M*A*S*H

Peg, it's your turn, honey. I need to sleep some more.

Hawk?

Hawk?

Hawkeye, wake up.

What? What is it?

‐(crying stops) ‐You hear that?

That's called a bird, Beej.

And there's really nothing to worry about

unless your pet worm hasn't come home yet.

You dimwits!

I do not know whose ill‐mannered infant that is,

but if I go out there and silence the din,

will that ring down the curtain,

on this sunrise vaudeville routine?

Come on, now. Easy. No, no, no. That's all right.

Aha. Gentlemen‐‐ (chuckles)

At the risk of making an irresponsible accusation,

I may have located the source of the crying.

All right. That does it.

Somebody call Selective Service

and tell them this time they've gone too far.

Oops, oops. Hello.

The plot thickens. Thank you.

Something tells me

that's not a set of operating instructions.

"This is my baby. She is‐‐" What is that?

‐"Good baby." ‐"Good baby.

"Strong, beautiful. Father American G.I.

"Gone now. Baby‐‐

"American too.

‐"Please‐‐" ‐"Doctors."

"Doctors, care for her. I‐‐" What's that?

"I cannot."

"I cannot, but I love her."

Be careful with her, Pierce.

‐That's not a bag of laundry. ‐I know what I'm doing.

She loves me. Look at that smile.

‐Gas. ‐Gas, my foot.

How come it wasn't gas when she smiled at you?

I don't know, Hawk. Some people inspire love.

Some people inspire gas.

Move it over. Gangway. The milkman cometh.

‐Cometh right here, milkman. ‐Here you go.

Ah.

Klinger, this thing looks ridiculous.

Ridiculous is in the eye of the beholder, Major.

Give the lad his due. This bears a striking resemblance

to the business end of a Guernsey.

Works like one too.

Precisely. I'm no fool.

Here, Pierce.

Give a little squirt to the little squirt.

Ah, one of the great whites‐‐ Chäteau Moo, '51 .

Oh.

That's a good girl. That's a‐‐(babbling)

It always amazes me

how a baby can take an otherwise normal adult

and turn him into a babbling idiot.

Aha. How's our itty‐bitty little tent‐mate? (babbling)

‐Amen. ‐I've talked to everyone at camp‐‐

which, by the way, is a first for me‐‐

and no one saw or heard a thing,

a fact confirmed by our ever‐vigilant sentries

and their seeing‐eye dogs.

Pierce, as soon as the little tyke finishes breakfast

and, uh, any other necessities,

she ought to have a physical.

‐Excellent idea, Colonel. ‐Then I shall take over.

Since when is she your patient?

Hunnicutt, my expertise,

is not merely limited to brilliant surgery.

I happen to be one of the finest pediatricians extant.

Poop on your extant. I've got a kid of my own.

I know where all the parts are.

Poop on both of you. It's feeders keepers.

I am about to make a Solomon‐like decision.

I'll cut Winchester in half, ignore you two,

and do it myself.

‐(burps) ‐Ah.

There, now that's gas.

Fit as the proverbial fiddle.

Yeah.

Got to hand it to her mama.

This child may have been abandoned,

but she sure wasn't neglected.

Yeah, and it's no cinch getting up

in the middle of the night for the 2:00 bombing.

I ransacked the laundry

and found some stuff the kid can wear.

Thank heaven for skinny nurses.

How about that Klinger? He'll give you the shirt

off somebody else's back.

And I cut up some sheets and pillowcases for‐‐

you know‐‐ unmentionables.

Very thoughtful, Klinger. Probably not a moment too soon.

Well, sir, I understand babies.

It's the gypsy in my soul.

‐Let me hold her. ‐All right, but just for a minute.

She doesn't like strangers.

Hey, you do that very well, Klinger.

‐Fair. ‐Of course I do, sir.

Desert dwellers are very affectionate people.

‐I come from a long line of long lines. ‐Klinger!

‐Uh‐oh. ‐Shh, shh. ‐Shh, shh.

I heard about what you did, you lowlife.

There's nothing sicker than a laundry thief.

‐It was for a good cause, Major. ‐It better be.

This pervert swiped my best pajama shirts.

Pull in your horns, Margaret.

Klinger commandeered your jammies for the papoose.

Oh, well. For her I can sleep in my bottoms.

And if you're not warm enough, call me. I'm the tops.

Forget it, tops. Give me the baby, Klinger.

Come on, Major. I just got her myself.

That's an order, Corporal.

Klinger, present baby.

It's enough to drive a man to Officers' Candidate School.

Oh, my goodness gracious.

There you are, you little‐‐

Oh, my goodness.

Hello there, sweetheart. I'm your Auntie Margaret.

Why, Auntie Margaret,

I had no idea you were so maternal.

I can just see you with a house

full of little teeny majorettes.

Any word about who she is or where she's from?

‐Nary a clue. ‐Captain Hunnicutt and Major Winchester

are checking the local villages.

I think they're whistling up a rope.

Her mother's too cagey, slipping in and out with nobody seeing her.

Didn't even leave us the child's name.

Why don't we keep her till she's old enough to talk?

Then she can tell us herself.

You know, we should name her something.

‐That's a good idea. ‐She's mysterious,

like the shifting sand.

Let's call her Scheherazade.

Seems a tad exotic. Let's keep working on it.

In the meantime, we've got to find a place

for the little lady to bunk.

‐She'll stay in my tent. ‐No fair, Margaret.

Who put you in charge of guest accommodations?

Oh, Pierce. Look around.

This place is warm. It's pleasant. It's a home.

That gutter you're in is a festival of old sneakers,

dirty laundry, and yesterday's booze.

That's what makes it perfect. She can't mess it up.

I understand the stork dropped off a package while I was gone.

Good morning, Padre. This little lady seems to be alone in the world.

Do you think the good sisters at the orphanage can help out?

I'm sure they can, Colonel.

The first rule of orphanages and Irish families is

"There's always room for one more."

Isn't she lovely?

Oh, yes. Yes, quite nice.

Nice? She's gorgeous.

Doesn't she deserve at least a "Wow" or a "Holy smoke"?

Where's the oohs and ahhs?

Is this child of mixed parents?

All we know is that there was one of each. Is that mixed enough?

Her father's an American, and her mother's Korean.

‐I was afraid of that. ‐What's the problem?

We want to get her into an orphanage, not a country club.

The orphanage will take her, of course,

but that won't help her much.

The problems faced by the children

of American soldiers and Korean women

are very serious.

When the people of the villages find out about them,

the lives of the children and mothers become a horror.

They're outcasts.

Little boys have been emasculated,

and little girls killed outright.

My God.

Even in the orphanage,

the other Korean children will be very cruel to her.

And when she grows up, she'll be ostracized

by every segment of Korean society.

This child has no future here, none at all.

She'll end up a virtual slave‐‐or worse.

There must be somebody who can help this kid.

I'm afraid not.

Her only hope‐‐ and that's slim at best‐‐

would be sanctuary in one of the old Catholic missions.

We'll take it. Slim is better than none.

What do we do? Where are these places?

There's one not too far off.

Armies, for centuries,

have fought around it, left it untouched.

The monks will keep her cloistered, educate her,

and in 15 or 20 years,

working with their other monasteries abroad,

perhaps they can get her out of Korea.

With all due respect, Father,

that doesn't sound like much of a life.

It isn't.

‐But it's the best we can do. ‐No it's not.

She's half American. We'll send her to America

and get her a room at the Statue of Liberty.

I just hope that Red Cross lady will appreciate the fact