I was sitting on a stage in front of about two thousand people during a

tribute for the show’s anniversary when someone in the third row stood

up and asked a question that immediately took me back fifty years.

They didn’t ask about the politics of the show or the finale that

everyone still wants to talk about.

They asked about the laughter.

Specifically, they wanted to know if there was ever a moment where

the professionalism we prided ourselves on just evaporated into

thin air.

I looked over at Mike Farrell and Loretta Swit, who were sitting

next to me, and we all just started smiling at the same time because

we knew exactly which afternoon that fan was talking about.

It was a Tuesday, back in the mid-seventies, and we were

filming in the OR.

Now, you have to understand that the OR scenes were always the

hardest to film because the set was cramped, the lights were

boiling hot, and we were often covered in fake blood and sweat.

We took the medical side of the show very seriously because we

wanted to honor the real doctors who lived through that

experience.

On this particular day, we were filming a scene where McLean Stevenson,

playing Henry Blake, had to deliver a set of serious instructions

while we were all elbow-deep in a simulated surgery.

The tension was supposed to be palpable.

The script called for Henry to be the authoritative commander,

giving us the updates on the incoming wounded while we

struggled to save a patient on the table.

Gene Reynolds, our director, was a stickler for the atmosphere.

He wanted it grim.

He wanted it heavy.

We had been at it for twelve hours already, and the exhaustion was

starting to settle into our bones, making everything feel a

little bit surreal.

McLean stepped into his mark, adjusted his surgical mask, and

prepared to deliver the lines that would ground the entire episode.

He looked me right in the eye, his expression stone-cold serious.

And that’s when it happened.

McLean reached out to grab a surgical instrument that was

supposed to be handed to him by a nurse, but his timing

was just a fraction of a second off.

Instead of grabbing the hemostat, his finger got caught in the

loop of the tool, and as he tried to pull it toward him,

the entire tray of metal instruments began to slide across the

table with a high-pitched, screeching sound.

It sounded like a cat being dragged across a chalkboard.

McLean, being the incredible comedic mind that he was, didn’t

stop.

He tried to play it off as if he were still the commanding

officer, but the tool was stuck to his finger like a

permanent extension of his hand.

He looked down at his hand, then back at me, and

without breaking character, he let out this tiny,

accidental whimper of frustration.

I felt the first bubble of laughter hit my chest.

I tried to swallow it.

I looked down at the “patient” on the table, trying to

remember that we were supposed to be in a war zone, but

out of the corner of my eye, I saw McLean’s surgical mask

start to flutter.

He was laughing underneath the mask, but he was

desperately trying to hold it in.

The silence on the set became the loudest thing I have

ever heard.

When you are that exhausted, and the situation is that

serious, the tiniest crack in the facade feels like an

earthquake.

Gary Burghoff, who was standing across from me, made

the mistake of looking up and catching my eye.

He saw that I was shaking, and that was the end of it.

Gary let out a snort that echoed through the entire

soundstage.

It was like a signal flare.

I went next.

I didn’t just laugh; I folded over the operating table,

burying my face in my arms, and let out a sound that

could only be described as a wheeze.

Then McLean finally gave up.

He ripped his mask off, and he was bright red,

howling with a kind of joy that you only see in

children.

Gene Reynolds yelled, “Cut!” but it didn’t matter.

We couldn’t stop.

Every time we tried to gather ourselves, someone

would look at the tray of instruments or the

hemostat still dangling from McLean’s finger, and

the whole cycle would start over again.

The crew was usually very disciplined, but the

camera operator actually had to step away from the

eyepiece because he was shaking so hard he was

ruining the focus.

The lighting guys were leaning against the

catwalks, clutching their stomachs.

Gene walked onto the set, looking like he wanted to

be angry.

He had a schedule to keep.

He had a budget to worry about.

He looked at me, then at McLean, and he opened

his mouth to give us a lecture about the

importance of the scene.

But then he looked at the tool on McLean’s finger.

Gene’s face twitched once, then twice, and then

he just put his head in his hands and started

shaking with us.

We spent the next twenty minutes trying to

recover, but every time we got back into

position, the sheer absurdity of us standing

there in fake blood, surrounded by the

seriousness of war, while one of us was a

bumbling mess with a pair of scissors stuck

to his hand, would trigger another wave.

It reached a point where it wasn’t even about the

joke anymore.

It was the communal release of all the

heavy themes we dealt with every single day.

We were a family, and we were losing our

minds together in the most beautiful way

possible.

When we finally managed to get a clean take,

nearly an hour later, our voices were

actually hoarse from laughing.

If you watch that episode now, you can

see that my eyes are slightly watery and

red, not because Hawkeye was emotional

about the patient, but because I had just

spent an hour crying with laughter.

The crew eventually made a “golden hemostat”

award out of cardboard and gave it to

McLean at the end of the week.

It became one of those legendary stories that

we’d tell new cast members when they

joined the show, a warning that no matter

how serious the script was, the spirit of

the swamp was always waiting to take

over.

That’s the thing about MASH.

We were making a show about the

darkest parts of human history, but

we survived it because we found

the light in each other.

Even now, forty years later, if I see

a pair of those surgical tools, I

get a little twitch in my chest and

I can hear McLean’s laugh

echoing in my head.

It’s a reminder that even in the

middle of a manufactured war,

there is nothing more powerful

than a group of people who

simply cannot keep a straight face.

Do you have a favorite memory of a time when you

started laughing and simply couldn’t stop?