It is funny how a single question from a podcast host can just pull you right back into the dust of the Santa Monica Mountains. I was sitting in this high-tech studio recently, surrounded by foam padding and expensive microphones, when the interviewer asked me who the most intimidating person was to ever step onto our set. Without even thinking, I told him it was Harry Morgan. But it wasn’t because he was mean or scary. It was because he was so transcendently funny that he became a physical threat to our ability to finish an episode on time.

We were filming an episode called The General Flipped at Dawn back in 1974. This was before Harry was cast as Colonel Potter. He was just a guest star playing a high-ranking lunatic named General Steele. Now, you have to understand the atmosphere on the MAS*H set. We were a tight-knit group, but we prided ourselves on a certain level of professional discipline. When the cameras rolled, we were those characters. I was Radar O’Reilly, and Radar was supposed to be the anchor. I was the one who kept the camp running, the one who stayed focused while the world around me was falling apart.

But when Harry Morgan showed up on that set for the first time, he brought a level of comedic intensity that none of us were prepared for. He played this general who was obsessed with hygiene and marching and “the music.” There was this specific scene where he had to inspect the troops. We were all lined up in the blazing California sun, sweating in our fatigues, trying to stay in character. The heat was oppressive, and the ranch was quiet, except for the sound of the wind. Harry was standing there, looking every bit the decorated officer.

He had this way of holding his face perfectly still while his eyes danced with a kind of inspired madness. We were all standing at attention, and I could feel the tension building among the cast. We knew he was going to do something, but we didn’t know what. The director, Gene Reynolds, called for action, and the air got very thick. I was standing right next to him, trying to keep my eyes fixed on the horizon, but I could see Harry out of the corner of my eye. He began to hum a very faint, very strange tune.

And that’s when it happened.

Harry didn’t just hum; he exploded into this bizarre, high-stepping march that looked like a cross between a toy soldier and a man who had completely lost his grip on reality. He started singing The Caissons Go Rolling Along, but he wasn’t just singing it—he was performing it for an audience of ghosts. He began to dance around us, lifting his knees up to his chest, his eyes wide and unblinking, peering into our faces as he passed by.

I felt the first twitch in my cheek. It was that dangerous sensation every actor knows, where the back of your throat starts to tickle and your ribs feel like they’re about to crack from the pressure of holding in a laugh. I looked over at Alan Alda, and I could see his shoulders starting to shake. Alan was usually the rock, the one who could find the humor but keep the scene moving, but even he was starting to crumble.

Harry saw us struggling. That was the problem. Once Harry Morgan knew he had you, he wouldn’t let go. He leaned in closer to me, his face just inches from mine, and delivered a line about “the music” in a voice that sounded like a rusty gate swinging in the wind. He was so committed, so utterly lost in the absurdity of General Steele, that it became impossible to see him as anything else.

I broke. I didn’t just giggle; I let out a sound that was half-chortle, half-sob. And that was the signal for the entire line of actors to collapse. We all just fell apart. The set, which had been silent and professional seconds ago, erupted into absolute chaos. I remember looking at the camera crew, and the primary cameraman had actually pulled his head away from the viewfinder. He was doubled over, his hand over his mouth, and the camera itself was physically shaking because he couldn’t stop vibrating with laughter.

Gene Reynolds, our director, tried to be the voice of reason. He called out from behind the monitors, “Alright, settle down, let’s go again! We’re losing the light!” We all took deep breaths. We wiped our eyes. We reset. We stood back at attention, trying to find that 1950s military stoicism again. Gene called “Action!” and we were good for about four seconds.

Then Harry Morgan did it again.

He didn’t do the same thing twice, though. That was his genius. This time, he added a little skip in the middle of his march. It was such a small, ridiculous choice, but it was the final straw. We went through six or seven takes where we couldn’t get through more than a few lines of dialogue. Every time Harry opened his mouth, someone else would lose it. It became a feedback loop of hilarity. Mike Farrell was biting his lip so hard I thought he might draw blood.

The production actually had to shut down for about twenty minutes just so we could walk away and clear our heads. We were all scattered around the Fox ranch, leaning against Jeeps or sitting in the dirt, just trying to regain some sense of gravity. I remember sitting on a crate, looking at Harry, who was standing by the craft service table, looking perfectly calm, as if he hadn’t just dismantled the entire afternoon’s schedule with nothing but a high-step and a song.

He eventually walked over to me, put a hand on my shoulder, and said in that classic dry voice of his, “Gary, you really should try to focus. We have a show to make.” He said it with such mock gravity that I started laughing all over again. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was testing us, welcoming himself into the family by showing us that as serious as the show’s themes could be, we were there to find the joy in the work.

That day became legendary among the crew. It wasn’t just a blooper; it was the moment we realized that we had found someone who could match the wit and energy of the original cast. When the producers were looking for a replacement for McLean Stevenson later on, there wasn’t even a debate. They remembered that day with General Steele. They remembered how one man could make a whole group of professionals forget they were at work and remind them they were just a bunch of people having the time of their lives.

Even now, decades later, when I see a rerun of that episode, I can see the slight tremor in my own jaw during that inspection scene. I know exactly what was happening just off-camera. I know that Harry was probably making a face or preparing to break us again. It’s a reminder that the best parts of MAS*H weren’t always in the script; they were in the moments where we couldn’t stop being human, no matter how hard we tried to be soldiers.

There is a certain kind of magic in a workplace where you are actually afraid to look your colleagues in the eye because you know you’ll start laughing. It makes the long hours and the heat and the pressure feel like a privilege rather than a job. Harry taught us that. He taught us that you can be the most professional actor in the room and still be the one who starts the riot.

Have you ever had a moment at work where you had to physically leave the room because you couldn’t stop laughing?