The podcast host adjusted his heavy headphones, leaned into the studio microphone, and asked a question I genuinely wasn’t expecting.

He looked across the table at me and said, “Loretta, Frank Burns was arguably the most despised character on television in the 1970s.”

“Was it ever difficult watching your co-star, Larry Linville, get treated with such constant hostility on camera?”

I had to smile, taking a sip of my coffee before answering.

I told him the honest truth.

Larry Linville was the sweetest, most generous, most intelligent man you could ever hope to meet.

He was the complete and total opposite of Frank Burns.

And because he was so incredibly sweet, and because he was such a dedicated, classically trained actor, the guys in the cast made it their absolute mission to crack him.

Alan Alda and Wayne Rogers were notorious practical jokers.

They were always looking for a way to break the suffocating tension of working fourteen-hour days on Stage 9.

One Friday afternoon in the middle of our third season, we were filming a particularly tense scene inside the Swamp.

The studio was boiling hot.

Everyone was sweating completely through their olive drab uniforms.

The script called for Frank Burns to throw an absolute, childish tantrum.

He was supposed to furiously pack his heavy canvas duffel bag, sling it over his shoulder in a huff, and storm out of the tent in a self-righteous rage.

Alan and Wayne didn’t have any dialogue in this specific setup.

They were just supposed to sit quietly on their cots, reading magazines, watching Frank make a total fool of himself.

But during the lunch hour, while Larry was resting in his dressing room, those two snuck over to the prop department.

They grabbed these massive, solid iron stage weights.

These were the heavy black bricks the crew used to physically tie down the canvas tent walls during windstorms.

Alan and Wayne quietly slipped about sixty pounds of solid iron into the bottom of Larry’s prop duffel bag.

They carefully padded the metal with a few spare army blankets so the iron wouldn’t clink together and give away the joke.

When we finally came back from lunch, the director called for places.

The heavy studio lights flared up.

Larry stormed into the tent, hitting his marks, delivering his dialogue absolutely flawlessly.

He was red in the face, completely nailing the pompous, agitated energy of Major Burns.

He grabbed the canvas handles of the duffel bag, preparing to swing it dramatically over his shoulder and march out the door.

Alan and Wayne were sitting on their cots, violently biting the insides of their cheeks, holding their breath.

The entire set was dead silent.

And that’s when it happened.

Larry gripped those canvas handles and gave a mighty, theatrical heave.

Instead of flying effortlessly over his shoulder, the bag barely left the dirt floor.

The sheer momentum of his pull, crashing against the sudden, immovable reality of sixty pounds of iron, caused Larry to completely lose his balance.

He spun around awkwardly, his combat boots slipping in the studio dirt.

He let out this incredibly high-pitched, completely unscripted gasp as the bag crashed back down to the floor.

It landed with a massive thud, sending up a thick cloud of dust into the blinding studio lights.

Alan and Wayne absolutely exploded.

They fell backward onto their army cots, laughing so incredibly hard they were physically gasping for air.

Alan was actually kicking his boots in the air like a little kid.

Larry, bless his absolute heart, was completely and totally confused.

He looked down at the duffel bag.

Then he looked at his own arms.

He genuinely looked like he was wondering if he had suddenly suffered a catastrophic loss of muscle mass.

He was such a consummate professional that he didn’t break character right away.

He actually crouched down and tried to pick it up a second time.

He grunted loudly, his face turning a brilliant shade of purple as he strained against the hidden iron.

That was the exact moment the entire crew completely lost it.

The main camera operator started shaking so badly that the heavy studio rig was visibly bouncing up and down on its pedestal.

The director had to yell “cut” from the shadows of the soundstage because he couldn’t even hear the dialogue over the sound of the crew howling.

When Larry finally realized what was happening, he knelt down and unzipped the canvas bag.

He saw the black iron weights sitting at the bottom.

Any other actor in Hollywood would have been furious at the disruption.

But Larry just stood up, dusted off his uniform, and broke into that famous, incredibly warm smile of his.

He looked right at Alan and Wayne, who were still weeping on their cots, and called them a pair of absolute juvenile delinquents.

Which, naturally, just made them laugh even harder.

The problem was, the joke was over, but we still had to reshoot the scene to keep the network schedule moving.

The prop guys came in, giggling like schoolchildren, and removed the heavy iron weights.

They filled the duffel bag back up with the normal, lightweight foam props.

The director finally got the crew to settle down.

He called for absolute quiet on the set, and yelled action.

Larry stormed back into the tent.

He delivered his lines perfectly once again.

But this time, because his brain was still anticipating the crushing weight of the iron, he completely overcompensated.

He grabbed the now-lightweight foam bag and yanked it upward with the force of an Olympic weightlifter.

The canvas bag flew over his shoulder so fast it nearly launched him backward into the canvas wall.

He stumbled backward, flailing his arms wildly to catch his balance, his helmet slipping down over his eyes.

Take two was instantly ruined.

Alan and Wayne completely lost their minds all over again, burying their faces in their pillows to hide their laughter.

We went through four separate retakes of that one simple exit scene.

Every single time Larry approached the bag, he would start second-guessing its weight.

He would do a little nervous test lift with two fingers before delivering his angry lines, completely ruining the dramatic tension of the shot.

It became an instant running joke for the rest of the day.

Multiple retakes failed just because someone would look at the bag and start snickering.

It was the most chaotic, beautiful filming incident I ever witnessed during my time on the show.

It showed you exactly who Larry Linville really was behind the scenes.

He wasn’t the obnoxious, rigid man we all saw on our television screens every week.

He was a brilliant, patient, incredibly kind man who willingly allowed himself to be the butt of the joke to keep the morale of the cast high.

He took the prank with such absolute grace, and it just made everyone love him that much more.

Humor was our lifeblood on that set.

It was a heavy show, dealing with the devastating reality of war, and if we didn’t play those juvenile pranks, we never would have survived the physical exhaustion.

Those moments of pure, unscripted chaos are the ones I carry with me today.

Funny how the heaviest props always managed to lift our spirits the most.

Have you ever had a prank backfire in the most hilarious way possible?