M*A*S*H

MAN (on P. A.): Attention, all personnel.

The winner of this month's lottery,

Sergeant Arthur T. Williams,

will receive a high colonic worth $9.00.

Congratulations, Sergeant,

and don't spend it all in one place.

And that's another thing

I'm going to change around here:

no more gambling.

Frank, it does give the men something

to look forward to every month.

Margaret, you're beginning to sound like Blake: soft.

Nonsense. I want this place to be as G.I. as you do.

What a slob that man was,

may he rest in peace.

Another of my new regulations.

"Under no circumstances

will enlisted men use the officers' latrine."

They've been sneaking in at night, you know?

How can you tell?

One knows where one's own kind has been.

Major Frank Burns, Commanding Officer.

A boyhood dream come true.

My own command, you at my side,

an incoming box, an outgoing box.

War. God help me, I love it.

I'd better get this new regulation posted.

Corporal. Corporal O'Reilly!

He left the minute the mail came in.

I ordered him to bring me the mail first.

‐The little sneak. ‐No respect.

I'll teach those dirty little unlisted rats

to love me.

Ah. Done. Nice little bar.

And right in our own neighborhood.

‐What do we call it? ‐It's in the corner.

Let's call it The Corner Bar.

It's been used.

I got it! I got it.

Frank's Bed,

now doing business as Joe's Bar and Grill.

If my wife calls, I'm not here.

Henry would've loved this.

Fair man with a bottle, you say?

Henry? He could have been a comparison drinker.

The man was born with a spare tank.

I really miss him.

How about the Henry Blake Memorial Bar?

I'll buy that.

Let's break it in.

I'll throw out the first drunk.

With any luck, it'll be me.

Sirs?

Yes, young man. How many in your party?

‐Huh? ‐As you can see, we're jammed,

but if you give us your name,

we'll have you paged here at the bar.

The couple at table 27 are leaving.

Busboy, set up table 27

for the young man in the green tuxedo.

We usually hold it for Cesar Romero,

but he sprained his mustache.

Sirs, with your permission,

would you stop horsing around, please?

You hate the table.

Uh, no, the table's fine, really.

Uh, can I fix you a Shirley Temple or a Roy Rogers?

Is it true about those two?

Come on, would youse? Shh, shh.

Shh, shh.

We're getting a new commanding officer.

‐Frank's out? ‐Shh!

‐Great! ‐Great?

I've been sticking pins in my Frank Burns doll for a year.

"Colonel Sherman Potter, surgeon, medical..."

‐USA! ‐Regular army?

Career man.

Trouble?

An army doctor!

He'll have people bleeding by the numbers.

He's gotta be a loser,

otherwise why would they dump him in a MASH?

A career man.

That's even worse than Frank,

who's neither one nor the other.

How'd he take it? Frank?

Are you kidding?

My palms are sweating off. I'm afraid to tell him.

You'd better show him the orders, Radar.

‐He'll hit me. ‐Come on.

No! He's been murder on me.

Making me shave.

He makes me bathe!

The man has no respect for crud.

‐Let's go with him, B. J. ‐A pleasure.

Oh, hey, would you really? That's terrific.

Hold table 27.

No, no, no, Sergeant.

From now on,

you will not simply slop food onto these trays.

Look at this random arrangement, Major.

I'm looking.

The kidney beans have slopped over

from the kidney bean compartment

into the applesauce compartment.

The dehydrated potatoes are in every compartment.

It's no wonder I never have an appetite.

Sergeant, I want standardization

of compartment usage.

When I look down a table at a row of trays,

I want to see beans, beans, beans, beans,

potatoes, potatoes, potatoes,

applesauce, applesauce, applesauce.

You got that?

‐Yes. ‐Yes, what?

‐Yes, sir. ‐Yes, sir, what?

Yes, sir, yes, sir...

three bags full?

Well, where's the mail? It got here ten minutes ago.

Um, I've got it, sir.

Well, is there anything for me?

Um... (clearing throat)

Um, nothing from Mrs. Burns, sir.

I don't care what I didn't get.

No, sir.

What did I get?

Um, here's a card from your veterinarian.

‐Oh! ‐Time for your rabies shot.

Wisenheimer. Shouldn't you be eating or something?

We just had a cupcake on the train.

I've warned you, Hunnicut.

Don't let this man corrupt you.

I'm doing my very best, sir.

Well, what else is there, Corporal?

Um, uh, your service station back home

is having a free buffet to open their new lube rack.

And, uh, they're gonna be having punch

and balloons and Greasy the Clown.

Oh, what's this? It looks official.

Um, ahem, oh.

You're being replaced, sir.

What?

Smelling salts for two, Doctor.

This is outrageous! It's completely unfair.

Oh, no, Major. This is, uh,

not an unusual occurrence at all.

I mean, this is the way the army is run.

After all, we're all merely cogs

in a giant military medical machine.

Each cog occasionally has to lose a tooth

on the gear of life.

Now, um, if you'll all excuse me,

I'd, uh, best prepare for the change of command.

Frank, you took that so well.

I'm very proud of you.

Qué será, será.

It was a blow below the belt.

Well, we've both had our share of those.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

It's not fair! It's not fair!

It's not fair! It's my MASH!

It's mine, it's mine, it's mine, it's mine,

it's mine!

I know, darling.

There, there. Shh.

I already wrote Mommy.

Oh, your mother will understand.

I mean my wife.

Buzz off!

You'll all be sorry when I'm gone.

You'll see!

Sorry, Henry.

Another national monument destroyed.

Come on! It's hot.

I'm ruining my arm shields.

Major Burns's bed back, sirs.

Aw, gee.

It's a shame about the bar.

I was only there once, but I really loved it.

All right. Gangway, mister.

Corporal O'Reilly, take your moving party

and get the rest of my things from the C. O.'s office.

Another week in command,

and I'd have had you out of that dress.

I'm not that easy.

Welcome home, Frank.

We kept your lice right where you left 'em.

‐Oh. ‐What's this?

Oh, my personal papers

during my tenure as commanding officer.

When this war is history,

I'll donate them to my college library.

They'll not only benefit humanity,

but, uh, they're tax deductible.

Hey, now, that's classified!

"From Frank Burns, commanding officer,

to Sergeant Zale, supply."

An order to glue a cracked bedpan?

History, Frank? Benefit humanity, Frank?

"To the mess sergeant.