Yes I Can: The Story of Sammy Davis, Jr. (8 page)

The physical grind of basic training wasn’t as rough on me as on some of the others because as a dancer I was in good shape. I didn’t even mind the food. I’d had far worse and far less.

Most of the men in our barracks gave me no problems, either because they didn’t care, or because after a day of Basic they were too tired to worry what the hell I was. But there were about a dozen I had to look out for. They clustered around Jennings and their-unity alone was enough to intimidate anybody who might have wanted to show friendliness toward me. When that group wasn’t around, the others would be pleasant, but as soon as one of them showed up, it was as if nobody knew me. The sneers, the loud whispers, the hate-filled looks were bad enough, but I didn’t want it to get worse. I tried to keep peace with Jennings without Tom-ing him as Edward was doing. I hoped that if I was good at my job he’d respect me, but when I was good on the rifle range he hated me all the more. If I was bad he laughed at me. I found myself walking on eggs to stay out of his way, casually but deliberately standing on a different chow line, always finding a place at one of the tables far away from him in the mess hall.

I was dressing, fastening the strap on my watch before evening mess and it slipped off my wrist and fell to the floor next to Jennings’ bed. Before I could reach it he stood up and ground it into the floor with the heel of his boot. I heard the crack. He lifted his foot, smiling coyly, “Oh! What
have
I gone and done? Sure was foolish of you to leave your watch on the floor. Too bad, boy. Tough luck.”

The glass was crushed and the gold was twisted. The winding
stem and the hands were broken off and mangled. I put the pieces on the bed and looked at them, foolishly trying to put them together again.

“Awww, don’t carry on, boy. You can always steal another one.”

I looked at him. “What’ve you got against me?”

“Hell, I ain’t got nothin’ against you, boy. I like you fine.”

I knew I shouldn’t just take it from him like this. I knew I should swing at him or something, but I was so weakened from the hurt of it that I couldn’t get up the anger.

I wrapped the pieces in some paper and put it in my pocket. Maybe it could still be fixed.

Overnight the world looked different. It wasn’t one color any more. I could see the protection I’d gotten all my life from my father and Will. Yet, I couldn’t thank them for it. I appreciated their loving hope that I’d never need to know about prejudice and hate, but they were wrong. It was as if I’d walked through a swinging door for eighteen years, a door which they had always secretly held open. But they weren’t there to hold it open now, and when it finally hit me it was worse than if I’d learned about it gradually and knew how to move with it.

Sergeant Williams walked out of the mess hall with me. “I was looking over the service records and I see that you were in show business. We have shows at the service club every Friday. If you’d care to help out I’m sure it would be appreciated, and perhaps you might enjoy doing it.”

After the show, I was standing backstage with one of the musicians, a guy from another company, and I suggested we go out front and have a coke.

He said, “Maybe we better go over to the colored service club. You don’t want trouble, do you?”

“Trouble? I just entertained them for an hour. They cheered me. Hey, look, God knows I don’t want trouble but there’s gotta be a point where you draw the line. Now I don’t know about you, but I’m thirsty and I’m goin’ in for a coke.”

A few of the guys who’d seen the show saw us walking in and pulled chairs up to their tables, making room for us. Jennings was at a table with four of his buddies. They looked over at me and smiled or smirked, I couldn’t be sure which. I sat with a group from our
barracks and it was the happiest hour I’d spent in the army. I luxuriated in it. I had earned their respect; they were offering their friendship and I was grabbing for it.

After an hour or so I said good night and headed for the door. As I passed Jennings’ table he stood up. “Hey, Davis, c’mon over here and let’s get acquainted.” He was smiling, holding out his hand. It would have been satisfying to brush him off, but if he was trying to be friendly it seemed better to accept it and keep peace. “Well, I was going back to the barracks….”

“Hell, you got time for one little drink with us.” He pulled out a chair for me. “Man, where’d you learn t’dance like that? I swear I never saw a man’s feet move so fast. By the way, you notice I ain’t callin’ you ‘boy’.”

“Have a beer, Davis.” One of the guys pushed a bottle toward me. “Here y’are,” Jennings said, “here’s one nobody touched.”

“If you don’t mind I’d rather have a coke.”

“Hey, old buddy, you’re in the army. It’s time you got over that kid stuff. You gotta learn to drink like a man. Try it. You’re gonna like it.”

The others were watching me. One of them grinned. “Yeah, you oughta learn to drink if you’re gonna be a soldier.”

Jennings said, “Listen, you’re gonna insult me in a minute. Any man who won’t drink with me …”

“Okay, I’ll try it.”

“That’s better. Now I’ll tell you how to drink beer. It can’t be sipped like whiskey or a coke. To really get the taste of beer you’ve gotta take a good long slug.”

The others nodded and raised their bottles. Jennings said, “Here’s to you.” I picked up my bottle to return their toast. I had it halfway to my mouth when I realized it wasn’t cold. It was warm. As it came close to my nose I got a good whiff of it. It wasn’t beer.

“Hell, don’t smell it, man! Drink it!”

I took another smell and all at once I understood the smiles, the handshakes, the friendliness from Jennings. Somebody had taken the bottle empty into the men’s room and come back with it filled.

Jennings was saying, “Come on, drink up, boy …”

I put the bottle on the table. The faces in front of me zoomed in like a movie close-up and I could see every line, every bead of perspiration, every blink of their eyes. The noise in the room was
growing loud then low, loud then low. Suddenly I snapped out of it.

“Drink it yourself, you dirty louse.”

Jennings roared with laughter. “Hell, he even curses like a coke drinker, don’t he?”

I tried to stand up, but my chair wouldn’t move. Jennings had his foot behind a leg of it, trapping me. The old hate was back in his face. “You wanta live with us and you wanta eat with us and now you came in here and you wanta drink with us. I kinda thought you loved us so much you’d wanta …”

I felt a warm wetness creeping over the side of my shirt and pants. While he’d been talking he had turned the bottle upside down and let it run out on me. I stared at the dark stain spreading over the khaki cloth, stared at it in unbelieving horror, cringing from it, trying to lean away from my wet shirt and wet pants. My pocket was so soaked I couldn’t put my hand in for my handkerchief.

Jennings jumped up, pointing to me, jeering loudly, “Silly niggers can’t even control themselves. This little fella got so excited sittin’ with white men—look what he did to himself.”

I was out of the chair and on top of him. I had my hands on his throat with every intention of killing him. I loved seeing the sneer fall from his face and be replaced by dumb shock as I squeezed tighter and tighter, my thumbs against his windpipe. He was gasping for breath. In a desperate effort he swung around fast, lifting me off the floor. My own weight dragged me off him and I flew through the air and crashed into one of the tables. Within seconds the area was cleared as though we were in a ring together.

Until this moment it hadn’t been a fight, it had been an attack by 115 pounds of rage propelled by blind impulse. I hadn’t known it was going to happen any more than Jennings had. The weeks of taking it, the time of looking for peace, of avoiding trouble, had simply passed, and it just happened, like a pitcher overflows when you put too much into it.

But we both knew it was going to be different now: he was a foot taller than me and half again my weight, or more, and without the advantage of surprise I was like a toy to him. He was taking his time, grinning to his friends, caressing the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other. He raised his fists and began circling, licking his lips, anticipating the pleasure he was going to take out of me.

I flew into him with every bit of strength I had. His fist smashed into my face. Then I just stood there watching his other fist come at me, helpless to make myself move out of the way. I felt my nose crumble as if he’d hit an apple with a sledge hammer. The blood spurted out and I smelled a dry horrible dusty smell.

“Get up you yellow-livered black bastard, you stinking coon nigger …” I hadn’t realized I was on the floor. I got to my feet and stumbled toward him. He hit me in the stomach and I collapsed. I was gasping for breath but no air was coming in and I was suffocating. Then suddenly I could taste air, and the figures in front of my eyes straightened out and became people again. I got up and went for him. He was methodically hitting me over and over again, landing four to every one of my punches, but they weren’t hurting me any more, they were just dull thuds against my body. Then his fist was beating down on the top of my head like a club. Someone shouted, “Don’t hit ‘im on the head, Jen. Y’can’t hurt a nigger ‘cept below the forehead.” He kept pounding me and I felt myself slipping to the floor again. I grabbed his shirt with one hand to keep myself from falling so I could hit him in the face with my other hand. I had to stay on my feet and keep hitting him, nothing else mattered, and I was glad to trade being hit ten times by him for the joy of feeling my fist smash into his face just once. I hung on and kept hitting him and hitting and hitting….

A guy named O’Brien, from my barracks, was holding a wet cloth against my face. “You’ll be okay,” he said. “The bleeding’s stopped.”

We were outside. I was propped up against the side of the PX. It was very quiet. Another guy was there. Miller. They were part of the group that always avoided trouble with Jennings. He smiled. “You might feel better to know that you got in your licks. I think you closed one of his eyes and you definitely broke his nose. He’s wearing it around his left ear.” I started to laugh but a shock of pain seared my lips. My head was pounding like it was still being hit. I opened my mouth carefully to ask how long I’d been out.

O’Brien said, “Take it easy.” He grinned and showed me the cloth he was wiping my face with. “You ripped his shirt when you fell and you had part of it in your hand. You had a death grip on it even after you went out.”

They walked me back to the barracks. Sergeant Williams was waiting in the doorway. He shook his head in disgust. “Very smart!
Well, get over to the infirmary with Jennings.” He walked into his bedroom.

I had sent Jennings to the infirmary. What beautiful news. Gorgeous! Miller and O’Brien were waiting to take me there. I shook my head and thanked them. I wasn’t going to give Jennings the satisfaction of seeing me in the infirmary, not if my nose fell off entirely.

Lights were out but on the way to my bunk some of the guys stopped me and told me that when I’d fallen off Jennings he was starting to stomp me but Miller and O’Brien had stepped in and pulled him away. I realized that I’d broken the barracks into two groups: the haters, and the guys in the middle who didn’t care enough to take sides or who didn’t want to get involved. It had never occurred to me that some might swing over to my side. But when Miller and O’Brien saw that I was down and Jennings was
still
kicking me they had to get involved, and say, “Hey, wait a minute. This is ridiculous. Nobody’s
that
bad.”

I got into bed and it was delicious. I tried to turn over on my stomach but the bruises were murder. Still, as much as I hurt, as awful as it had been, the worst pain wasn’t so bad that I wouldn’t do it again for the dignity I got from hitting back.

Jennings had beaten me unconscious and hurt me more than I’d hurt him, but I had won. He was saying, “God made me better than you,” but he lost the argument the minute he had to use his fists to prove it. All he’d proven is that he was physically stronger than me, but that’s not what we were fighting over.

I’d never been so tired in my life, but I couldn’t sleep. I hated myself for those weeks of sneaking around trying to avoid trouble. I’d been insane to imagine there was anything I could do to make a Jennings like me. I hadn’t begun to understand the scope of their hatred. I was haunted by that voice yelling “Y’can’t hurt ‘im ‘cept below the forehead.” My God, if they can believe that then they don’t even know what I am. The difference they see is so much more than color. I’m a whole other brand of being to them.

There was so much to think about. How long would I have gone on not knowing the world was made up of haters, guys in the middle, Uncle Toms … I couldn’t believe I was going to spend the rest of my life fighting with people who hate me when they don’t even know me. But I kept hearing that voice and I knew I’d hear it again, out of another mouth, from another face, but spouting the
same ignorance. I tried to stay awake to think it out, but my head was throbbing and the room began tilting to the left, then the right….

… “Come on, Davis. Out of the sack.” Sergeant Williams was leaning over me, tilting the bed. “I told you to go to the infirmary last night. You’re a damned fool. I’m putting you on sick call this morning and you will report over there immediately after Mess. That’s an order.” Everybody else was outside for morning muster. I’d slept right through reveille.

I looked across the mess hall. Jennings had a strip of tape across his nose and his left eye was so swollen that he wouldn’t be opening it for a week. The guys were buzzing and pointing at us and I made three trips back to the food counter for things I didn’t want, just so that he could see me with no tape on my face, practically dancing there, as though I’d been to a health farm all month.

I had been drafted into the army to fight, and I did. We were loaded with Southerners and Southwesterners who got their kicks out of needling me, and Jennings and his guys never let up. I must have had a knockdown, drag-out fight every two days and I was getting pretty good with my fists. I had scabs on my knuckles for the first three months in the army. My nose was broken again and getting flatter all the time. I fought clean, dirty, any way I could win. They were the ones who started the fights and I didn’t owe them any Queensberry rules. It always started the same way: a wise guy look, a sneer—once they knew how I’d react, they were constantly maneuvering me into more fights. To them it was sport, entertainment, but for me the satisfaction which I had first derived diminished each time, until it was just a tiresome chore I had to perform. Somebody would say something and my reaction would be, oh, hell, here we go again. But I had to answer them. Invariably, I’d walk away angrier than when the fight had started. Why should I have to keep getting my face smashed? Why should I have to fight to break even? Why did I always have to prove what no white man had to prove?