Klaus was out of breath by the time he reached the Kaiserkeller. He entered the hot, hazy air inside and looked for Stu. Spying the slight young man on stage, placing his guitar in its case, Klaus made his way over.

“You need to come,” Klaus urged. “Quick.”

“What? Where?”

“To ze Kino. Astrid is dere vith George. She vants to take him to Krankenhaus.”

“Where?” Stu was bewildered.

“Ze…doktor.” The more excited Klaus became, the worse his English was.

“George needs a doctor? Are you sure?” Stu looked around for John. He did not notice Pete eyeing them nervously from his drum kit.

“Ja. He is very veak. He is bad hurt, I sink. Ve need help. He can not valk.”

“Shit. All right. Hang on.” Stu quickly spotted John sitting in his usual spot at the table, a voluptuous barmaid in his lap. He approached him, Klaus following.

“John.”

“Not now, Stu. Can’t you see I’m busy?” He nuzzled the woman’s bosom and she giggled.

“John, it’s George. Astrid says he needs a doctor. We have to go.”

John sat up a little straighter. “A doctor? Why? What’s wrong?”

Stu sighed. “Pete was supposed to tell you. George got beat up tonight.” Klaus nodded.

“What? By who?” Fury raged in Lennon’s eyes. He pushed the woman off and stood up in a single motion.

“Germans.”

“Fuckin’ A…” Lennon grumbled. “Where’s Pete? We need to have a talk.”

“Not now, John,” Stu said. “We’ve gotta get back and help Astrid. You can have your piece with him later.”

“That wanker!” John continued. “He was supposed to look out for George!”

“John, please,” Stuart beseeched. “This isn’t the time. Klaus says George needs our help. You can deal with Pete later.”

John sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Where’s Macca? He’s coming back with us,” John said. “I’m not leavin’ him here. We all go together.”

“There,” Klaus indicated. All looked to see Paul well involved with the same woman from earlier. This time, he did not expect an interruption. Their night of playing was over and it was reward time.

Stu marched up to him and tapped his shoulder. “Paul.”

Paul stopped kissing the girl and turned to Stu, annoyed. “Go away.”

“Sorry, mate. We’re going now and so are you.”

“Sod off,” Paul said, turning his attention back to the girl.

“Paul, come ‘ead.” Stu reached out and grabbed Paul’s arm. Paul angrily shrugged him off and turned, ready to confront the smaller man. Something in Stu’s eyes stopped Paul from slugging him right there.

“We have to go,” Stu said intensely, his eyes boring into Paul’s.

Paul looked towards John and saw him motioning with his head. Oh well, there’s always tomorrow, he thought. He turned back to the girl and bade a brief, regretful farewell before following Stu. “So…what’s the fuckin emergency?” Paul asked hotly.

“I’ll explain on the way.”

They gathered beside John and Klaus. “This’d better be good, Lenny,” Paul threatened. “You know how close I was to closin’ that deal?”

“Shut yer gob before I shut it for ya!” John thundered.

Stu rushed to stand between them. “Paul, John! You two can tear each other’s heads off later if you want! The way you two are actin’ I don’t care if you do!” He stopped to stare the two of them down. In a calmer voice, he said, “But right now, we’ve got to help George.”

“George?” Paul said.

“He is very bad,” Klaus said. “He needs doctor. Astrid is vith him. Ve must go!”

From the stage, Pete watched the others convene and leave in a rush. He felt sick.

***

Back at the Kino, Astrid sat near George, waiting. He was growing weaker by the minute and, strangely, he was swallowing frequently.

“As’rid?”

“Ja, George?”

“I’m sorry, but…I think…I’m gonna… be sick.”

“Oh, George… I can not help you to ze lav.”

“S’ok,” he panted. “But please… please go.”

“But George, I—“

“Please.” He retched, dangerously close to losing his stomach contents. “Go!”

Astrid respected his wishes and quickly scurried out of the room. From the hallway she could hear everything. It seemed to go on forever. Astrid cringed with every moan of pain George let out. Suddenly, she was distracted by the sound of heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. John led the group.

“Astrid,” he said, looking around. “Where’s George?”

“In dere,” she explained. “He vanted me to leave so he could…he is, vhat you say?” She mimed as best she could.

John charged into the room, the others following. “Aww, shit.”

“Christ,” Paul murmured, the blood draining from his own face.

Astrid ventured in.

“He’s been pukin’ blood,” John said.

“Oh no,” Astrid said, on the verge of tears. Paul and Stu could only stare.

John knelt beside George, who had finally stopped heaving and lay limp on the couch. A fine sheen of perspiration covered his face. “Georgie?” John said kindly as he mentally inventoried the cuts and bruises on George’s face. “Are ye all right, mate?”

The left corner of George’s mouth turned up in a wan smile. “John? What’re you…doin’ here?”

“I live here too, remember?”

“Yeah…I rem’ber.” George’s eyes drifted shut.

“George? Come on, talk to me.”

His eyes still shut, George replied, “Sorry… tired…wanna sleep.”

“No, George, it’s not time to sleep, mate.” John stood abruptly and turned. “Astrid, is your car near?” he asked. “We have to get him to hospital.”

“It is… not too far,” she said. She could not take her eyes off George.

“Go get it, all right?” John said calmly. “Klaus, go with her.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Park it by the druggist’s,” John directed. “Wait for us there. We’ll bring him down.”

George lay on the sofa, unaware of the nervous tension in the room. A trickle of blood-streaked saliva trailed from his mouth.

“Fuckin’ Pete,” Paul said finally, breaking his silence. “This is his fault.” Paul could not get the image of George’s mum out of his mind. She had let him go on this trip, in spite of his age and inexperience. She had trusted them all to look out for one another. Hell, she had practically become a surrogate mum to Paul when his own mother died, always welcoming him in the house, feeding him, letting him make himself at home. How could he face her if… no, he had to put that thought out of his mind.

“Don’t worry about Pete now,” John said, positioning himself to lift George’s upper body. “I need you two to help me carry him.”

Stu hesitated. “What if we hurt him?”

“He’s already fuckin’ hurt,” John retorted. “Just grab his legs!” John took George under the arms, while Paul supported his waist and Stu his legs. It was an awkward lift. “One, two, three, now,” John directed. George groaned at the rough handling, but they had succeeded in hefting him off the couch. “Okay,” John panted. “Let’s go.”

“He’s heavier’n he looks,” Paul commented.

“He’s dead weight,” John said, wincing at his own choice of words.

“Be careful on these stairs,” Stu cautioned.

All the jostling caused George to awaken somewhat. He was aware they were talking but the words sounded jumbled to him.  The three were moving him as smoothly as possible but every bump was excruciating. George tried to speak, but no sound came out. Finally he managed to utter a single word. “John.”

John looked down in surprise. “Oh hullo Georgie. Is this service or what?”

George recognized that they were in the stairwell. “Where…where…”

“Don’t you worry, George. Just relax and enjoy the ride. And don’t forget to tip.”

John’s humor was wasted. Relax and enjoy were not in George’s vocabulary just this instant. His face ached, his arm throbbed, and his entire midsection felt like a pincushion for swords. Plus, he was having trouble breathing. Between his bloody nose and his battered ribs, it was becoming more and more impossible to get enough air. He could not understand why he was being carried this way or where he was being taken. They should have left him lying on the couch, where he could at least sleep it off and, hopefully, wake up rested and recovered, he thought.  But trying to voice his thoughts was an exercise in futility. He could not force his mouth to cooperate. He was at their mercy.

The streets were still filled with revelers and loners, some happy and some not, but all in a state of inebriation to one degree or another. Many ignored the sight of three young men carrying a fourth. After all, it was not all that unusual in the Reeperbahn. Some turned to stare, only to quickly lose interest. A token one or two looked on with pity.

“We should have called an ambulance,” Paul huffed.

“Ambulances don’t come to the Reeperbahn,” John stated.

“Why not?”

His question went unanswered.

“There they are,” Stu said. Up ahead, just beyond the arc of a streetlight’s illumination, stood Astrid and Klaus beside her small car. When they spotted the others approaching, the two rushed forward to help.

“We’ve got him,” John said. “Just open the car.”

Somehow, they managed to squeeze into Astrid’s tiny car. Paul and John sat in the back, with George on top of them. Astrid, Stu and Klaus were in front. There was hardly room to move even a finger.

Astrid gently coaxed her car along, unaccustomed as it was to such a load. She had to reach under Stu’s legs to shift gears.

“Cor, I hope he don’t puke again,” Paul muttered.

“Hear that, George?” John said loudly. “Don’t puke.”

George only moaned.

In spite of John’s kidding, he was worried. No one mistook his cavalier remarks for lightness. This was John’s defense mechanism, and they knew it.

“Almost dere,” Astrid said. She swung the small car under a canopy that read “Notfall.” Emergency. Astrid, Stu and Klaus jumped out of the car. “I vill get a cot.”

True to her word, Astrid returned moments later, two orderlies bearing a stretcher in tow. “Er ist in dort,” she said to the men in white. They pulled George’s limp body out of the car and dumped him on the cot, then rushed him inside.

Once inside hospital, Astrid took over. She made demands in German, garnering the attention of several nurses and a white coated man who appeared to be a doctor. John, Paul and Stu could only observe the fray, unable to comprehend what was being communicated. Whatever she said prompted them into action.

The doctor took the lead and began to look George over with a critical eye. He spoke loudly in German to George until Astrid apparently explained the boy was English and could not understand. The doctor kept up a steady communication with Astrid as he performed his cursory exam. He peered into George’s sleepy eyes, ran his fingers over George’s skull, and palpated his neck and chest. He spread the leather jacket aside and jerked the t-shirt up, exposing George’s bruised chest and abdomen. The doctor then listened with his stethoscope. He barked several orders, sending nurses scurrying to carry them out. He indicated an exam room and the orderlies began to wheel the cot into it. John tried to follow.

“Nein können Sie nicht hereinkommen,” a heavy set nurse intoned, her hand firmly planted on John’s chest.

“John, you must vait out here,” Astrid translated.

“Bollocks, I’m not waitin’ anywhere!” John argued.

“John, don’t,” Stu urged. “Let ‘em do their job.”

“He’s right, John,” Paul said. “If they’re arguin’ with you they can’t be helpin’ George.”

Reluctantly, John relented. He turned to the wall, resting his forehead against it.

“Ve should go and sit,” Astrid suggested gently. “Zhey vill tell us vhen zhey know somesing.”

“Go ahead,” John murmured. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

The group eyed one another before conceding. They drifted down the hall in a solemn group, leaving John where he was.

This should have never happened, John thought. Pete was with George; how could he let them do this? I don’t care what kind of excuse the bastard has, this shouldn’t have happened! Nothing he can say can get him off the hook, nothing! Pete ran away, that’s all. The swine ran away to save himself and let George take all the beating. He only cares about himself. That’s all he’s ever cared about.

John turned away from the wall, his hands balled into angry fists. Someone would pay.

***

George realized he was alone with the strangers. The strangers who did not speak English. German words flew back and forth between the medical team. His anxiety heightened.

Strong hands raised him to a sitting position. His face twisted in pain and he gasped as they as they removed his leather jacket, especially when they pulled it off his right arm. He grasped the injured arm with his left hand, only to feel his hand pulled away while they cut off his dirty, bloody t-shirt. He was eased back down to a supine position and he blinked rapidly, peering around the room.

Unable to understand what was being said, he could only concentrate on what hurt. The room spun as a dizzy spell overcame him. He felt a mask placed over his nose and mouth and the cool, metallic tang of oxygen poured out. He closed his eyes and drank in the soothing vapor. The dizziness subsided.

The doctor, a man in his thirties with short, curly blond hair, watched him closely as he palpated the bruised ribs. George flinched at the sharp pain this elicited. The doctor said something to the nurse, who made notes. George felt the man’s hands press firmly all over his stomach. The nausea of earlier returned. George moaned, his voice echoing hollowly into the face mask.

More hands, this time unfastening his jeans. They were taking off his pants! George instinctively put his hand down to block their actions but again he was stopped when a firm grip took his wrist and held it.

“Seien Sie still,” a female voice ordered, as if he could comprehend. Be still.

Unable to thwart their actions, George could only lie there helplessly as they pulled his blue jeans off. The cool air of the room hit his legs and he shivered. The doctor ran his hands up and down George’s legs, satisfied they were not injured. He then spoke to the nurses again and positioned their hands to roll George onto his side so the doctor could check his back for injuries. He could not hold back a grunt of pain as they held him in the uncomfortable position.

The doctor’s fingers probed his spinal column and then moved outward. He touched upon a particularly tender area which elicited another hiss of pain from the patient. The doctor spoke brusquely in German. The nurses placed George on his back again.

He did not hear the door open and shut. But he felt the comfort of the blanket that was placed over him, helping to finally alleviate the shivering that only made his pain worse.

“What is your name?”

George thought he was hearing things. He’d just heard a question in English! His eyes blinked open to find a woman’s face smiling down on him warmly. She was not young, but not old either. Her face was round and open and kind. She gently removed the oxygen mask.

“G-George.”

“Hi George. My name is Anne. I’m a nurse in another part of the hospital. When you were brought in, they called me down here to help translate between you and the doctors and nurses. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

This was absolutely brilliant, George thought. At last, someone he could understand. “No…I don’ mind.”

“Good,” Anne said, still smiling. Her calm, friendly demeanor helped put him at ease. “How old are you?”

“S-seventeen.”

“Where are you from?”

“Liverpool… England.”

“You’re far from home. What are you doing in Germany?”

“I’m…in a band. I play guitar.”

“Do you really? So you’re here, working?”

George nodded.

“Where do you play?”

“Down in…the Reeperbahn. In a club.” 

Anne pushed aside her feelings of surprise. In her job, she often encountered English sailors who had gotten the worst end of a skirmish, or suffered from intestinal distress or even, occasionally, a bad bout with venereal disease. But as young as they sometimes were, they were men compared to this boy before her. And in the St. Pauli district no less! No one she knew would dare venture near there.

“George, is there anyone you’d like us to call? Your parents, perhaps?”

A look of panic crossed George’s face. “No. No, please…don’t. Don’t call them.”

“All right,” she assured him, even though it went against her inclinations. He was still a minor in the eyes of the law, after all. “I won’t do anything you don’t want. Don’t worry.”

 Anne quickly told the doctor this information in German. He spoke back to her and she nodded, preparing to pass the information to the patient.

“George, the doctor is ordering x-rays so he can find out how badly you’re hurt. Do you understand?”

“Yes…ma’am.”

“A lot of things will be happening and I don’t want you to be afraid.”

“No… ma’am.”

“You might feel some needle sticks in your arm. They need to draw some blood and maybe give you some intravenous fluids through your veins.”

“I don’…like needles… much.”

Anne chuckled. “Don’t worry, nobody does. But it’s important in order to get you taken care of, okay?”

“Umm, okay,” he said uncertainly.

“What is bothering you the most right now?” she asked.

“My arm… my side… my back.” George caught his breath. “And…”

“And?” She leaned in.

“I…I think…I may be sick…I’m sorry…”

“Do you feel sick to your stomach? Like you might throw up?”

George nodded. “Yeah.” His face mirrored his discomfort.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry,” she assured him as she opened a cabinet and retrieved a basin. She said a few words to one of the other nurses, who wetted a cloth and laid it on George’s forehead.

“Ma’am? Anne?” he said breathlessly.

“Yes, George?”

“I…I really…need to…”

“Need to what, hon?” She could not help but notice he seemed reluctant to say. She grasped his hand in a show of support.

“Pee.”

Anne struggled to hide her amusement. Here was this kid, who was lying here with potentially serious injuries, and he was embarrassed to tell her he had to go. She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead.

“We can take care of that too,” she said. She spoke in German and a container materialized.

***

A woman entered the waiting room with a clipboard and surveyed the occupants. She quickly surmised that the leather-clad boys in the corner were there with the assault victim just brought in. She approached the group and addressed Paul in German. “Sind Sie ein Familienmitglied?” Are you a family member?

Astrid quickly intervened. “Nein ist er nicht erzählt.” No, he is not related.

“What did she say?” Paul asked, at once curious and puzzled.

Klaus answered as Astrid conversed with the clerk. “She vants to know who is family to George.”

Paul, Klaus and Stu observed that Astrid was growing more frustrated as she spoke with the hospital clerk. She began to shake her head and argue.

“What’s going on?” Stu asked.

“Zhey need permission to treat him because he is 17. Zhey vant someone in his family.”

“You mean they won’t help him?” Paul asked.

Astrid sighed, exasperated. She turned to Paul. “Paul, zhey vant to telephone George’s family and, um… receive permission to treat him.”

Paul felt his heart sink. He couldn’t imagine how George’s mum and dad would feel, getting a call from Germany that their son was in hospital with serious injuries. “Isn’t there any way we can get around that?”

“Zhey insist to call his parents,” Astrid explained. “I am so sorry. I should not have told zhem he is 17.”

“This is mad!” Paul said. “You mean they’d let him lie there and die if they can’t get permission?”

“I’ll sign it.” John’s voice came unexpectedly from behind the clerk, who whirled around in surprise. “Give it to me.” He reached for the clipboard.

“Wer sind Sie?” the clerk asked, suspicious. Who are you?

John shot Astrid a look that was full of meaning. Astrid caught on and quickly jumped in to concoct a story about John’s relationship to George. The clerk hesitantly handed the clipboard to John and he signed it, returning it with a cheeky smile. She shook her head and walked away.

“What did you tell her?” Paul asked.

“I told her John vas George’s uncle,” Astrid said, unable to contain a smile.

“His uncle!” Stu laughed.

“Uncle John,” Paul teased.

For the first time that evening, John’s eyes glinted in a familiar expression of mischief. Too soon, though, he reverted to the anxious demeanor of before. He slowly paced the waiting room.

“John, vhy don’t you come and sit vith us?” Astrid said.

“What’s taking so long?” John asked.

“It hasn’t been that long, John,” Stu said quietly.

“Ve probably haf a long vait,” Astrid said. Stu’s head lay on her shoulder but his eyes were wide and jumpy.

In truth, all the boys were nervous, and it wasn’t all to do with their worry over George. It was not uncommon for one or more of them to lie awake until daybreak, their nervous systems fueled by an excessive intake of preludin during their night’s work.

Paul sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded. His fingers twitched restlessly. “I have a question,” he said, breaking a long silence. Everyone looked at him. “I mean, we didn’t call George’s mum and dad, ‘cos we didn’t want them to know what happened… but, wouldn’t they want to know? If it were me, you know, I think me dad would want to know.”

“I sink you are right, Paul,” Astrid said. “But vhy don’t ve vait until ve know more.”

“I think it’s a lousy idea,” John said. “Getting a phone call like tha’… it’d scare ‘em to death.”

“They’re bound to find out sooner or later,” Stu said. “How would they feel knowing we kept it from ‘em?”

“What if George has to go back to Liverpool?” Paul said. “I mean, maybe he’s not gonna be able to stay on, you know?”

“He’s not goin’ back,” John asserted.

“How d’you know?” Stu said. “He might need time to recuperate. I can’t see him layin’ up on a couch in the Bambi Kino—“

“He can have my bed,” John interrupted. “We can take care of him here. I don’t see any reason to bring his mum and da into this.”

“I still sink ve should vait and see,” Astrid reiterated. “Let us find out what ze doctor says first. Perhaps George has to haf an operation. Zat vould be more serious and I agree ve should call zem.”

“Look, why don’t we ask George?” John said. “Shouldn’t it be his decision, then?” John collapsed, tense and exhausted, into a chair beside Paul.

Paul studied his friend. “John, what’s goin on? Why are you bein’ so stubborn?”

John sighed for the umpteenth time. “I’m not--!” He stopped and calmed himself. All eyes were on him. “Look. I was there, in George’s parents’ living room, convincing them that George should be allowed to go to Hamburg. That this would be a great opportunity for us… for him. It was me, I was the one who assured them it was a good idea. They trusted me. They knew I’d look out for ‘im.”

“Ees not your fault, John,” Astrid said quietly.

“Isn’t it? Why didn’t I go with Pete? I could’ve… but I was too bloody selfish. I sent George instead.”

“You didn’t send him,” Stu argued. “He volunteered.”

“Only when no one else would!”

Paul and Stu looked down, knowing they were the “no one else.”

“By that logic, we’re all responsible,” Paul said. “But I’m not gonna go that road, mate. It’s not your fault, or mine, or Stu’s. It’s the fuckin’ Germans who beat the shite outta him. They did it. Not us.”

“This is ridiculous,” Stu said. “Paul’s right. It’s not like we laid into ‘im.”

“Fine,” John stated. “You can all sit there and absolve yerselves of any blame because no one’s gonna come accusin’ you. I’m the one in the hot seat here, not any of you wankers. I’m the leader of this group and it’s gonna come down to me. You know it as well as I do.”

Paul shook his head in surrender. There was no talking John out of this one.

***

Pete wandered back to the Bambi Kino, afraid, but resigned. He didn’t care that he was walking about unescorted. He hoped the Germans would be lying in wait, ready to do him in. Better them than Lennon.

No such luck. As he arrived at the back door of the cinema, he let himself in. All was quiet. He crept up the stairs and arrived at the landing, and realized all the lights were still on. That could only mean no one was there sleeping. He had hoped they’d all be there, slumbering away peacefully. Pete slowly walked into the room shared by George, John and Stu. As he expected, it was empty.

His eyes swept the room and came to rest on the mess on the floor by the couch. It took a minute for his mind to register what he was looking at. Obviously things were worse than he’d realized. Apprehension took hold of him. He had been sure George would be all right after a little rest. Now he knew he’d judged wrongly. He did not know which he feared most, the extent of George’s injuries or his own certain annihilation.

With nothing else to do, Pete shuffled back to his own dark room. He sat on the cot and pulled his boots off. Lying down, he stared into the darkness. Sleep would not come easily.

***

Early morning sunlight streamed into the stark waiting room of the hospital. Its occupants dozed fitfully in the uncomfortable chairs lining the wall.

Anne ventured into the room and made her way to the scruffy lads in the corner. They were young and dressed in leather, just like George. They all look so young, she thought. Especially the one with the black hair and the baby face. He could not be much older than George.

She cleared her throat and pulled a chair over to sit opposite them. One by one, they woke and stretched, sitting up straighter in their chairs. Their eyes were alert but the dark circles beneath them were much in evidence.

“Hi, I’m Anne. Are you George’s friends?”

“You speak English,” Paul said.

Anne laughed. “You noticed.”

“How is he?” Astrid asked.

“George is doing fine. He’s—“

“He’s all right?” John interrupted.

“He will be. With a little time and care he should make a full recovery.”

Sighs of relief went around the little group.

“His arm. Will he be able to play the guitar?” Paul asked.

“He should. His arm has a fracture of the ulna, the smaller of the two bones that make up the forearm.” Anne showed them on her own arm. “It’s been set and he’ll have to wear a cast for a few weeks. But it’s not a complicated fracture.”

“Vhat else?” Astrid asked.

“He has four broken ribs, three on one side and one on the other. Those will heal on their own, but they can be quite painful. It will hurt him to breathe, even, for a while. And he will not be able to lift anything or do anything strenuous until they heal. His nose is not broken, and that’s very good. Once the bruising goes down he should look like his old self again.”

“Aye, still ugly, eh?” John said.

Everyone laughed. Astrid swatted John on the arm. “Do not talk about my Liebliches Kind zat vay.”

“Anne, one thing that scared us,” Stu said. “He was pukin’ blood.”

“We believe that was only due to the drainage from his bloody nose. He had swallowed a lot of blood and that made him nauseated. We didn’t find any sign of internal bleeding. But, to be safe, he will have to stay here a few days for observation. There is a slight chance something could be there that we missed. It’s the only sensible thing to do.”

“Vhat about…” Astrid paused. “Klaus said…”

“Dere vas blood,” Klaus explained. “Vhen he vent to ze, em, ze waschraum?”

“Yes, we observed that as well,” Anne said. “Dr. Werner feels it is not serious. George described a kick to his back that probably bruised his kidney. That can result in the drainage of blood through the urinary tract. There again, it is something we will observe closely.”

“How will you know if it’s more serious?” John asked. “If you missed something?”

“Obviously, he will get worse instead of better. If the symptoms don’t subside, or they get worse – say, he’s vomiting more blood – then George will have to have surgery. Right now Dr. Werner feels it’s best to provide supportive care and continue to observe him.”

“This Dr. Werner,” Paul said. “Is he any good?”

“He is very good. You needn’t worry. Dr. Werner was very thorough in treating George. I was there almost the whole time and his treatment was very appropriate.”

“Where’s George now?” John asked.

“He’s being transferred to a ward for a period of a few days. Try not to worry. He’s doing much better even since I first saw him this morning. He has some medications going into his veins, and some fluid. He was dehydrated and the fluid is really perking him up. The doctor prescribed pain medication for him and that’s helping a lot.”

“I want to see him,” John said.

“I know you do, but you’ll have to wait until visiting hours. I’m afraid it’s quite strict.”

“When’s that?”

“Visiting hours are from one until three in the afternoon.”

“But that’s hours from now!”

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do,” Anne said regretfully. She really wished she could let someone go up and sit with George. Her shift was ending soon and he’d be alone again among people who spoke only German. In the short time she’d spent with George, she had developed a genuine fondness for him, and a bit of protectiveness. He was so young and vulnerable and so far from home. She could not help it. “Why don’t you go and get some sleep, and come back this afternoon at one?” she suggested.

“We might as well, John,” Paul said. “We’re all knackered.”

“You’re sure he’s all right?” John asked Anne.

“I promise.” She smiled.

“Right, then. We’ll be back.” John rose with the rest of them, then stopped suddenly and turned. “Oh, by the way, where’s he at? In the hospital, I mean… you know, for when we come back later.”

“He’s going to be on the third floor, in the south wing. In one of the wards, I don’t know which.”

John smiled. “Ta.” He led the group out the door.

Once outside, John separated from the others and headed towards the hospital’s main entrance.

“John, the car’s over here,” Paul called. The others stopped and turned.

“I know where the bloody car is,” John said. “I’m goin’ this way.”

Paul, catching on, shook his head. “You can’t go up there now! You ‘eard what she said!”

“You gonna stand there and watch me or come ‘ead?” John said, squinting in the sunlight.

Paul, with great reluctance, trotted after his bandmate and friend.

***

“This is the one,” John whispered to Paul as he peered through the window to the ward.

Paul looked back and forth down the hallway and saw no one coming. “Go in… hurry!” He pushed on John’s back and the two sneaked into the ward.

It had not been easy for the two scruffy looking teddy boys in leather to make their way to the third floor without being confronted. After sneaking past the information desk, they had scampered up the stairs instead of using the elevator. Once on the third floor, they were forced to wait until the corridor cleared of nurses and orderlies before they dared venture out of the stairwell. They nervously inched along the hallway, Paul acting as the lookout while John peered in windows, until they found the ward they were looking for.

There were ten beds in the ward, five along each wall. George occupied the fourth on the left. John and Paul scarcely paid attention to the other patients, among them a skeletal looking old man who looked already dead, and an overweight middle aged man who coughed loudly and continuously.

George sat partially propped up, apparently sleeping. His head lolled to one side and he breathed shallowly through his slightly open mouth. The blood had been washed off his face but the bruises had deepened. His left eye was ringed in dark purple which extended to the bridge of his nose. A small bandage held the cut in his bottom lip together. He wore no gown but his torso was tightly bound in white up to his armpits. A bulky plaster cast encased his arm just past his elbow. A bottle of clear liquid hung above, feeding fluid through a tube into his good arm. A well-worn blanket covered his lower half.

John and Paul, knowing their time was limited, grabbed wooden chairs from nearby bedsides and pulled them up besides George’s.

“Should we wake him?” Paul whispered.

John touched George’s wrist. “Georgie?” George stirred slightly, then settled again. John shook his arm gently. “George, wake up.”

George forced his eyelids open halfway. Seeing John, he frowned. “John?”

“Paul’s here too.”

With great effort, George turned his head. “Paul?”

“All right, now that we know who everyone is,” John quipped.

“What…where…” George looked past his mates at the room beyond. “Oh.”

“You’re in hospital, remember?” Paul asked.

“Yeah.”

“Doctor says you’re gonna be all right,” Paul said.

“Oh…yeah.” George blinked lazily. “Whur’s Pete?”

“Pete?” John spat the word as if it tasted bitter. “If he knows what’s good fer ‘im he’s halfway to England by now.”

“Wha?” George slurred. “But…he…why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” John asked, his voice carrying through the ward.

“Shhh!” Paul warned. “Keep it down.”

“He fuckin almost got you killed!” John hissed. “Or have they got you on so much drugs you don’ even remember?”

“No,” George said, puzzled. “Wasn’ his fault.” His fingertips absently traced over the tightly wound tape around his chest.

“Not his fault? He was s’posed to be lookin’ out for ye… what’d he do? Run away, tha’s what he did. Did ye hit yer head or somethin’?”

“What did he…tell you?” George asked.

“Nothin’!” John said too loudly again. “He told me nothin’! Said you were feelin’ a little sick, he did. Bastard! And then when he finally got ‘round to tellin’ someone, it was Stu, not me. Fuckin’ poof.”

“John, watch it.” Paul, ever vigilant, kept an eye out for a hospital employee to suddenly appear and catch them.

“John,” George said. “I don’ know… what he told ye… but don’ blame him… He…he got me back… to the Kino…he didn’ mean ta… leave me thur…” George, agitated by John’s outbursts, was forced to stop and catch his breath. The binding restricted the depth of his breathing and he became winded trying to explain the previous night’s events.

“Well let’s give ‘im a medal! He scraped ye up after they ‘ad their fun with ye! ‘e deserves the knighthood, ‘e does!”

Paul noticed George was tiring. He was not up to debating with John about Pete’s actions the night before.

“John, we’d better go before we’re found out.” Paul motioned his head towards George, who – feeling the effects of the long night and the pain medication – was clearly fighting unconsciousness.

John, his tirade over, slouched tiredly in the chair. He rubbed his eyes deeply, exhausted himself. “Yeah.” He stood and Paul followed suit. “See ye later, Harri.” In an uncharacteristic show of affection, he tousled George’s hair. But George was already asleep.

“Bye…George,” Paul said. His face was sad and tired, his eyes bloodshot.

“Wer sind Sie?”

Paul and John whirled around at the barked question to see a matronly German nurse eyeing them sternly.

“Cor, let’s go!” Paul announced. He and John ducked past the woman before she could react, snickering like schoolboys caught doing something naughty. They ran down the hall, their footsteps echoing loudly before the resounding clang of the stairway door reverberated.

The scowling nurse shook her head and resumed her duties.

***

Exiting the hospital, they made their way back to the car park. Astrid, Klaus and Stu were waiting in the car. John and Paul crowded into the back seat with Klaus. The slamming of the car doors woke Stu, who had been dozing in the front.

“Did you see him?” Astrid asked anxiously.

“Yeah,” John said.

“We saw him for a few minutes,” Paul said, “until the Nazi nurse chased us out.”

“How did he look? Vas he happy to see you?” Astrid started the car and backed out of the space.

“Oh, he’s happy. I don’ think it had anythin’ to do with us,” John muttered.

“What John means,” Paul explained, “is he’s not feelin’ any pain. If you know what I mean.”

“Sank god for zat.”

Astrid drove John and Paul back to the Kino before she and Stu headed for her house to get some rest. As they trudged wearily up the stairs, Paul turned to John.

“What are ye gonna do? I mean, about Pete?”

A flash of anger crossed John’s face for a split second. “Don’t talk to me about bloody Pete.”

“You ‘eard what George said,” Paul continued. “It wasn’t Pete’s fault.”

“George isn’t in his right mind,” John retorted.

“Don’t you think you should find out what ‘appened before you go smashin’ his face in?”

“Who said I was gonna smash his face in?”

“No one ‘ad to! I can tell by lookin at yer face what yer thinkin’.”

“Oh, so now you’re a clairvoyant are ye? Maybe we can add that to the act, you know? Have audience members come up on stage so the Great McCartney can read their minds…”

As they topped the flight of stairs, John and Paul froze. Pete, who had been coming down the hallway, also froze. John glared at the drummer through narrowed eyes. Pete slouched a bit and cleared his throat. Paul looked from John to Pete and back again. The tension was thick.

John finally broke away and stalked into his room. Pete looked at Paul sheepishly, but Paul’s expression was blank.

“Where’s George?” Pete asked, almost inaudibly.

“In hospital.”

Pete flinched. He suddenly found the faded wallpaper beside him to be extremely fascinating. After a moment, he summoned the courage to speak again. “Is he…gonna be all right?”

“What do you care?” John asked acerbically, abruptly appearing in the doorway. His frame filled the door and blocked most of the light that came in through the room’s window. The effect was intimidating. Although John was no bigger than Pete, he suddenly seemed like a hulking giant.

“I care,” Pete said quietly.

“Why now, all of a sudden?” John asked, slowly sauntering towards the drummer. From the top of the stairs, Paul watched with wide eyes.

“It’s not sudden… I…I always did,” Pete said. “I made sure he got back here, didn’t I?”

“After you ran away so the Germans could pound the shite outta him!”

“I didn’t run away!” Pete insisted. “You don’t know what happened!”

“Then why don’t you tell me?”

“I’m trying to!”

“Why didn’ you try last night instead of lying right through yer fuckin teeth, then?” John shouted.

“I didn’ know he was that bad! I swear it!”

“You lied! First, you let ‘im get beat up, and then you lied about it! Yer a liar and a coward!”

“Piss off, Lennon! Yer nothin but a washed up art college drop-out!”

John lunged at Pete and slammed his back against the wall. Pete was momentarily knocked senseless but soon began trying to defend himself. They locked arms and grappled, the two closely matched in size and strength.  Pete actually swung first at John but was deflected by John’s arm. John’s adrenaline was flowing, however, and he quickly got the upper hand. He landed two punches in Pete’s stomach, weakening the drummer. Pete hunched over and thrust his shoulder into John’s chest, pushing him backwards. This infuriated John and he pushed Pete back and swung at his face, connecting with Pete’s eye.

Paul, watching the fierce fighting, realized he had to intervene or there wasn’t going to be a group left. He bound forward and tried to insinuate himself between the two. “John, stop! Pete, back off!” He grabbed John’s arm while he tried to push Pete away.

John and Pete were oblivious, however. If anything, their violence escalated. John grabbed Pete around the head and attempted to run him into the wall. Pete used the only weapon he had, his knee. He swung his leg up and tried to knee Lennon in the groin, but John spun to avoid a direct hit. Pete’s knee gouged John’s thigh painfully, which spurred John, who still had Pete in a headlock, to spin him the other way. He swung sharply and released Pete, hurling him towards Paul who was still trying to break up the fight. Paul flew backwards with Pete’s momentum and struck his head on the wall. Pete tripped over Paul and tumbled to the floor as well.

John, seeing what he had done, knelt beside Paul, his anger defused. “Paul? Christ, Paul… are ye all right?”

Paul lay immobile, his face scrunched in a painful frown. He groaned and brought his hand up to his head.

“Paul? Say somethin’.”

“God…me ‘ead.”

“Christ, Macca… I’m sorry. Shit.” He turned his gaze towards Pete, who had scooted himself backwards towards the opposite wall. Pete looked fearful. “Open yer eyes,” John coaxed. He felt terrible.

Paul peeled his eyes open and looked at John. There was no accusation in them. He knew John hadn’t meant it.

“Help me get ‘im up,” John said calmly to Pete.

They each took an arm and helped Paul to stand on shaky legs. “I’m all right,” Paul said.

“I can see that,” John said, watching Paul sway and holding his arm a little tighter. “Let’s get ‘im in there.” He motioned with his head towards the room he shared with George.

Paul staggered like a drunkard as Pete and John led him to George’s couch and eased him down. “I’m fine, I’m tellin’ ye… I’m fine.”

“I know,” John said. “You’re just knackered, is that it?”

Paul only moaned.

John looked at Paul, then at Pete. Paul lay with his eyes closed, apparently drifting into much-needed sleep. Pete stood slouched, physically and mentally exhausted. The whole world was goin’ to hell, it seemed. First George, now Paul. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. He suddenly felt claustrophobic. “Keep an eye on ‘im,” he said to Pete, who nodded mutely. John stumbled out the door and down the stairs with no apparent destination in mind.

***

The bedraggled boy in the leather jacket and angry expression strode purposefully through a light afternoon rain, his hands thrust in his pockets. After wandering aimlessly for a time, he had decided on a destination. Or rather, a destination had picked him, as he found himself heading in that direction with no forethought.

Pushing open the heavy weather-beaten door, John entered the gloomy, institutional building that reeked of antiseptic. The place was even more depressing now with the rain falling steadily outside. The green walls and tired brown linoleum reminded him of sickness. He ventured a furtive glance around to see if anyone was paying him any mind. There was no one at the information desk and the only others in sight were an orderly and a nurse, flirting with each other down the hall. They were too caught up in their conversation to notice him.

Relying on memory he quickly made his way up the seldom-used stairway to the third floor. Brazenly entering the ward, he approached the fourth bed on the left. No chairs in sight this time, so John perched on the edge of the lumpy mattress. George frowned at him.

“You could try to look happy to see me,” John remarked.

“I am,” George said unconvincingly.

“The scowl on yer face says otherwise.”

“You look a sight.”

“It hasn’t been me best day.”

“Nor mine.” George winced in pain and squirmed.

After a pause, John said, “I laid into Pete.”

George sighed. “Do ye feel better now?”

“No.”

“I told ye,” George winced again. “He didn’t… oh sod it.”

John studied George’s face, tense with pain. “Are ye doin’ all right?”

George gave him a pleading look. “You gotta get me outta here.”

“Right then, I’ll just pull that thing outta yer arm and we’ll be on our way.”

George sighed again. “Why’re you here? Must be time for the gig, or close anyroad…”

John nodded distractedly. “Yeah, time. Time to act the fool again. Leap about like fuckin’ monkeys. Entertain the half-wits. Sell more beer. That’s all we’re good for. I wonder if it’s fuckin’ worth it.”

“What’s all this, then?” George asked quietly.

John gazed at his boots. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

George tried to ignore the nagging pain in his side and waited patiently for John to continue. It wasn’t often that John let down his guard and he did not want to do anything to break the spell.

“Like what?” he prodded.

“Are ye daft? Look at ye… all broken up, and for what? And Pete, I shoulda broke his nose. I might’ve, if Paulie hadn’t got between us. Now he’s half crippled in the head, fuck knows if he’s gonna end up in this hellhole next. We’re a fuckin’ rock and roll band, not a band of Nazis, we’re not s’posed to be fightin’ some stupid war over here, we’re s’posed to be entertainin’ and makin’ a bit of money… but instead, we’re havin’ to watch our backs and some of us don’ even fuckin’ know how to do that…”

George interrupted John’s tirade. “Paul? What’s ‘appened to Paul?”

John waved his hand. “Nothin’ really… you know Paulie, always havin’ to get into the middle of things.”

“’Things’ bein’ you’n Pete.”

“He’ll be all right. Hell, a good whack in the head might do him some good.”

George smiled for the first time. “Might. Prob’ly not.”

“Nah, his head’s too hard.”

An awkward silence ensued. John seemed too tired to rant anymore. In fact, John was probably close to collapse, having not slept in 24 hours. As wretched as George felt, he didn’t envy John much at the moment.

“You should go to the gig now.”

“What fuckin’ difference does it make?” John said dispiritedly. “This whole thing is fallin’ apart and I don’t see any reason to pretend anymore.”

“Go… for me.” George averted his gaze, self-conscious. “I don’t… want to think this is it, you know?” He shrugged. “Then all this is for nothin’. There’s gotta be somethin’… worthwhile… at the end, see?”

When John didn’t reply, George looked up to find him gazing searchingly at him.

“Give me somethin’ to get better for, John. Somethin’ to come back to.”

Understanding dawned on John’s face. The sense of hopelessness he had felt only moments before was replaced by a sense of purpose. Finally, he had something constructive to do. They had hit rock bottom. The only way to go was up.

Part Three Coming Soon!

Suzanne Warren is a 41 year old Beatles fan, living in the southwest U.S.  She has been a fan forever, since she remembers sitting and studying her older sister's Beatles albums as a very young child (and if she was good, she'd even play them for me). At the age of 13, her fandom blossomed into full blown Beatlemania. She began reading and collecting everything she could get her hands on. She has amassed a fairly impressive collection of books, articles, records, trading cards, etc. that are vintage and wonderful. They're her prized possessions. It's been a part of her life ever since, and she doesn't wish to ever be cured of this disease.

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