Sammy Davis Jr(12)

“What became of Sergeant Williams, Pop?”

“I don’t know. But I owe him my life. He tempered all the humiliation I felt from my unit. He distracted me from all my rage, all my anger. I wouldn’t have survived the army without him,” my father replied.

“The last straw with Jennings was the worst of all. After I did a little Frank Sinatra number at the Officers’ Club, impressing a general, word was out that I might be able to transfer into the integrated Special Services unit. There I could perform on a professional level for the entertainment regiment. Jennings wasn’t pleased. He thought I was kissing butt to escape his abuse. I had to work out a budget for scenery, props, and costumes for a white female captain. This didn’t sit well with Jennings. The captain had all the power to give me something to offer the army: my talent,” Dad said.

“I can’t imagine what Jennings did next,” I replied.

“It was unimaginable, Trace,” my father said with disgust. “Jennings and his gang jumped me on the way to a meeting with the captain. They cornered me, dragged me into a latrine, and beat the crap out of me.”

“Oh, Pop,” I said, holding back the tears.

“But that wasn’t the worst of it. They took a can of white paint and wrote the word ‘NIGGER’ on my chest. They beat me until I was bleeding from every part of my body. I thought my life was done—I was going to be beaten to death. Just to add some icing on the cake, Jennings ended his circus act with, ‘Now be a good little coon and give us a dance.’”

“Dear Lord, did you dance for him?” I asked.

“I danced for my life, Trace. After Jennings finished his finale, I wanted to crawl into the walls of the latrine and die. I thought to myself, I joined the Unites States Army to fight the enemy in whatever country at whatever time, but I never thought I would be sleeping with the enemy in my own unit, my own barracks.”

“Did they transfer you after that nightmare, Pop?”

“Luckily, yes—into the entertainment regiment. I was able to perform to larger crowds, even got cheers from those who previously mistreated me. Prejudiced white men admired and respected my performances. I saw Jennings in the audience once. He didn’t crack a smile, but I could tell from his expression I had won the battle, maybe not the war, but that battle. The spotlight lessened the prejudice. For me, it was a revelation. My talent was the weapon, the power, the way for me to fight. It was the one way I might hope to affect a man’s thinking. From then on, deep in my heart, soul, and spirit, I knew I had to be a star.”

“What about Grandpa and Uncle Will, did you tell them about the beatings in the army?” I asked my father.

“Not a word. My father and Uncle Will met me at the station in Los Angeles after I was discharged. After hugs and all that good stuff, my father noticed my treasured gold watch he had gifted me was not on my wrist. I just couldn’t bear to tell him the truth. Why would I put my father and Uncle Will through the pain and suffering of hearing stories about prejudice, beatings, and white paint smearing the word ‘NIGGER’ across my chest? I told my father ‘the watch got smashed on maneuvers.’ Luckily, he believed me.”

“That’s so sad, Pop,” I said.

“Heck. The army was in the past—history—and it was time to move into the future. I wanted to become a star, a shining star, a shooting star, a megastar, a legendary star—any kind of star would do. I needed to perform, entertain, sing, and dance. I was filled with sheer strength and determination to succeed, triumph, win the day.”

“So there we are standing in the Los Angeles station. I am discharged from the army, free at last. I ask my father the same question I always asked him as a kid: ‘Where we goin’, Dad?’ The melody of his refrain was music to my ears when I heard him exclaim, ‘We’re going back into show business, son!’ And off we went, full speed ahead.”





Once Dad’s star was on the ascent, nothing could stop him.





After the car accident in which he lost an eye, Dad often posed with more of the right side of his face showing. This is him in 1958.





CHAPTER 2



BREAKTHROUGH





It was an early spring afternoon when I got a call from Shirley Rhodes, my father’s assistant/manager since before I was born. Shirley was the wife of George Rhodes, my father’s beloved musical director for thirty years. “Your father’s in the hospital, you better come now,” Shirley announced. I thought my heart would stop.

I waddled down the hall, my pregnant belly bursting into the celebrity suites at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. I entered the outer chamber to the Sammy Davis, Jr. suite.