I was sitting in a small television studio a few years back, doing one of those retrospective interviews that you do when you’ve reached a certain age and people start treating your career like a museum exhibit.

A young actor, maybe twenty-four years old, was sitting across from me. He looked at me with this wide-eyed reverence, the kind you usually reserve for the Lincoln Memorial.

He asked me, “McLean, we all see the finished product of MAS*H, and it’s so tight and professional, but was there ever a moment where the wheels just completely fell off the wagon?”

I had to laugh. I told him that on that set, the wheels weren’t just loose; half the time they were rolling down the hill toward the Malibu creek while we were still trying to drive the thing.

I remember one night in particular. It must have been during the second season. We were doing a night shoot, and if you’ve ever been in the Santa Monica Mountains at two in the morning, you know it’s not exactly a tropical paradise.

It was freezing. We were all exhausted, cranky, and smelling like a mix of diesel fuel and old canvas.

The scene was supposed to be a heavy one. One of those moments where the comedy takes a backseat because the reality of the war is knocking on the tent flap.

My character, Henry Blake, was sitting at his desk in the middle of the night. The lighting was low, very moody, very dramatic.

I was supposed to be alone, looking over casualty reports, and then I had to receive a phone call that changed the tone of the entire episode.

The crew was silent. Gene Reynolds, our director, was being very meticulous. He wanted this to be the “prestige” moment of the week.

I felt the weight of it. I really did. I was tapped into Henry’s exhaustion, his frustration, and his sadness.

The camera was pushing in for a tight close-up on my face. I could see the red light on the camera body. We were rolling.

I reached out my hand, trembling just a bit for effect, to answer that ringing olive-drab telephone.

And that’s when it happened.

Now, you have to understand Henry Blake’s desk. It was a masterpiece of cluttered disaster. I had fishing lures hanging off the lamps, half-eaten sandwiches, stacks of requisition forms that didn’t make sense, and a heavy metal surgical tray filled with pens and various sharp objects.

As I grabbed the receiver to deliver this heart-wrenching line, I didn’t realize that the phone cord had somehow snagged the hook of a very large, very sharp bass lure sitting right next to it.

I pulled the phone to my ear, but instead of just the receiver, the entire telephone base, the lure, and the heavy metal tray came flying across the desk like a catapult.

The tray hit a half-full bottle of “grape juice” we used for Scotch, and the whole mess landed right in my lap with a sound like a car crash in a library.

I sat there, stunned. I had a fishing lure hooked into my sleeve, a lap full of purple liquid, and a metal tray clanging against my shins.

Under normal circumstances, a director would scream “Cut!” and we’d clean up. But the set was so quiet, and the camera was still rolling, so I decided to be a “serious actor.”

I stayed in character. I put the receiver to my ear, trying to ignore the lure tugging at my arm, and I whispered, “Blake here,” with this profound, tragic intensity.

But then, the door to the office flew open.

Gary Burghoff, our Radar, was supposed to enter after the phone call. He had been waiting outside the tent and had heard the massive crash.

Most actors would have stopped. Not Gary. He marched in, saw me sitting there drenched in purple juice with fishing tackle hanging off my arm, and he didn’t blink.

He snapped a salute and said, “Sir, I didn’t realize you were practicing your night-fishing in the office again. Should I call the medics, or just get you a towel and some bait?”

That was the end of the take. That was the end of the night.

I looked at Gary, looked down at my purple trousers, and I started making this wheezing sound that I get when I’m about to lose it.

Then I saw Gene Reynolds behind the camera. Usually, Gene was the captain of the ship, very disciplined. He was currently doubled over, clutching his stomach, making no sound at all because he couldn’t breathe.

Then the camera crew started. The guy on the dolly was shaking so hard the camera was actually vibrating.

The sound guy had to take his headphones off because the sound of my metal tray hitting the floor had probably deafened him, but he was grinning ear to ear.

We tried to reset. We really did. We spent the next forty-five minutes trying to get through that phone call, but every time I reached for the receiver, someone in the back of the tent would make a “pop” sound like a fish jumping out of water.

Gary was the worst. He’d stand just out of frame and whisper, “They’re biting tonight, Colonel.”

The humor just escalated into this beautiful, chaotic madness that you can only find when people are too tired to be professional anymore.

We eventually had to move on to another scene entirely because I had literally laughed my makeup off and we didn’t have another clean uniform in my size that wasn’t stained purple.

It became one of those legendary stories that stayed with the crew. For the next three years, every time I had a serious scene at that desk, I’d find a small plastic fish hidden under my blotter or a bobber tied to my phone cord.

It served as a constant reminder that no matter how serious the story we were telling was, we were still just a bunch of people playing dress-up in the mud.

That was the secret of the show. We let the accidents happen. We let the humanity show through the cracks of the script.

Looking back, I think that ruined take was actually more important than the one that made it into the episode. It kept us sane.

It reminded us that in the middle of a war—even a pretend one—you have to be able to laugh when the phone tries to kill you.

I told that young actor that if you can’t find the funny in a lap full of grape juice and a fishing hook in your arm, you’re in the wrong business.

He just sat there smiling, finally realizing that the “perfection” he saw on screen was built on a foundation of ruined takes and purple stains.

MAS*H wasn’t great because we were perfect; it was great because we were a disaster and we loved each other for it.

The laughter on that set was the only thing louder than the simulated artillery, and I wouldn’t trade those ruined takes for a dozen Emmys.

It makes me wonder about the sets today, where everything is so digital and clean.

Do they still have those moments where a phone cord can bring a whole production to its knees?