M*A*S*H

Come.

Is that you singing, sir?

Music has charms to soothe the savage breast.

I don't know much about those, sir.

I could sing it much better if I didn't have this cold.

Uh, mail call, sir.

Who from, Radar?

Well, you got a letter from a Dr. Norman Chase,

‐Cleveland, Ohio. ‐Oh, yeah. Great proctologist.

Good ol' Squint.

Here's one from your son, sir.

Oh, good. Read it while I rake these bristles.

Yes, sir.

I didn't know your son was a doctor.

Dentist. Specializes in gums.

I remember when we talked it over.

He said, "Dad, everybody's got two sets of gums.

"That's where the money is."

"Dear Dad,

"things have been going great here.

"Lots of pyorrhea.

"We are well, but hold on to your hat.

"Jeanine and I have been keeping a secret

"from you and Mom.

"By the time you get this, you'll be a grandfather."

Yeow!

‐Wow! ‐(laughing)

Let's see, uh...

"The baby's a week late, Dad."

‐They're always late. ‐What do they know?

"I say it's late, Dad, because it's a girl.

"Jeanine says it's late because it's a boy.

"We have a bet.

"If she's right, I buy her four retread tires for her Kaiser.

"If I'm right, she serves my breakfast in bed for a week."

That'll put a kink in his colon.

Gee, sir, maybe we could have a bet like that.

You know, like a pool.

Dandy notion. Day it's born.

Uh, yeah, and the baby's weight.

Boy or girl.

‐For a buck? ‐Good.

I say it's gonna be a strapping nine‐pound boy,

born on the, uh, 21st.

Twenty‐first.

With a firm jaw...

aristocratic nose...

steely eyes...

but a little taller.

One moment. Come in.

Good morning.

State your business, Corporal.

It's mail call, ma'am.

You got a package, uh, from Frederick's of Hollywood.

‐Frederick's? ‐You know, I went through Hollywood on the way here.

I think I saw James Cagney.

Mmm, you sent my brother,

Nicky, to the big house. Hmm.

Cagney.

Is there anything else?

Uh, we're having a pool on the birth of a baby.

Date, weight and sex, one dollar.

I don't approve of gambling.

It's Colonel Potter's grandchild.

Six and a half pounds, the 25th, boy.

Now scram!

Yes, ma'am.

Mmm. Cagney.

Oh, Frank Burns, you Midwestern devil.

Oh, my. It's from my sister Angelica.

‐ The saint? ‐ Oh, no, Radar. She's a nun.

Well, they get promoted though, don't they?

Oh, it's a big step, Radar.

Sometimes it takes centuries.

‐ Father, do you mind if I ask you a religious question? ‐ Of course not.

When you get a letter from your sister the sister...

does she call you Father, brother or Lieutenant, Father?

She calls me by my given name... Francis.

Oh, I'm sorry, Father.

That's all right, Radar.

I'm here to entertain the troops.

Wow! Well.

‐ She's coaching girls' basketball. ‐ Oh?

Saint Mary's 42, visitors 28.

Saint Mary's 56, visitors 39.

Oh, my.

They whipped the pants off Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows.

I better continue on my appointed rounds, Father.

‐ Mail call. ‐ What a sweet sound.

Like a canary with fresh newspapers.

All you got was the Crabapple Cove Courier.

Never underestimate the power of the press, Radar.

‐It's from your wife. ‐Mm‐hmm.

‐From your wife. ‐Mm‐hmm.

‐From your wife. ‐(chuckling)

And from Waggle Hunnicutt.

‐My dog. ‐Your dog?

My wife does the actual writing, actually.

Surely you jest.

Dogs can't write.

Are you kidding?

I once knew a Cocker Spaniel covered the dog show

for the New York Times.

‐(laughing) ‐Oh, yeah.

He would have won the Pulitzer Prize,

but that was the year Joyce Kilmer wrote "Trees."

Get this.

"Nathan Wicket leaves farm to donkey."

I knew them. They were very close.

Hey, the baby said a whole sentence.

What'd she say?

"Boo da be babba."

The kid is brilliant.

Peggy says it means, "mother, I've had

"enough strained apricots and wish to take my nap now."

You didn't have to explain it.

Get this. "Lyle Brown, local fisherman,

"suffers double hernia pulling in lobster traps.

"Eight lobsters escaped during the disaster.

"Lyle told reporters, 'They haven't seen the last of me.'"

Hey, Frank's letter is open.

Oh‐oh, yeah. Uh, it was an accident.

I was, uh, boiling some water for Colonel Potter's tea

while I was sorting mail, and it come open.

Steam'll do that.

Well, it was an accident. Honest.

What did it accidentally say?

Are you kidding? I'm no sneak.

I'm not a spy.

Radar, it's okay to be an American spy.

Right, good guys can do anything rotten.

His wife wants a divorce.

Oh, wow.

Hey, this is big stuff, Radar.

Yeah.

Uh, some officer was passing through here.

Anyway, he meets Louise back home.

see, that's Mrs. Major Burns,

and he spills the beans about him and Major Houlihan.

Frank'll blow his brains out.

If he can find a peashooter.

Well, won't this make him happy?

‐Uh‐uh. ‐No, now he's free to marry Major Houlihan.

Radar, Major Burns doesn't want to leave mommy.

There's a 10,000 mile umbilical cord

between here and Indiana.

I don't understand that.

The telephone company puts it on your bill.

Oh.

What are you doing here in officers' country?

Uh, just delivering the mail, sir.

Well, then deliver it and get lost, you little drip.

Uh, I was talkin' to the guys.

The guys. The guys?

I am Major Burns. This is Captain Pierce.

That is Captain Hunnicutt.

We are not guys.

I thought I was.

‐Get out! ‐Yes, sir.

You do not salute inside!

Uh, just in case I don't see you outside, sir.

Get out!

Why must you encourage him, huh?

We like Radar, Frank.

He's soft and cuddly.

And almost housebroken.

How is he ever going to learn his place

if you keep letting him think he's an equal, huh?

Tsk.

This letter is open.

Humidity.

Steam'll do that.

Everything okay at home, Frank?

Uh, fine. Yeah.

Yeah. The, uh, crabgrass is in bloom,

and the cat had puppies.

Hmm. The sardine cannery burned down.

"The last structure in town designed by Frank Lloyd Wright."

Paper say anything about snow?

Frank. It came, it came.

The fatigues from Hollywood.

‐Oh, oh. ‐You naughty thing.

Uh, not now, Margaret, uh...

I wanna show it to you.

I must use the phone.

You have feathers in your hair.

Uh, it's a scalp condition.

Frank, what's wrong?

Something dreadful's happened.

I've got to call home.

Oh, Lord, Is someone dying?

Uh, if only it was that unimportant.

Okay. Sir,

your daughter‐in‐law isn't at Mercy Hospital.

Did you call my son's home?

Yes, sir, but I just got his answering service.

They said, uh, "Leave your name and your gum condition."

‐Try that Jewish hospital. ‐What's the name, sir?

Uh, Holy Moses. Something like that.

Is my call through to Indiana yet?