MASH - Sixth Season (M*A*S*H)

All right, gentlemen. Without interrupting your knitting,

let me get right with it.

Now, here's what we can expect in the way of casualties in the next 24 hours.

I think that you'll find that these figures...

reflect my customary pinpoint accuracy.

Hawk, can you go just a little faster? You want it fast or round?

The push begins at 0900. Now, we're in for bloody, hand‐to‐hand combat.

Hill 403 is a maze of trenches, foxholes and craters.

‐ Why don't you go after Hill 404? ‐ It's got a nice view of 405.

‐ And it's closer to the cemetery on 406. ‐ Can we continue, Colonel?

Yes. Of course. Button it, boys. Colonel Bloodworth isn't here...

for fancy patter from the Weisenheimer twins.

And I, for one, would like to know how many casualties are coming in.

‐ What's so choice about Hill 403, Colonel? ‐ The enemy owns it.

So contact a good Realtor and make him an offer.

Calculating a division of men supported in depth by artillery,

mortar fire and tanks, against seasoned troops also backed by artillery,

we figure a grand total of 280 to 290 casualties...

passing through this unit in the next 24 hours if the weather holds.

‐ What if it rains? ‐ Then add another 20.

There are 20 guys who better pray like hell it doesn't rain.

I figure all 300 better pray like hell this guy is wrong.

"This guy" is never wrong. It's all here!

The days, the battles, the numbers, all pinpointed and on target.

Dead on. War is a science.

Casualties can be predicted with mathematical precision. Really?

How many times do 30,000 bullets multiplied by 400 artillery shells...

go into 280 bodies?

I don't appreciate your sarcasm, Pierce.

I don't appreciate your insensitivity.

Those figures you reel so trippingly off the tongue are made of flesh and blood.

But, please, don't pass up Hill 403 on my account, not if you've gone to all that trouble.

‐ Silencio, Pierce. ‐ Look. I don't have to listen to this every time I show up.

Then stop showing up. Maybe we'll stop getting casualties.

‐ Sounds like you almost believe that. ‐ Take out the "almost"...

and you're right again, with pinpoint accuracy.

You came on a little strong. Would've been worse if I had my knitting needles.

Relax. Those eagles on his shoulders have claws. Those aren't eagles.

They're vultures. I sense a certain hostility in you.

Hostility? I got nothing against the guy. Take away his ledgers,

his numbers, his pinpoint accuracy‐‐ I think he's kind of cute.

Chow? Not chow.

Masterpieces of the culinary arts. Right. Chow.

Would either of you happen to have a quarter? All this for a quarter?

I have to pry off the cover. Of course. Cover charge.

Uh, Pierce, would you mind opening the pheasant? Would I mind?

My taste buds are setting a table on my tongue. My salivary glands are having a flash flood.

What's that stuff? Haven't you ever seen truffles before?

Nobody knows the truffles I've seen.

Here you are, gentlemen. Oh, goody.

Mmm‐mmm. Chopped liver.

‐That is pâté de foie gras. ‐I happen to know Paddy DeFoiegras, and this isn't him.

That was great. What else have we got?

‐ "We"? ‐ Aren't we having dinner?

We even dressed for it. Gentlemen, your dinner awaits you in the Mess Tent.

One lousy piece of liverwurst, and that's it?

Well, that's ample reward for opening a can.

You're not gonna share this with your bunkies?

My bunkies have palates that are obviously more attuned to Spam on a shingle.

You mean, you're gonna make us just sit here and watch you eat?

No. That would be sadistic. I will go elsewhere.

Bon appétit, gentlemen.

How do you like this guy? I'd like him rotating on a spit.

I hope your caviar turns to fish eggs. I hope you can't get a table.

Bless your heart. I hope he saves some for us.

Who is it?

Major Winchester. Oh, just a second.

Mm‐hmm.

Uh, Major, have you dined? No. Not yet.

Good. What? Wh‐What?

Prepare yourself for the finest meal you've had in Korea‐‐

perhaps in your life.

Ohh! Why, that looks "scrumpt‐u‐ous."

Tonight's menu begins with Beluga caviar.

‐ ‐ Followed by truffles.

‐ Nobody knows the truffles I've seen. ‐ What?

I might've guessed. Moving along quickly to the pâté,

followed by the smoked oyster and a true epicurean delight‐‐

Devonshire pheasant. Ohh.

All accompanied, very discreetly, by a Montrachet 1947.

Ohh! And I was on my way to hash!

This is not hash, Margaret.

I'll help you set, Margaret.

There we are. Thank you, ma'am.

To civilization in Korea.

This is it.

‐ My favorite toast is a poem. ‐ Oh, Margaret, do. Speak it.

Well, here it goes. "Look out, teeth. Look out, gums.

Look out, liver. Here she comes."

Civilization in Korea.

And now, the caviar.

Mmm. Ohh, I‐‐ Which, my dear Major,

must never, never, never be touched by a metal utensil.

Oh, really? Mm‐mmm. Mm‐mmm. Only wood.

Of course, in such a primitive place, one must learn to adapt.

‐ Voilà. ‐ How clever!

‐ Now, open wide and say "ah." ‐ Ah.

Mmm.

Delicious.

Isn't it? Oh. The last time I had caviar...

was with General Hardcastle in West Berlin, and we‐‐

Oh... never mind.

Ahh. There we are.

‐ Mmm. ‐ No, no, no, Margaret. Follow me.

There are certain things that still call for the barbaric approach.

Don't you agree? Oh‐ho‐ho. Completely.

You can't do that with army hash. It doesn't fall apart this easy.

‐ Well? ‐ Oh, is this the way pheasant's supposed to taste?

‐ It tastes funny. ‐ Oh, Margaret, I assure you.

This is the way a pheasant is supposed to taste.

It is, after all, a game bird.

Well, I'm game too.

‐ Mmm. ‐ Mmm.

Attention, all personnel. Choppers and litter jeeps headed this way.

All medical teams report for triage.

How untimely. I know.

Well, shall we, uh, meet later for some petit fours?

Ooh! Certainly not. But you can stop by for dessert.

More Hill 403. Bloodworth's parade of casualties.

The sun's shining. Maybe he'll fall short of his quota.

What a shame. It'll ruin his day.

Let me have a leg splint. How does it look, Doc?

You're gonna be waltzing with Mathilda in no time. Honest?

You're so healthy, you're gonna have to twiddle your toes...

while we take care of guys who are really in trouble.

Just going to immobilize this till we get to you later. What's that "1" on your helmet?

A bunch of us have 'em.

When we got off the boat at Inchon this morning,

a sergeant came up and chalked a "1," "2," or "3" on our helmets.

‐ Ones got sent to the front. ‐ Ah, the lucky ones.

‐ Where'd the twos and threes go? ‐ Someplace safe, I guess.

You just got off the boat a few hours ago? Yeah.

This is some cruise. You're liable to take the same boat back.

Yeah. At least this time it'll be headed in the right direction.

‐ Where you from? ‐ Toledo, Ohio.

No kidding? You can expect a visit from a hairy guy wearing a dress.

‐ It's not Mathilda, is it? ‐ I don't know. I never waltzed with him.

‐ A pilot, huh? ‐ Hence the wings, Pierce.

I'm sure Bloodworth didn't figure any pilots.

Well, then this man's obviously an impostor. Get him and his wounds out of here.

Business is boom‐booming. Who knew this war was gonna catch on?

Give the people what they want, they don't mind going a few thousand miles out of their way.

That's just your opinion, Charles.

You look terrible. The air in here is foul.

It was the pheasant that was foul.

Whoever heard of eating a canned bird? Major, can you keep it down?

I hope I can. We're probably getting botulism.

Major, I assure you we are not ill.

Then why are you whiter than your mask? I tell you that bird was rotten.

Major‐‐ We ate a rotten bird!

Major, can we terminate this nauseating discussion...

and get back to this man's bowel?

After all, this man's bowel i‐‐

Wh‐‐ Colonel, we need help here.

Where's Winchester? On the floor.

He can't operate from there. His arms aren't long enough.

Sweet Nefertiti! What's the matter with him?

Tummy ache. Advanced. What from?

‐ Probably from something we didn't eat. ‐ How are you, Major?

He'll live.

He may not want to. Move him out.

Hold on, sir. He's heavy.

‐ Yeah. This place could use a full‐time bouncer. ‐ Who can take over?

I'll take it, Colonel. Kellye, close for me.

I'll need some fresh gloves.

You look a little green around the gills yourself.

Just keep your eyes off my gills and on your patient.

Clamp. Clamp.

Lap sponge. Sponge.

‐ Retractor. ‐ Metzenbaum.

All right. Knock it‐‐ off.

What was the final score in there?

203, not counting Winchester.

We beat Bloodworth by 77 "healthies."

Looks like Mr. Right was wrong this time. Maybe his slide rule is stuck.

What do you say to some schnapps? I'm in.

Not me. I'm gonna go find Bloodworth and toast him with a nice, tall glass of gloat.

You're only askin' for trouble, son.

Nah, I'm just gonna cheer him up.

He's probably crying in his ledger.

Well, look who's here: Colonel Bo Peep, counting his sheep.

What do you want, Pierce? Let me have a beer, okay?

Ah, there is no joy in Bloodville tonight. Ask me why.

Look, Pierce‐‐ I thought you'd never ask. In the battle for Hill 403,

77 soldiers refused to get hit just to pinpoint your accuracy.

You don't say? Oh, but I do say.

‐ You were off by 77, scorekeeper. ‐ I was, huh?

Don't let it get you down. If the war doesn't work out for you,

you can always go back to the States and predict traffic fatalities.

‐ Or if you live long enough, there's always the apocalypse. ‐ Attention, all surgical teams.

More wounded coming in via ground vehicles. Proceed to O. R.

Okay, hotshot. There you go. And don't be surprised if there are 77 more.

What'd you do? Shoot 'em yourself? That's it, Captain.

I've taken all I'm gonna take off you. I haven't even begun.

Let go of me, Captain. You make me sick.