier. There they were, spread on top of this cold stainless steel table, left there after an attendant had tried to put the various body parts together so to make it look half human. Although totally mangled from the blast, he could recognize the face of the individual by that friendly smirk that “Dan” always seem to have on. He would confirm his identity and start walking away when the corpse would grab the policeman’s combat shirt with his right arm and start yelling, “The truth has got to come out, Gino! The truth has got to come out.” Scared shitless, the witness would try to get away but the arm would detach itself from Gunther’s body and it would be left dangling, the hand in a tight fisted grip, holding on to him.
Of course this was just a dream and of course then WO Roussel had only seen photos of this lifeless body as they were attachments to a police report but still to this day, the images of seeing the mutilated body of his “weight room” partner, haunted him. When he had come across it in his office back then in 1993, he had found it stuffed away in the back of a desk drawer. He had perused the said report but there weren’t too many details as to what had transpired. The investigating officer had done a crappy job at putting together a true picture of what had occurred during that fatal afternoon when Master Corporal Daniel Gunther was killed in his APC by an anti-tank rocket. Eventually, over the years, further details would come to light that would seem to indicate that the truth and nature of the incident had been somewhat covered up. Someone had taken on the job of running “tackle” so that it would not interfere with the agenda of certain politicians. I guess after the “Somalia” fiasco, some of them were afraid that the backlashes of a dead soldier in another unpopular war might have severe consequences back home. It was an election year in Canada and the Liberal Party did not have a strong grip on or many seats in Quebec. Subsequently, it was imperative that the proud reputation of the Royal 22nd Regiment be spared and protected as it represented the pride and joy of the Canadian Armed Forces in that French province.
On that particular evening on the 29th October, 2011, he was not suffering certain symptoms described in the previous paragraphs but had been swallowed up entirely by all of them. His evil side had almost taken complete control over his emotions and he would need to deal with this. If draconian measures needed to be applied, so be it, they would be used. He was dead tired from battling with the “Evil Wolf” and a show down was the order of the day. More than a few little incidents had been added up on the already huge pile and not only was he feeling the weight of it, he was collapsing under the “shit load”.
Amongst other things, the dogs had been pissed on by skunks and the nightly hunts and killings of these intruders was a definite stressor. You know that the guy is not in the right frame of mind, when after delivering a blast of “12 gauge” buckshots at the vermins, he puts the barrel of the shotgun to his nose so to take in the fumes and enjoy the intriguing smell of gun powder smoke. Two of his likeable mutts had taken off on an adventure, met up with a porcupine and tangled with it. While “Thunder” had come back to the barn, her face full of quills, her sister “Lightning” never did return and was up till now, presumed dead. The news of the tragic death of a Canadian soldier by the name of Master Corporal Byron GREFF would not help either. He was to become the 158th casualty that this country would encounter in Afghanistan. Like all the other “Boyz” that had died before him, those who had made the ultimate sacrifices had a real severe negative effect on our musher. It was close to his best friend’s one year anniversary as “Bruce” had died of cancer on the 30th October, 2010 and this was a hard pill that he had not yet accepted to swallow let alone digest it. Through the couple of weeks before Remembrance Day, the Government of the day was plugging their propaganda on every possible media sources, advocating that we should remember the great work that “Our Troops” are doing or had done. This was fine but his memories of his “war efforts” did not involve glory and ticker tape parades. Rather, his thoughts were drawn back to the atrocities of the Bosnia/Croatia conflict where the United Nations had totally failed in bringing stability to the country. What was to push him right close over the edge, was an incident where while his dogs and him were training on a public road in the forest, they were stopped at gun point by two bear hunters. It wasn’t bad enough that they wanted him to turn around, they had ended up playing “chicken”. Nobody was flinching and this till the musher made his move. He grabbed the barrel of the rifle with his right hand and without batting an eye, he told the man holding the other end, “You either shoot right now or get this fucken thing out of my face. I’m not in the mood to play chicken shit games. If you don’t move it out of my face, I’ll rip it out of your hands and shove it up your ass. Pray to God that it’s empty!” For some reason, they allowed him to go on his “merry” way. What these two “red necks” didn’t realize was that they had just lit another fuse under his ass and he had been served with a violent dose of adrenaline. However and unconsciously, their camouflaged garbs had brought him back to a time when him and his navigator, a young Kenyan Corporal by the name of Thomas OGETANKE had been barred from carrying on with their patrol by two Croatian Serb soldiers. He had strongly insisted that they be allowed to gain access as they represented the “UN” but he would soon lose this argument. It had kind of made an impression when one of the two tall sentries had raised his left arm and the turret of this khaki green T-55 tank that was parked behind him, started to slowly turn its gun 180 degrees only to rest its barrel on the hood of the white VW Golf. I don’t know but when you stare at this huge black round orifice sitting there maybe two feet in front of your windshield and you know that at the other end of that extended tube sits a “100 mm” shell, well you tend to have a renewed sense of co-operation and you back the hell out of there. Once they had returned to their garrison in Knin later that day, they had filed a formal complaint through the proper channels but never did get feedback from them. Instead, information started trickling in that ethnic cleansing was taking place in the small villages surrounding the region of the city of BIHAC. It started with reports of bodies floating downstream on the Una river and was to be later confirmed when “UN” patrols would be allowed entry to the region. There, they found bombed out and completely destroyed towns, emptied of its populations. A tattle tale that would indicate that some barbaric activity had occurred in the area would be the hundreds of light blue latex gloves contaminated with human blood that were found discarded all over the place. To paraphrase the “Situation” report, it indicated that a well prepared group of men had attended the area with a well engineered plan. In location, they had systematically annihilated the Muslim citizens of the towns. To this day, the identity of the “butchers” in these “Death Squads” is still unknown but it was suspected that they were mercenaries with narrow ties to white supremacy “Neo-Nazi” groups from Germany, Austria, Rumania and the United States of America. All this information is not new as it is a matter of public records. However, what has been hidden for all those twenty years, is the fact that some “United Nations” soldiers had had an active contribution in the carrying out of these massacres. It turns out that an investigation done by the United Nations Military Police had revealed that a number of high ranking officers of the Kenyan Contingent in Sector South, had orchestrated a well organized racket where they were involved in Black Market activities and the illegal sale of United Nations fuel to Serbian civilians and its military. The leaders in these criminal activities had misled their subordinates who obeyed them with obvious blind loyalty. Throughout the interviews, it had been determined that close to 500,000 liters had been stolen by these gentlemen thieves. And adding insult to injury, these officers had abused their positions of authority to trick their subordinates into assisting them with delivering illegal fuel and this with “UN lorries”. While the United States and three other European countries had managed to push through the UN Security Council, a stiff punitive resolution that would place an “Oil Embargo” on Serbia and its satellite states, some greedy entrepreneurial spirits wearing blue berets on their heads, were supplying some of the belligerent parties of the “Republic of Krajina” with petroleum products through the back door. Since the “Intelligence” on the Croatians side was to indicate that the other warring party had very limited quantities of this precious commodity, they had decided to take this opportunity to move the confrontation line in a more westerly direction. Unknown to them, more than four full divisions of Serbian military Forces, was there, topped with fuel and ready to welcome them. Both sides blamed the other for not respecting the “Cease Fire” and they waged war against each other, killing with extreme prejudice, any civilians found in their way.
To this day, the musher still had this bitter taste in his mouth about that piece of the puzzle. Ever since his tour of duty over there, the month of October had always brought back awful memories of his time spent in the “Balkans”. Where people wanted to remember the “good times”, he was ever trying to forget that chapter of his life. Not a single day would go by without him wondering if things might have been different if the sale of “Black Market” fuel would not have not taken place. He would continuously analyze in his mind the prospect of what might have happened, if the authorities might have had a better control of its delivery system. “What if the Serbians would have been left in a position where they did not have the fuel to run their “war machine”, could UNPROFOR have maybe prevented the massacres of the “BIHAC” region or the “MEDAK” pocket. Like the many other soldiers that had served on that particular mission, he would be left with a real deep sense of shame for something that he had never had any control over.
So waking up from that dreaded nightmare again drenched in cold sweat, he found himself disoriented, sitting in his favorite blue chair on the porch of the “Outpost”. You know that a person has reached the end of his rope when he’s sitting there, staring at a rusted old non-functional shotgun mounted on the wall and is questioning his self-worth. He definitely needed to find some answers real soon because contrary to the relic on the wall, he had brought with him his old “security blanket”. There it was, tucked away under his left armpit, snug and warm in its leather shoulder holster, that dependable “Colt 45” semi-automatic pistol. Yup, right there and then, he was dead tired of dealing with all this mental anguish and Yup, there it was on stand-by with one round up the chamber and another one in the clip.
During all this time, “Mosqua” was sitting there, his back in a corner, looking at the man with this concerned look on his face. In the better part of the last ten years, he had seen too often the ex-soldier battle the ghosts of his dreams only to wake up in this frenzied state. More than once had he been at the receiving end of a flying fist from the man, not because he was sleeping in bed with him but rather because the “lunatic” could not get away from his past.
“Hey Buddy? What do you think?” the musher asked his fateful companion, “Is it time to cross over to the other side of Rainbow Bridge?” The animal, recognizing the soft and now calm voice of the “Good Wolf”, started to wag its tail and headed in his direction. He put his head in his crotch and looked up at the man directly in the eyes with that look that said “I’ll back you all the way there, Buds.” That stare brought a smile to the man’s face but also plenty of tears to his eyes. The dog didn’t realize that the first round was destined for him. All he knew was that he was with his trusted friend and would tag along for the ride.
‘It totally amazes me that I could do this to him and that he would die just because I decided that he would.” the veteran reflected through the sobs while patting Mosqua’s head. “Isn’t that what the “Powers to Be” are doing to all these soldiers around the world? – Create an environment where they are manipulated into believing that dying for the cause is the ultimate sacrifice for your country? Yeah, there’s a lot of “pawns” out there that were suckered into supporting the “power hungry 1%ers”, that secretive hush-hush society that tells world wide Governments what chess pieces they should move. This group of the so called “Elites” does exist you know. Just google “Military Industrial Complex” and see what you find. You’ll see that the lines found here were not written here by the hand of a paranoid “headcase”. Instead, they were written by one who was burnt too many times by the system and has decided to turn his back on society as we know it. Whatever would happen out there was their problem, the man concluded. He was even too tired to even care anymore. Right now, he had but one priority on his list and that was to get rid of the “Evil Wolf” and this he would achieve once and for all.
As you would have it, there was nothing simple in this simple man’s life and if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. The stage was set. He had a roaring fire in the wood stove and the thermometer indicated that it was a balmy 42 degrees Celsius inside the cabin. After closing the door behind him, he walked to the center of the room where he undressed completely naked, making sure that his clothes were neatly folded in front of him. He sat there, facing West and in the “Samurai Warrior” tradition, he placed his weapon on top of pile of clothes and waited for the heat to work its magic. This part of the ceremony was a ritual that he was accustomed to and he knew that through the sweat he would get courage and strength.
“So why would you want to do this?” his mentor asked him. “Why would you want to give up at this stage of the game?”
“I’m really tired Leonard. I don’t know what to do anymore.” was all the “pupil” could muster as an answer.
“Did you forget the fundamentals, Gino?” this somewhat annoyed voice inside him, told him. “If so let me remind you a bit how this works. It’s like your dogs. Right now, they are dead tired simply because you’re pushing them way past their limits. In as such, you continue to ask of them and they continue to provide. Somewhere in there, their bodies don’t get a chance to properly recuperate. Therefore, they become irritable and that’s why they fight amongst each other. They do not want to co-operate and if you keep this up, they’ll just flop on the trail and say, “Hey we give up!” The only way that they’re going to function properly as a team again is if you allow them to rest up their bodies. Does that remind you of someone?” he emphasized.
The listener blushed…
“As for your overreacting to any little annoyance, did you forget the story about the sport of “Dog Fighting” in Korea?” he stressed.
All of a sudden, the musher was reminded as to what this old “Korean Vet” had once told him many years ago while sharing a coffee in his kitchen.
These dogs that were thrown into the ring where they would fight to the death, were conditioned to become that way. Like the humans, they were born innocent only to be fashioned by whatever means to become “killing machines”. Many methods were used and none of them had anything to do with tenderness. These animals were trained to be aggressive and at the end of the day, it became instinctive to attack the one in front of it as it was the basic way it was taught to survive. While the vanquished were destroyed and fed to other potential gladiators, the old “combat scarred” victors would be kept as living and breathing trophies so to be displayed by their money thirsty owners. Eventually, they would also be discarded and deemed obsolete and as a reward these “dogs of the arena” would be turned loose on an unsuspected population where they would be allowed to go out there and fend for themselves. Lonely and mistrusting, they would continue an existence of agony. It wasn’t their fault, Leonard Lanteigne had accentuated. That’s what they were trained for and they only saw humans as thing that could bring them harm. “Fear Bitters” they would be known as. Just like the soldier we were talking about at the beginning of this “blog”, they were only reacting to a threat not because it was an actual threat but simply because they were conditioned to react decisively to what was perceived as a threat.
Directing his question to his knowledgeable teacher, the man then asked, “Yeah I understand that but now, how do you deal with that dog or for the purpose, that soldier?”
“Well, how did you deal with “Rhum?” the old Malecite Native rebutted?
By now, his old trail partner was making quite the solid case, the suddenly very alert and attentive musher thought. And yes, the tall lanky red dog had come a long way since he had been adopted close to two years ago. In this instance, this sleddog had come from a world where a set of circumstances had made it that he didn’t know any better. Bottom line, he had never been socialized and could not interact with other animals. At the beginning, he was a wild and uncontrollable running machine and would attack whatever and whoever he had in his line of sight. Many of the “Mob” had been the recipients of his vicious attacks and he would only deal with the other dogs in one basic pattern. Encounter the perceived threat and bite at it so that it retreats. Gobble up what food that was put in front of him as if he had never been fed. Go back to its enclosure and guard the door by snapping at any other friendly dogs that just want to invite it outside so that he may discover this great new world out there.
The musher would have to conceive that “Rhum” had been a hard nut to crack. He could roll up his sleeves and produce several old now healed bite marks all over his arms to prove this fact. How many times after violent clashes had the musher said to the dog, “Eat this and enjoy your last meal because tomorrow, you’re being served a “lead pill”.
Destroying a dog, was one of these necessary evils that needed to be done by the true musher. Having a vicious dog on the team was something that could bring you trouble out there in the wilderness. The best example to illustrate this would be the following - You take off with a “10 dog” string and somewhere deep in the “bush”, this mean dog attacks his partner and it is a clash to the finish. First off, you end up with a bunch of dogs that really get excited and want to get into the “melée”. You have to get control over these ones first to then deal with the fighters. These bouts don’t need to be long to be serious and it doesn’t take much or too long to have one of the combatants injured, crippled or dead. When all is done and the fur has stopped flying, you might end up with two injured dogs that now can’t help pull the sled and left with only eight who now have the burden of having to carry the extra load. So for the betterment of the “pack”, it is sometimes better to permanently eliminate the source of the problem.
“Rhum” had come real close at least seven times in becoming maggot food. The last time, the musher had his head tied to the bottom of a tree, he had the barrel of the“22 gauge” stuck between his eyes, the safety was off and it was a matter of holding that deep breath and pulling the trigger. For some reason, the oxygenated air to the man’s brain had a calming effect and he thought to himself, “Hey, doesn’t he remind you of yourself when you were young, wild and crazy but with a good heart? If that old boss of yours way back then would have written you off, would you have turned out the way you did eventually?” Yeah, “Rhum” looking down at the barrel cross-eyed, sort of reminded the ex-soldier as to how turbulent his first years in the military had been. Back then, he had been given one last final chance by this crusty old Warrant Officer by the name of “Lloyd Church”. This rough and tough ex-boxer had seen the true potential in the “always in some sort of shit” young Private and had taken him under his wing. Through patience, compassion and love, he had turned this out of control wild young man into a very functional and loyal Military Policeman. The musher just then had been reminded of all the time he had invested in “Santa’s little Helper” (he does resemble Bart Simpson’s dog) and the mega strides he had made since his being adopted. “Rhum” still had a few flaws but through the same methods used by “Old Flat Nose”, he had managed to turn him around where he had became a hard-working loyal team member that would now actually go out there and socialize with his peers. After attributing that everybody is allowed a bad day, especially when you’re pushed to the “max” without allowing your body to recuperate, the dog’s life was spared once more and it had paid dividends. Stuck on the trail one night because one of his leader had pulled a shoulder stepping in a moose track, the “dogman” had taken a chance and put “Rhum” in front. There, he had accepted these responsibilities with utmost confidence. Seeing them, “Oumak” and him, matching each other stride for stride and in harmony, the musher was singing “Rudolph the red nosed reindeer” to the team and was giving priority to the words, “Rudolph with you’re your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh to night!” This experience would bring the point home that if you have a good heart and you are ready to help your fellowman, positive things will happen and you will surround yourself with values attributed to the “Good Wolf”.
“What about the “Evil Wolf?” the confused man asked the “Shaman”. “What am I supposed to do with him?”
“Well,” Leonard replied with this friendly smile, “he served you quite well in that previous life and if he hadn’t been within you, you might not have survived what you went through. He is an integral part of who you are and it’s a matter of knowing that if you feed him too much, he will have the strength to go out there and roam through the peaceful valley... Best let a sleeping Wolf, lie…”
By the time, he woke up, he was lying on the floor of the “Outpost” and the cold temperature in the building could only be matched by Mosqua’s cold nose. Here he was, this dark shape creeping along and discreetly sniffing the length of his master so to see if he was still alive.
“Good Morning there, Buddy!” the rested man said in reassurance. “What time is it?”
His tail wagging, the dog didn’t answer but by the way he crouched down to then snuggle in his friend’s side, you could tell that he was glad to see that the ex-military man was all right. Grabbing that adorable head in a choke hold, the musher gave him a kiss on top of the head to then say, “Well there “Big Guy”, what would you think if we were to get off this mountain and we’d head home for coffee?” The dog knew exactly what he was talking about and after straightening things around, to the truck they proceeded after closing the door. Reflecting as to what had transpired during the previous evening, the man said to himself, “I guess we’ve managed to weather another storm, Leonard. Thanks for being in my corner, there, old friend.”
The voice in his head immediately answered,
“Sometimes, what you're looking for is right there in front of your very own eyes. It's a matter of putting your feet up and reviewing the "Good Things" that happened during the previous year. One can "break trail" on his own but it is sure nice to share the burden with trusted friends...”
To be continued…
Peace on Earth to One an All and remember. Together we can make a difference! = -)
Gino
