"Dear M*A*S*H"

Season 3, episode 24, “Abyssinia Henry” aired at 8:30pm on Tuesday March 18th, 1975. The episode followed the M*A*S*H crew bidding a fond farewell to lovable Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake, who had finally received his long-awaited discharge. Over the course of 3 critically acclaimed seasons, M*A*S*H carved a place for itself in the weekly rituals of millions of Americans. Many of these viewers were children, who watched such shows as M*A*S*H, Happy Days, and All in the Family, alongside their parents and older siblings. The characters they saw weekly on the TV became not only a part of their routine, but members of the family. Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles– most children see such relatives a few times a year at holidays and family gatherings; but Hawkeye, Trapper, Margaret, Radar, Klinger, Frank, Father Mulcahy, and of course Colonel Blake–they were in your home, laughing along with you and your loved ones, weekly.

But again, tonight’s episode is different.

A tearfully fond farewell to Henry at the chopper pad is followed by the episode’s final scene. It is set in the operating room where, as always, the laugh track is silenced. Even writing this, I can feel my heart sink into my stomach as I picture Radar O’Reilly pushing through the doors of the O.R.

The camera holds on Radar as he delivers the news that Henry Blake’s plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan. And like millions of other Americans, the final words of the episode ring in my ears: “There were no survivors.”

Radar exhales to the silent room, the camera pans around to the shocked faces of the other characters; the sound of sniffles and their shining eyes the only expressions of grief visible over their masked faces. During the post-fade tag a montage of Henry plays; not that many people remember this part– I certainly didn’t until I forced myself to rewatch the episode on a full rewatch of the series. And like those shocked viewers in 1975, the sweet montage of our beloved Colonel does little to soothe the brutality of the preceding scene.

I was aware that letters were sent into CBS addressed to the M*A*S*H producers after the airing. In his 1998 interview for the Television Academy, creator Larry Gelbart discussed the reception of the episode and the letters that followed. He also mentioned his reasoning behind the choice, and why it was done. Actor McLean Stevenson (Henry Blake) wanted to move on to other things, and Gelbart, along with producer Gene Reynolds, felt that the death of a beloved character would be a poignant reminder that the show takes place during a war; and in war, people who are loved die.

In his interview, Gelbart explained that he and Reynolds responded, by hand, to the letters with this reasoning. He also said that to some he mentioned the recent news story of a plane of Vietnamese refugee children that crashed after leaving Saigon [the first flight of Operation Babylift, as it was known, crashed in early April, not that week in March. But memory is elusive, and the point still stands]. Gelbart and Reynolds invoked this association to have people consider the mechanisms that made them care so deeply for a fictional character, but not for real victims of war.

I remember sitting in the quiet archives center reading room in the basement of the National Museum of American History, opening up the manila folder and beginning to read through the letters. I set up my appointment to see the M*A*S*H Collection over a month earlier, as the collection is housed off site and had to be delivered to the archives center. The archives team was more than gracious to me, and I would not be doing this project without their help.

Now early July, I began to flip through the letters, hand-written on various stationary, until the unmistakable sight of a child’s handwriting came into view. I think Brian’s letter was the 4th or 5th in the first folder (folder 22), and reading it stopped me in my tracks. I know I’m not the only one who would react that way after reading “I am really sad” and “age 11” in such short succession. It had never occurred to me that these letters, of course, would also have been written by children.

I was 17 when I watched the episode, and even going into it with Henry’s fate pre-known to me (the follies of the digital age where spoilers are readily available, as well, I suppose, as the nearly half a century of cultural consciousness on the topic) it was still devastating to the point of heavy tears. How then, must a child of 11 have felt? Not only in watching a beloved (if fictional) friend die so suddenly, but then having to wait until the next season (which would not air until September, perish the thought!) These were questions I found myself asking, and though the idea of tracking down these children (now adults) would not occur to me until a few letters later, I figured this letter’s author would be a perfect narrative start for this project...

The letter starts out with a tone that truly grips the reader’s interest and does not diminish the more you read. Paragraph 2 contains the line “Does my name bring back a nightmare?” [1] I believe it was at that point that I decided I had to copy the entire letter. It also made me think: If I talk to no one else, I want to talk to him.

“Maybe I represent the U.S. when I ask you why you killed Henry.” (paragraph 4)

The tone does shift slightly by paragraph 5, when you start to see the young age of its impassioned writer emerge (George was 15 at the time), as well as how deeply the episode affected him. “I had tears coming out of my eyes” [followed by the assurance though that “I wasn’t crying.”] His suggestion that the death be revoked, the hope that Henry missed the plane and therefore “Hawkeye + Trapper could still get letters + phone calls from him.” It’s sad in its earnestness, as all the letters are. But again, unlike the other letters, our George picks back up with his other form of earnest emotion.

“I realize the cleverness of you. Just as a killer who murdered somebody, he retreats to his old habits and ways so as not to attract attention. He doesn't leave town, or anything. (...) Well, does the accused wish to present any evidence on his behalf of his innocence?”

Well, did he? I had to find George and ask him myself.

We spoke on the phone on July 25th, 2024.

----

George started out our interview by telling me why he agreed to speak with me. A holder of two master’s degrees, he felt implored by my request as a student. I won’t go into the flattery he gave me about my research, but needless to say I was certain this George was much kinder than the version of him in that letter. He also expressed interest in the crux of the project, “People love that kind of before and after thing.”

George: I didn’t finish the letter– the one page you sent me. I was kinda cringing.

Me: It goes on... there’s four pages

George: I sent a FOUR PAGE LETTER?!

----

Me: I would love to talk to you about this letter because I was cracking up in the archive room reading it.   

George laughs, “I was an arrogant teen.”

As hinted in the letter, George had in fact been in semi-regular correspondence with Larry Gelbart. And apparently, Larry wasn’t the only one.

“I had pretty good success back then writing movie and TV stars. I was starting an autograph collection.” George went on to explain that he still collects autographs, whether at meet-and-greets, meetings, or conventions. “I’ve amassed a really good collection.”

This interest started for George as a preteen, when he wrote a movie star (Jackie Gleason) and was “flabbergasted” when he received a written response. “He sent me a beautiful letter, an inscribed signed photo, and all of a sudden I’m like ‘wow, that was easy.’” Spurred on by such warm responses, George kept writing. Movie stars, TV stars, even book authors and TV columnists. If he enjoyed reading or watching something, chances are someone from it would receive a letter from him.

And of course, George says, “M*A*S*H was everything back then.”

So, George started writing to Larry Gelbart.

“In my pompous, arrogant, adolescent mind, I was pitching ideas to him for plots. If you can believe such a thing.”

“He was very kind. I won’t say I had a correspondence with him... more than one letter, probably not more than five or six. But I would write him ‘Hey, I liked the show, why did this happen?’ ‘hey, have you thought about bringing on a character who can’t talk?’ Just pitching ideas, like ‘what the hell, why not.’”

“But he always responded. He would send me letters back. ‘Gee thanks George, unfortunately union–‘ I remember his saying union a lot. ‘The writer’s union won’t allow us’;’we appreciate your input, we love to have you as a fan, keep watching.”

“But that didn’t deter me, you know, so I sorta had an in with him. And then that episode, that famous episode, was just a killer. Everybody was like ‘Holy Mackerel, can you believe they did that?’”

George, beginning to laugh: So I had to take issue with Larry.

Me: Yeah, your good pen pal Larry Gelbart.

George, laughing: He never even asked me my permission!

It’s understandable, now, how young George took Henry’s death as an almost personal betrayal.

“I mean, to give him credit he responded to this little kid writing him. You know, he sent me letters.”

Me: Do you remember getting a response from this specific letter?

George: Yeah, absolutely. I didn’t save it; I don’t know why. I’ve kept most of my correspondence. It’s weird I don’t have it. I do remember his response. He was, my recollection is, very kind; not solicitous just to a fan but genuine...affection, it seemed. You know, “Hey George, good to hear from you” ... And I remember what he said was that McLean Stevenson had voiced the opinion that he wanted to leave the show, it was his doing, and he had preferred it this way. He wanted to go out with a big hurrah, with no chance of him coming back. He felt he left the show and went home [that] they could have recurring [phone calls] with people, letters from him, flashbacks of him, recreating scenes. So, he wanted to be gone, he wanted to cut the cord, no chance of coming back, and I remember Gelbart telling me “This is the way McLean Stevenson preferred it, he wanted to go out with a death.” And so he basically comforted me in that it wasn’t something that the studio heads wanted to do.

“I’ve heard the expression before, that these people we watch on TV; they’re in your living room every night. And I had not had a prime family member die –no siblings or parents– at that point. I did have some grandparents that had passed away, but I gotta say, I didn’t see them twice a week in my living room. But McLean Stevenson was making you laugh, and he was part of the family! The M*A*S*H family– and the M*A*S*H family was part of our family.”

“And of course, the way they depicted it in such dramatic fashion at the very end of the show in the operating room, the silence. [T]hat’s what it was like watching it, everybody was just gobsmacked. Like ‘wait a minute, is this a joke? Did this really happen?’ wow.”

“It hasn’t lost its dramatic impact (...) it’s timeless.”

When I was explaining the story of the letters and their journey to NMAH, I mentioned the M*A*S*H exhibit that was in the Smithsonian from 1983 until 1985,[2] George had another revelation for me:

“Lily, I was there at the opening of the exhibit.”

Of course he was!

“Alan Alda was there.” George tells me. “I was working in Washington D.C. at that time, and I had read that this exhibit was going to have its grand opening and Alan Alda (Hawkeye) would be there. I think maybe William Christopher (Father Mulcahy) was there too,[3] I’m not sure. And I said ‘Man, I’m doing this.’”

“I knew my way around D.C. and the American History Museum was just one of my favorites. [When I was] living there I used to go [to the museum] every few weeks. It was free, I was a young college grad, I didn’t have a lot of money to spend.”

“It was a beautiful exhibit. They recreated The Swamp, and you could walk through it. I didn’t get close enough to Alda to take a picture, but I saw him.”

{photos from the exhibit}

George kept watching M*A*S*H after the fateful episode, he doesn’t see how anyone who really liked the show could keep away.

Me: Have you thought about [this] letter at all since?

George, laughing: No

“I did not. I wrote it, I got it off my chest, and I was very pleased that they condescended to respond (graciously). It was somewhat mollifying, assuaging my anger... ‘okay, I’ll accept that now, we can be friends again.’ So, I hadn’t thought about the letter since then. I’m very surprised that I don’t have his response.”

Me: How do you feel about the fact that your letter is in the care of the Smithsonian Museum of American History?

George: It’s kind of freaky! I would never have guessed that in a million years. I’m shocked, I gotta say, shocked is the perfect word.

“I don’t know if I feel good about it or bad about it...as long as it’s not out there for laughs. I can say I got my hand in history.”

So, what is George’s ‘before and after’?

George is now a college professor, which finds pleasantly relaxing after a long corporate career. He now lives in Florida, and is married with two adult children. As stated earlier, George continued writing letters to anyone and everyone long after 1975.

He tells me a story about loving the movie The Good the Bad and the Ugly, and writing Eli Wallach (‘The Ugly’). The question? “Why were there no sequels?” George’s letter writing luck served him, because he got a response (and a signed photo) and most importantly, an answer.

“There’s that connection between that sixteen-year-old pitching plotlines to Larry Gelbart for M*A*S*H, and now, some 20, 30, maybe 40 years later, writing Eli Wallach.”

He makes a joke about how this pastime “is the closest I’ll ever be to show business,” and I remind him that well, he is very literally tied to M*A*S*H now. His letter is in with the official documents that make up M*A*S*H’s history archive.

Me: You made it!

George has also found an audience for his collection (which has grown past autographs into memorabilia and documents). “I dusted it off and thought ‘This shouldn’t be sitting in a closet.’” So, he has taken it “on the road” in the form of ‘Movie Memorabilia’ presentations at local assisted living communities. Part presentation, part trivia night, George has found a nostalgic niche. The presentations are very much a symbiotic relationship, especially in the ‘share your own brushes with fame’ section. “People will say ‘Oh, it’s so nice that you do this,’ and I’m like ‘No, I’m doing this because I’m selfish!’” He laughs, “I’m having a ball!”

Near the end of our conversation, George offered that, had we had this conversation when Gelbart was still alive, “I would have been compelled to write him a letter of apology.”

Thank you so much to George for speaking with me! And for everyone who stuck around these months!

We are also on Substack and Instagram, but mashblr is always posted first!

[1] Note: the paragraph and page numbering were done by me on my photocopy. [2] The exhibit was visited more than 1,073,849 times. https://americanhistory.si.edu/explore/stories/looking-back-mash-show-and-exhibition [3] Mike Farrell, Gary Burghoff, and Gene Reynolds were also in attendance. At least for the donation ceremony the day before. https://siarchives.si.edu/blog/mash-binding-exhibit

Brian Nores was no longer 11 when we spoke on the phone. Between the passage of time and the life that fills the mind since age 11, he didn’t remember writing the letter until my email.

An email, he told me, that his partner advised him not to answer as it was “probably a scam.” Thankfully for me, Brian is “always getting himself into trouble” and answered my inquiry about a letter he may or may not have sent while living at X address in 1975. In hindsight, his partner was definitely right for being wary.

Brian credited his late father for the letter’s existence and described memories flooding back after reading the words he wrote nearly 50 years earlier. Not long before he wrote the M*A*S*H letter, Brian was a boy scout who wanted to quit. His father instructed him that he could quit, but he had to write a letter to the scout master explaining why he wanted to leave the troop. His dad ‘never let him off the hook for that,’ and it was likely this instillation of values that gave Brian the confidence to speak his mind after the fateful episode aired. [In a fascinating ending to the boy scout anecdote– Brian, who still lives in the area, was at the local frame shop years later where the owner recognized his name and produced the letter, which the scout master was having framed.]

When I asked if he remembered the episode he responded how anyone who has seen it would; he remembered it very well. He recalled being “disturbed” and “shocked” by it. In a world before spoiler alerts, he explained, “the whole world saw that episode and reacted in real time.” As an 11-year-old, but also as an American youth raised on American narratives of war, he remembered expecting Henry to “go off into the sunset” and be okay.

“For me, M*A*S*H ended after that episode.”

Brian watched occasionally after season 3 but had no idea the series continued for as long as it did (M*A*S*H aired from 1972-1983). “It was never the same, certainly.”

Brian was in 5th grade in 1975, and at his young age he had never seen something on TV that disturbing. He told me he reached out to an old friend to discuss the letter, and they reminisced about their lives at that time. “Age of innocence” was the term he used with me. At that point in his life, he had never lost any relatives or experienced any hardships. “The most shocking thing that I had experienced prior to that was a large earthquake in ’71.” For Brian, this episode marked one of the first experiences he had had with death.

It's an extraordinary level of influence to have, that the simple ‘writing off’ of a character can have such an impact on a young life. We often characterize television as a sort of hobby, one that has less of a cachet than movies; but the mechanism by which media compels our emotions is the same.

Brian reflected more on this impact when telling me that The Mary Tyler Moore Show was his favorite series, and he recalled crying at the finale in 1977. He remembered thinking “How could they end this?”

To Brian, television was “taken a little more seriously then.” With one TV, there were fights over who got to hold the clicker when you sat around the set as a family. “You got one chance to watch it.” He explained. “What a different world we live in now.”

Brian still lives in the area where he grew up and drives past his old house and “down memory lane” often. He is still close to two of his childhood best friends. He shared with me some of his thoughts on aging, a topic that still feels “surreal” to him. “Only recently have I started to experience change. Restaurants etc. going away. Everything that we grew up with has changed. TV, movies, roads, politics. I don’t like this!” He laughed. “You look in the mirror and think.”

Brian had no idea that his letter ended up in the archives of our country’s National History Museum. “Really surprised” is how he described his reaction to the news; one of the aforementioned childhood friends was “blown away.”

“What it said to me (...) was that it reaffirmed/reinforced some of the things that my dad told me. Doing the right thing and following through.” Brian shared.

“What a difference it can make. That this moment is occurring because I spent a few minutes writing.”

~~~~

Thank you so much to Brian for granting me this interview.

Subject photos courtesy of Brian: Letter-era Brian/current-era Brian, Huntington Library Garden, California.