I was sitting on the main stage at a massive fan convention just a few years ago.

The microphone was in my hand, and I was looking out at a sea of wonderful people.

A woman stepped up to the aisle microphone to ask a question.

She wanted to know what it was really like playing opposite the most hated man on television.

She was asking about Larry Linville, of course.

The infamous, sniveling, absolutely unbearable Major Frank Burns.

I just smiled, holding the microphone close, and told the audience the greatest secret of the 4077th.

Larry Linville was the kindest, smartest, and most professional gentleman I have ever worked with.

He was nothing like Frank.

But he was a brilliant physical comedian.

I started telling the crowd about a specific afternoon during our third season.

We were filming in the Margaret Houlihan tent set on Stage 9.

It was the end of a very long, grueling week.

The crew was exhausted, the lights were incredibly hot, and we just wanted to get the final shot in the can.

The scene was supposed to be a classic, secret romantic rendezvous between Margaret and Frank.

The blocking was very simple.

Larry was supposed to sneak into the tent, deliver a line of incredibly obnoxious dialogue, and then sweep me into a passionate embrace.

We were supposed to sit down dramatically on the edge of my military cot and kiss.

The director called for quiet.

The camera pushed in close to capture the tension.

Larry slinked into the room, doing that perfect, hilarious “ferret face” he was so famous for.

The crew was already biting their lips to keep from laughing out loud.

He delivered his line perfectly, grabbed me by the shoulders, and lunged forward to pull me onto the cot.

He threw his entire body weight into the romantic gesture.

And that’s when it happened.

The structural integrity of a 1950s-era canvas army cot was simply never designed to withstand the full, lunging force of Major Frank Burns in love.

The moment our combined weight hit the edge of the mattress, the wooden frame let out a horrific crack.

The thick canvas completely tore down the middle with a sound like a gunshot.

We didn’t just slip.

We instantly plummeted backward, crashing violently through the center of the cot.

We hit the hard wooden floor of the soundstage in a tangled mess of khaki uniforms, olive drab blankets, and splintered wood.

A massive cloud of theatrical set dust billowed up into the hot studio lights.

For a split second, the entire Fox lot went completely, terrifyingly silent.

The director leaped out of his chair.

The camera operator physically stepped back from his lens, his mouth hanging open.

Everyone was absolutely terrified that we had just broken our necks on a comedy show.

I was lying on my back, completely trapped inside the crater of the broken cot, staring up at the studio ceiling.

I was trying to figure out if I was injured.

Then, from somewhere near my left ear, underneath a pile of heavy wool blankets, I heard a sound.

It wasn’t a groan of pain.

It was a high-pitched, manic, uncontrollable giggle.

Larry Linville had completely lost his mind.

He started laughing so hard that the broken pieces of the cot were shaking around us.

Hearing him laugh made me completely lose my composure.

I started howling.

I was laughing so hard I was gasping for air, clutching my ribs while my legs were still tangled in the ruined canvas.

Once the crew realized we were completely unhurt, the tension evaporated, and the entire set exploded.

The boom operator had to lower his microphone because his shoulders were shaking violently.

The grips up on the lighting catwalks were whistling and cheering.

Alan Alda and Wayne Rogers, who were filming on the Swamp set next door, heard the massive crash and came sprinting into my tent.

They took one look at the two of us, hopelessly wedged in a pile of broken furniture, and they collapsed against the tent poles in hysterics.

Alan was pointing at us, completely unable to speak, his face turning a bright shade of red.

The prop department had to scramble to the scene.

It took two burly crew members to physically untangle Larry and pull him out of the wreckage before they could rescue me.

They had to halt production for twenty minutes just to construct a brand new cot from spare parts.

By the time the new cot was ready, Larry and I had completely wiped the sweat and tears off our faces, determined to be professionals.

The director called “Action!” for take two.

Larry walked through the tent flaps.

He gave me the ferret face.

He delivered his line.

He reached out to grab my shoulders.

And as he leaned toward the brand-new cot, he paused, looked at the canvas, and let out a loud snort.

He couldn’t do it.

I instantly doubled over, burying my face in my hands.

The entire cast and crew broke character all over again.

We completely ruined five consecutive takes because nobody trusted that the cot wouldn’t explode a second time.

Every single time Larry leaned in for the romantic kiss, I would flinch, and we would both dissolve into a puddle of laughter.

The director finally threw his hands up in the air and changed the blocking on the spot.

He ordered us to stand exactly two feet away from the bed for the entire scene.

He wasn’t going to risk destroying another piece of army surplus furniture.

When I finished telling that story on the convention stage, the audience was roaring with laughter.

It was such a beautiful, poignant reminder of what made that set so magical.

Fans saw Frank and Margaret as this tightly-wound, absolutely miserable couple who took themselves entirely too seriously.

But the reality behind the camera was a group of deeply connected friends who couldn’t look each other in the eye without cracking a smile.

We were acting in a show about the horrors of war.

We dealt with heavy, traumatic scripts on a daily basis.

If we didn’t have those moments of pure, unadulterated absurdity, we never would have survived the emotional weight of those eleven years.

Larry Linville may have played a terrible surgeon and a miserable human being.

But he was the absolute king of making us laugh when we needed it the most.

I wouldn’t trade that broken wooden cot for all the Emmy awards in the world.

It is the messy, unplanned disasters that usually create the best memories of our lives.

Have you ever had a serious moment turn into a complete disaster that you still laugh about today?