The auditorium was packed to the rafters. It was one of those big nostalgia conventions in Burbank, and the room was filled with a sea of olive drab t-shirts and fans wearing fake noses or fruit-laden hats. I have done so many of these panels over the decades that they usually start to blur together, but this one specific afternoon stayed with me.

A gentleman in the third row, wearing a vintage MAS*H jacket, stood up at the microphone for the Q&A session. He had a very serious expression on his face, the kind that usually leads to a question about the socio-political impact of the Korean War or why Klinger changed his shoe size in season four.

Instead, he leaned in and asked, “Jamie, we’ve all heard that the cast was a bit of a handful for the studio. What was the one moment where you were absolutely certain the executives were going to fire every single one of you?”

I couldn’t help it; I started laughing before he even finished the sentence. I adjusted my glasses and looked out at the crowd, realizing that the story I was about to tell was the ultimate testament to the chaos we called a workplace.

To really understand the story, you have to picture the Malibu ranch where we filmed the outdoor scenes. It was beautiful on camera, but in reality, it was a dusty, fly-ridden bowl that reached a hundred and ten degrees in the summer. We’d be out there for twelve hours at a time, getting cranky and bored between takes.

The only thing that broke the monotony was the 20th Century Fox helicopter. The studio “Brass” loved to fly VIPs and potential investors over the set to show us off like we were an exhibit at a zoo. We’d be mid-scene, and suddenly the “thwack-thwack-thwack” of the blades would drown out our dialogue.

We were tired of being treated like a tourist attraction. We were sweaty, we were exhausted, and we were feeling a little bit rebellious. Alan Alda and Mike Farrell had this look in their eyes—that specific glint that usually meant trouble was coming for the production office.

I remember looking over at Harry Morgan, our beloved Colonel Potter. Now, Harry was the most professional man I ever knew, but he had a wicked streak of mischief that could rival any teenager. The helicopter was banking low, getting ready for its usual slow pass so the executives could peer at us through their binoculars.

Alan whispered, “Alright, boys, on the count of three, let’s give our guests a proper 4077th salute.”

I adjusted the hem of my chiffon nurse’s dress and felt the wind from the approaching rotors begin to kick up the dirt around our boots.

And that’s when it happened.

We all lined up in a perfect, military-style row, facing away from the approaching helicopter. There were about eight of us, including the main cast and a few of the regular background guys. We stood there with our backs to the sky, waiting for the precise moment when the chopper was directly overhead and the VIPs were looking straight down at the “stars” of their number one show.

On Alan’s signal, we didn’t wave. We didn’t blow kisses. We dropped our trousers—or in my case, I threw my skirt up over my head.

A dozen bare backsides were suddenly staring right back at the 20th Century Fox board of directors.

I will never forget the sight of that helicopter. It was maybe fifty or sixty feet above the helipad, and as we “revealed” ourselves, the pilot must have flinched because the entire machine did this sudden, dramatic dip in the air. It looked like the helicopter itself was recoiling in horror.

We could see the white faces of the executives pressed against the glass. One woman in the front seat actually dropped her binoculars. They didn’t linger for the second pass that day; the pilot jammed the stick forward and zipped out of the canyon so fast I think he might have broken a sound barrier or two.

We were absolutely hysterical. I was doubled over, gasping for air, clutching my dress and laughing so hard that my fake eyelashes were hanging off my cheek. Even Harry Morgan was wheezing, slapping his knee and pointing at the retreating speck in the sky. It was the most unified the 4077th had ever been.

But, as you can imagine, the aftermath was a bit of a storm. A few days later, a very stern, very official letter arrived from the studio. It talked about “professionalism,” “the dignity of the Fox brand,” and “lewd behavior on a closed set.” They were furious. They wanted names. They wanted someone to take the fall for “The Great Mooning of 1970-something.”

What they didn’t realize was that our set photographer, a brilliant guy who saw everything coming, had actually anticipated the prank. He had positioned himself perfectly and snapped a panoramic photo of the entire line-up. It was a masterpiece of comedic photography—a row of the most famous actors in America, completely exposed to the heavens.

He made prints for all of us. I think Mike Farrell still has his framed in a very private spot in his house. When the studio tried to come down hard on us, the existence of that photo became our shield. If they fired one of us, they’d have to admit to the press that their entire Emmy-winning cast had mooned the board of directors. They eventually realized they couldn’t win.

The best part, though, was how it became a running joke for the rest of the series. From that day on, whenever we heard a helicopter engine in the distance—even if it was just a local traffic chopper or a fire patrol—someone would start unbuckling their belt.

The directors would start screaming, “No! Keep your pants on! We are three hours behind schedule! Do not look at the sky!”

It became our way of reclaiming our sanity. That show was heavy; we were dealing with death and the darkness of war every single day. If we hadn’t had those moments of pure, juvenile idiocy, I don’t think we could have lasted eleven years in that desert.

Harry Morgan was the funniest of all. He’d be in the middle of a deeply emotional surgery scene, covered in fake blood and sweat, and he’d hear a distant “thwack-thwack” and just whisper to me, “Jamie, is it time? Should we go outside?”

I think that was the day I realized my character’s dresses weren’t the most ridiculous thing on that set. It was the people wearing the uniforms. We weren’t just a cast; we were a family of rebels. We ran our own camp, and the studio was just lucky we let them film it.

Every time I see a helicopter now, even forty years later, I get this little phantom itch to lift up a hemline. It’s a messy, unprofessional, beautiful memory, and I wouldn’t trade it for all the Emmys in the world.

What’s the most rebellious thing you’ve ever done at your job?