[Thinking] Staff duty log, 13 June...
Corporal Walter O'Reilly, company clerk, 0600 hours.
The friendly old sun showed his friendly hot face...
over the mountains of purple majesty...
as though he was salutating, "Good morning to all."
Alas, alack, the peaceful quietness was detonated...
by a herd of chopper transportizing punctured personnel.
But our gallant doctors, the miracle medical mortals...
are ever ready to treat the sick.
The wounded were aided copiously by super-smart surgeons...
whose knowledge is superseded by nobody I know.
Together or apart, they work as a team.
Skilled hands with their fingers...
work dedicatedly to keep death away from its maximum.
- Radar, what is this cow flubdubbery? - Sir?
All this "miracle medical mortals" hooey. What are you doin' to my duty log?
I was just adding a hint of self-expression, sir.
Better fill me in, son, and use simple sentences.
Well, sir, I've been accepted...
by the famous Las Vegas Writers' School.
"Serving the creative community since 1950."
- Right. - How'd you stumble onto this?
- Superman, sir. - He take the course?
No, sir. On the back of his comic book.
See, right next to the ad for the X-ray glasses?
I sent 'em in an example of my writings...
and they said that I had "extraordinary potential."
- How much they stick you for? - Just $50...
plus a five-dollar student activity fee, but it's really worth it.
They show you all the writers' secrets, like verbs and semicolons and all that good stuff.
Sounds like the original shell game to me.
Oh, no, it's no game, sir.
This school is run by some very famous writers like Hemingway and Steinbeck and O'Neill.
"Ethel Hemingway, Jerry Steinbeck, Eunice O'Neill."
- Right. - Uh-huh.
Look at page three.
"Writers are special people. In a crowd, they are glib and articulate.
Everyone respects the man who writes well."
Can you imagine, sir? In just 10 weeks, I can be respected by a crowd.
An admirable goal, Radar.
But the army doesn't need creative writing.
- Save it for your novel. - Thank you, sir.
- I'll dedicate my first book after you. - Better let me read it first.
Ah, foot fault! Your foot left the court. You don't get the point.
- It never touched the floor. - Come on, Pancho. I saw it hit.
- What's the difference? - I'm gonna get a ruling on this.
Frank, did you see his foot leave the bunk?
- Earth calling Major Burns. - You want something, Pierce?
- What's so absorbing, Junior? - It's an interesting article about Sweden.
- Learning to be a meatball? - I'm reading about their rising suicide rate.
- Just killing time? - Go peddle your petunias.
Here. You ready for my killer serve?
- This has been clocked at over five miles an hour. - Lay it on me.
Twenty-one! On to Wimbledon!
I'm... This must be the press asking me how it feels to be a winner.
- Go ahead. Ask me how it feels. - How do you feel, sir?
What a stupid question. Cancel the interview.
- Actually, I come in here to ask you two guys a favor. - What is it, Radar?
Well, uh, you see, I, uh... I found this real neat way to improve myself.
- Don't change a hair for me. - Not if you care for me.
I enrolled in this writers' school by mail.
- They send you tiny teachers in little envelopes? - For short stories?
Come on, guys. I'm having trouble with my first assignment.
I have to relate an amusing anecdote, and I don't think I ever had an anecdote.
- Not even a small one? - I have some in my footlocker. What size do you wear?
- Come on. Will ya? - I got an amusing anecdote, but promise you won't laugh.
Okay, fine. Yeah, good. Here.
- Thank you. - You're welcome.
- This happened while I was in my first year of medical school. - Right.
I was taking an exam in anatomy. It was really tough.
They asked questions like, "How many bones are there in the hand?"
I was stymied. I kept saying to myself, "How many bones are there in the hand?"
And then I heard this little voice that said, "Twenty-four."
I looked around the room, and there sitting over on the windowsill...
was this little gray squirrel with a very intelligent face.
And he pointed at his hand, and he said, "Twenty-four."
So I wrote it down. Then after the exam, I rushed over to the library to look it up.
And would you believe it? That stupid squirrel was wrong by four bones!
I went looking all over the campus for him. I wanted to kill him.
And I finally found him over on a bench by the psych department.
"You were wrong!" I screamed at him. "There's 28 bones in the human hand!"
"Oh," he said, pointing at his hand.
"I thought you meant a squirrel's hand."
I don't think I can use that story.
Do you want me to make one up?
Frank, help us out. We need a funny anecdote.
- I don't feel very funny. - Aw, come on. Be a pal.
- Please, sir? Would you, please? - Well... [Chuckles]
There's one that always breaks me up.
Seems we had this little sickly kid that lived on our block named Timmy.
He used to sit out on his porch in his wheelchair and wave at us as we walked by.
Sort of... Well, one day...
while he was waving, he lost control of his chair...
and it rolled down the stairs, across the lawn...
and crashed into my dad's car.
Boy, was that funny!
- That must have been awful. - No, just scratched the paint a little.
- I hope Timmy wasn't hurt. - What's the difference? His folks had money.
Frank, that was not an amusing anecdote.
You guys have got no sense of humor.
All you know how to do is pick, pick, pick. Is there anything I can do to please you?
- Tap dance in the minefield. - Drop yourself on North Korea.
Oh, fish. That's the last time I tell a joke to you guys.
Maybe I should just go to assignment number two.
Let's see. Uh, "Describe a beautiful scene outside your window."
- Maybe assignment number three. - Radar, why the sudden interest in creative writing?
Oh, I need it. You see, more and more, a man is judged...
by how good he expresses himself.
- Where'd you get that? - Page five.
What do you mean you're out of tapioca pudding? I saw some enlisted men eating some!
That's why we're out, Major. They ate it all.
Well, it's not fair. You run this place like a bunch of babies.
- I'm sorry. - Well, you should be. It's my birthday.
And I always have tapioca pudding on my birthday.
How was I supposed to know?
- Well, you could have asked. - Happy birthday, Major.
Never mind. You spoiled it for me. And I hope you're satisfied.
Would you like an extra hunk of liver?
Soldier, I'm confiscating this tapioca.
I wouldn't do that if I were you, sir.
Don't threaten me. Mmm, with raisins.
No, sir. Flies.
Some birthday this turned out to be.
Why, Frank, you didn't tell us it was your birthday.
It's not important. What's the difference? Nobody cares.
You're being too hard on yourself, Frank. Here, I'll prove it to you.
Hey, everybody, guess what. Today's Major Burns's birthday.
- See? - They're delighted.
- Birthdays are hell. - So are wars, but we keep on celebrating them every year.
Who cares about wars? This really hurts.
Maybe we should take up a collection and get him a gift.
What can you buy for a dime?
I know, I know. Everything looks so good.
- What'll you have? - I'll have a modicum of hash and a smattering of potatoes.
- You been out in the sun again? - No. I'm adding muscle to my vocabulary.
- I'm taking this correspondence course by mail. - Oh, yeah?
These mail things are great. My friend Vito met his wife that way.
- She was a pen pal? - No. She was a mailman.
- What a provocative anecdote. - Watch your mouth!
Uh, Father, excuse me. Do you mind if I sit here?
Certainly not, Radar.
Father, do you have a most unforgettable character?
- Oh, your writing class, eh? - Yes, sir.
Well, without a doubt, I'd have to name my sister, Sister Theresa.
She's a Benedictine in San Diego.
Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, sir.
Oh, no. She teaches in the seminary there.
She also plays guard on their basketball team.
You know, she can slam dunk while wearing a heavy crucifix.
Oh, now we're getting somewhere!
This used to be the most important day of the year for me.
I looked forward to it for months. There used to be parties in my honor.
Cards, gifts and...
What do I get around here, huh? Nothing.
Nada. Zilch. Zippo. The big goose egg.
And look at you. You got a Purple Heart, and it's not even your birthday.
What is it? What do you want?
- Nothing, Frank. - We came to work.
- Oh, sure. Came in to spy on me. - We came to relieve you.
I didn't do anything wrong. And you keep your hands off his Purple Heart!
And that was one of his more lucid moments.
Why don't we shoot him and put him out of our misery?
- That or just find something to lift his spirits. - Call off the peace talks.
Have Margaret's fiance transferred to the European theater.
Get him a seat in the balcony.
You and I could have a fight and beat each other's brains out.
- Frank would love that. - Right.
That would give Frank instant joy, to see us at each other's throats.
- Let's do it. - It is the perfect gift for the man who has nothing.
We'd have to be pretty convincing.
It's easy to fake a fight with a jerk like you.
Nah. Who'd believe I couldn't take a noodle like you out with one punch?
- Maybe you ought to fight Radar. - This is gonna be the best birthday of Frank's whole life.
I don't wanna hear about it! I gave you your assignment, and that's that!
- Why don't you work the shift with me? - Because I'm chief surgeon.
- If you don't like it, join another army. - What's going on, fellas?
It's a good thing we're friends. Otherwise, you'd have me on duty 24 hours.
- That can be arranged, buster. - This isn't a fight, is it?
- Don't turn your back on me. - How you gonna work with your nose in a sling?
- Boys, easy. - I'm not working the shift alone, Pierce!
- I'm gonna let Frank decide. - Leave me out of it. I like the way you guys are working it out.
- I'm gonna see what the colonel has to say about this. - Oh, sure, the colonel.
- Wow, you guys are really mad at each other. - You think you know a guy.
- All of a sudden, he pulls rank. - What a shame.
- Some friend. The guy's a two-faced rat! - That's pretty strong.
- How would you put it? - Well, maybe you're right.
He's so competitive, so childish. Always has to come out on top, get in the last word.
- I know. Impossible. - He's impossible!
Here he comes. Let's pretend we're talking about him, okay?
You're lucky, Hunnicutt. Potter's taking a nap.
Forget it. I'd rather work the shift alone than be stuck in here with you!
You... The air feels better in here already!
Don't you wanna tell Potter? Wake him up. He won't mind.
- Don't worry. That lazy crumb will get his. - I'll be a witness.
- I'll bet he called me every name in the book. - Let's see.
Two-faced, rat fink and, uh, ferret face.
- He called me ferret face? - He was so mad, he thought you were me.
- That's his style. - He called you a sore loser.
- Sore loser? - He thinks you're too competitive.
You know, hate to lose, always have to get in the last word, childish.
- He said that? - Yeah, every syllable.
But you didn't hear it from me.
Boy, he must really be desperate.
That is so dumb, it's ridiculous.
- I hate to lose? He said that? - Uh-huh.
[Thinking] Sixteen hundred hours.
The sun in its crimson radiance...
bids a crepuscular adieu to another day.
Corporal Klinger was in his last grisly hour of guard duty...
little knowing the fate that destiny had planned up for him.
The Chinese were giving up in hordes.
Sergeant Fierman brought in three prisoners that he had captured...
after they had surrendered voluntarily.
The sergeant bragadeered to Corporal Klinger...
that capturing prisoners meant points towards discharge...
and early homeward bounding.
This information inspired Klinger a whole lot.
The vainglorious corporal ran like a bird...
and sped off in quest of Chinese giver-uppers.
But destiny exterminated his luck.
The Chinese G.I.s had not seen women in an overexcited period of time.
Klinger barely escaped with his purity still clean...
and in the process, ruining his finest frockery.
The corporal re-arrived with his dignity dented...
and his nonchalantness not so nifty.
Enough, boy! Enough!
This whole unit is gonna get a Section Eight.
I'm sorry. It's just that I need the practice.
Radar, duty logs have got to be military.
If headquarters sees this, they'll rip off my epaulets.
- Won't happen again, sir. - Thank goodness.
But, Colonel, what is your actual civilian opinion of my writing?
Son, Ethel Hemingway may say I'm wrong...
but I don't think too much of it.
- Why, sir? - 'Cause none of that's you.
It sounds like you swallowed a dictionary.
But I'm just doing what the book says.
Throw the book away! I'm no authority...
but it seems to me the first rule if you wanna be a writer...
is be yourself.
Be yourself.
Must come later.
- What are you doing out here? - Waiting for a ride home.
You ought to see Frank. He's a new man.
Good. I didn't like the old one.
It's good to hear him laughing in the morgue again.
Which one of us you think is gonna get the Oscar?
Me, I hope. You know how much I hate to lose.
- Right. - Did you really say that to Frank?
Yeah. I was just looking for something to knock you with.
It really bugs you when I call you on foot faults, doesn't it?
- Are you kidding? - Why else would you say I hate to lose?
I don't know. It just popped into my head.
You really do think I'm too competitive, that I always have to get the last word in?
- Well, yeah. - You don't know me very well, do you?
- Maybe I know you better than you think I do. - You think so?
- I always have to get the last word in? - That's right.
- I can prove to you... - Come on!
Just say something and walk away.
All right.
- I think you're a very competitive person. - Fine.
- You just did it. - Did what?
Just got in the last word.
- That doesn't count. - Then don't say anything.
- Okay. - You're impossible.
- I'm impossible? - Yes. Shut up, close your mouth.
- Don't say another word. - Okay.
Not another word!
- No problem. - It's no use!
Wrong.
Oh. Major Houlihan, ma'am.
- Can I ask you a question? - You just did.
No. It's for my writing course. Ma'am, I have to write about a romantic interlude...
and I don't think I ever had one.
- What makes you think I have? - Well, everyone knows that you're engaged.
Yes, of course. And Lieutenant Colonel Donald Penobscott...
is the most romantic man I've ever met.
Right. Well, may I ask then, have you and him ever interluded?
- Many times. - Oh.
I remember once, we were sipping wine in a restaurant in Tokyo...
and a man came by our table... a big man, must have weighed 250 pounds.
And he brushed my leg. Naturally, I was alarmed and I screamed.
And Donald, without any thought to his personal safety...
got up and he was ready to punch that man in the mouth.
Oh, that's terrific. What happened?
- He got bit in the leg. - The guy bit him?
No, no, the man's Seeing Eye dog.
What the devil's he up to now?
I wouldn't stick around unless I had a strong stomach.
Oh, my. He's gonna immolate himself.
- Oh! - Hold on, son. Don't do that.
Too late, Colonel. I'm finally gonna get my discharge.
I'm going home in a butt can.
Just think about what you're doing, boy. Here, toss me those matches.
So long, war.
Good-bye, K.P. Adios, Korea.
Sprinkle my ashes over Toledo.
Klinger, put down those matches.
- We can work this out. - What he said.
- What's the use, Colonel? - Well, give me a chance!
- Come on over to my office. - Over to the office.
Well, okay.
Save my spot.
Good choice, son.
- Hurry it up, Colonel. I'm a busy man. - Relax, Klinger.
Where's the fire? Sorry.
I'll take anything you got... honorable, general, medical, whatever.
I appreciate how much you hate this place...
but you've gotta understand, it's not in my power.
I understand only one thing... you're gonna give me a discharge or poof!
Klinger, I wanna help, but I can't send you home.
Did you ever see a Lebanese go up in flames? It's not pretty.
Would you settle for some time back in Seoul?
Uh-uh. Freedom or fire.
Anything but a free ride.
You're a tough cookie, Sherm, but you're not as tough as me.
I hope you can live with yourself.
- Klinger, please. - Remember me at your next weenie roast.
Klinger, what am I gonna tell your wife?
Tell her I'd like to be kept in a blue jar. That's my best color.
Son, you'll regret this for the rest of your life.
I... shall not return.
Shall I pour?
Who put gasoline in my gasoline?
Stay away from me with that cigar!
Everybody, back! Don't anybody light a match!
[Woman Screaming]
## [Humming]
- Having a good time, Frank? - Well, I'm the birthday boy.
Evening, Captains, Major.
- What are you doing in here? - Come to find somebody smart to help me with my studies.
- Don't look at me. - How's the writing going, Radar?
Col. Potter says that I should just be myself, but I don't know how to do that.
It's simple. Stop using fancy words.
Stop trying to find amusing anecdotes and write about something you wanna write about.
- Like what? - Like Iowa or your animals or your Uncle Ed.
- Something you feel strongly about. - Strongly?
Like if I were gonna write, I'd probably write about...
how easily friends can turn on you.
Friends will kill you every time.
- I don't think I understand. - People forget about loyalty.
They forget you shouldn't make up vicious rumors about somebody while his back is turned.
I'd write about being too suspicious and resentful.
- How about maligning a person's character? - What?
- Overreacting, always trying to get in the last word. - Right.
- See? - No.
- This is all good stuff, guys. - Hey, wait a second.
I think I found something that I feel strongly about.
- How do you feel about shutting up? - You know, my chest feels tight.
- What's the matter? - It's you two guys fighting. It makes me sick.
Don't you know that I come in here to the Swamp to feel good, have a little laugh?
It's because you two guys get along so good.
- Those days are over now. Get out of here. - Go on, Radar.
Well, it's just you two guys are terrific the way you work together and laugh together...
and stick together.
I know you're always fooling around, but you're always there when the other guy needs ya.
- Now you're getting mushy. - No, I'm not.
A lot of guys in the army say they're friends, but these guys really are.
Except for now.
Yeah, well...
we're not really that mad at each other, Radar.
- Are we? - Nah.
- We're just play acting. - We just wanted to give Frank a birthday present.
- We wanted to make him happy. - We were fighting to entertain you, Frank.
And it was wonderful! I loved it!
Party's over, Frank. Happy birthday.
It's your fault, you little creep! You little buttinsky!
They were doing just fine till you stuck your nose in here!
- I was trying to improve myself. - Improving yourself is a waste of time.
- Frank should know. He gave up long ago. - Geez, it was going so well too.
A perfectly good birthday shot to hell!
Boy!
Here.
- I'll buy you a drink. - Thanks.
- Here's to you, Radar. - One of a kind.
So are you two.
You still love me for all my faults?
- What faults? You're perfect. - Just for that, I'm gonna let you get the last word in.
- Thank you. - You're welcome.
[Thinking] Dear Mom, I gave up on the writing course...
on account of I found out I can write better as myself...
than Hemingway, O'Neill or any of those other bums.
And it doesn't cost me anything.
Give my love to everybody, especially my nephews.
Simplistically yours...
Walter.
And now, from Ottumwa, Iowa, deep in the mysterious Midwest...
the world's first magician/clerk/typist...
the amazing Radaro.
The hand is quicker than the eye.
[Clears Throat, Whistling]
- [Hawkeye] Oh, a rabbit. - No. Flowers.
- You could have fooled me. - There's a trick to that.
Now, would a gentleman or a lady in the audience please lend me their watch?
- Use Frank's. - All right.
Sir, would you please place your watch in this cloth?
We have the cloth... and a hammer.
- And now... - He will destroy the watch.
I've seen this. There's nothing to it.
He slipped the watch into his pocket when we weren't looking.
- [Rattling] - Sir, I think we made a little mistake.
You little creep! You wrecked it!
I got this from one of my whiplash patients.
Smashing trick, Radar.
This watch was worth 14 bucks!
I'm just a beginner.
Time for your next trick, Radar... vanish into thin air.
- Right. - Corporal!
It was just a rehearsal!