I remember sitting in that makeup chair during one of the final retrospective documentaries we did for the show.

They asked me about the transition from the old cast to the new one, and specifically about my relationship with Harry Morgan.

The interviewer wanted to know if we were as disciplined and professional as we looked in those high-stakes operating room scenes.

I just started laughing because the public image of David Ogden Stiers was always so tied to Charles Emerson Winchester III.

People expected me to be this classically trained, slightly aloof, very serious actor who breathed Shakespeare and lived for the opera.

And for the most part, I tried to maintain that standard of excellence on the set of MAS*H.

But you have to understand that working with Harry Morgan was like trying to maintain your dignity while standing next to a mischievous pixie.

Harry was the consummate professional, a veteran of the studio system, but he had this secret weapon.

He had this internal metronome for comedy that was so precise it could shatter your focus in a heartbeat.

He knew exactly how much Charles Emerson Winchester III took himself seriously.

And because Harry knew that, he made it his personal mission in life to dismantle my composure whenever the cameras were rolling.

There was one particular day in the Swamp that I will never forget as long as I live.

It was one of those long, hot afternoons in Malibu where the dust is everywhere and everyone is a bit tired.

The scene was supposed to be a tense confrontation between Colonel Potter and Winchester about some breach of protocol.

I had this long, haughty monologue prepared where I was supposed to be at my most indignant and superior.

I was ready. I was focused. I was “The Winchester.”

I stood there, looking down my nose at Harry, waiting for my cue to launch into this verbal assault.

Harry was standing there in his full Colonel Potter regalia, looking as stern and “regular army” as he ever did.

The director called for quiet on the set, the cameras started humming, and the slate snapped shut.

I took a deep breath, prepared to deliver my first line with all the pomposity I could muster.

Harry looked up at me, his eyes perfectly level, and I saw that tiny, microscopic twinkle that usually meant trouble.

He didn’t say a word, and he didn’t even move a muscle in his face, but he did something with his eyes that just signaled he was about to ruin me.

I started my line, saying, “Now see here, Colonel,” and right as the words left my mouth, Harry made the slightest, most subtle adjustment to his jaw.

It wasn’t a face. It wasn’t a grimace. It was just this tiny, rhythmic twitch that only I could see from my vantage point.

I felt a bubble of laughter hit the back of my throat, but I choked it down and tried to keep going with the dialogue.

“I will not be spoken to in such a…” and then I looked at him again.

Harry had shifted his focus just a fraction of an inch to the side of my head, and he began to very slowly, very deliberately, cross his eyes.

It was so subtle that the camera, which was over his shoulder on me, couldn’t possibly catch it.

I completely lost it.

I didn’t just chuckle. I exploded into this undignified, high-pitched honk of a laugh that echoed through the entire soundstage.

The director shouted “Cut!” and asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t even answer him.

I was doubled over, clutching the edge of the cot in the Swamp, gasping for air.

Harry, meanwhile, just stood there with his hands behind his back, looking like the most innocent man in California.

He looked at the director and said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with the boy, Burt. I think the heat is finally getting to him.”

That just made it worse.

We reset the scene, and I spent five minutes doing deep breathing exercises, trying to get back into the headspace of a Boston aristocrat.

I told myself, “David, you are a professional. You are a member of the nobility of acting. Do not look at him.”

We went for take two.

I kept my gaze fixed firmly on Harry’s forehead, avoiding his eyes at all costs.

I got through the first three sentences of the monologue, and I thought I was home free.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harry’s hand slowly rise up and he began to very delicately pick an imaginary piece of lint off my lapel.

But he did it with this flourish, this tiny, dainty movement that was so out of character for the rugged Colonel Potter.

I broke again.

This time, I was joined by Alan Alda, who had been watching from the wings and had realized exactly what Harry was doing.

Soon, Mike Farrell was laughing, and the camera operator was shaking the tripod because he couldn’t hold his own breath anymore.

The director was trying to be annoyed because we were losing light and we were behind schedule, but you can’t fight a wave like that.

Every time we tried to start the take again, one of us would look at the other and the cycle would begin all over.

It got to the point where Harry didn’t even have to do anything anymore.

Just the sight of his face, perfectly still and stoic, was enough to trigger the memory of the crossed eyes and the lint-picking.

We must have gone through seven or eight takes where I couldn’t get more than four words out.

I was actually crying at one point, tears streaming down my face, which made it look like Winchester was having a nervous breakdown.

The crew was leaning against the walls, just waiting for the storm to pass.

Eventually, Harry walked over to me, put a hand on my shoulder, and whispered, “Are you done with your nonsense, David? Some of us have horses to see.”

That was the final blow. I had to leave the set for ten minutes just to walk around the Fox ranch and clear my head.

That’s the thing people don’t realize about MAS*H.

We were dealing with such heavy subject matter—war, death, the futility of it all—that we had to have that release.

Harry knew that better than anyone.

He knew when the tension was too high or when the day was getting too long and dreary.

He used his humor like a surgical instrument to cut through the fatigue and remind us that we were a family.

I look back at those moments now and I realize that those “wasted” hours of laughter were actually the most productive time we spent.

They built the chemistry that the audience felt through their television screens for eleven years.

It’s hard to be a “stuffed shirt” when you’re surrounded by people who love you enough to make you look like a fool.

I still miss that twinkle in his eye.

It was the most dangerous thing on that set, and I wouldn’t trade those ruined takes for anything in the world.

What’s a moment in your life where you couldn’t stop laughing even though you were supposed to be serious?