Competent, cheerful, and true-blue, Kellye is both a model nurse and a model servicewoman. Laboring in the background for much of the series, she appears in over 150 MASH episodes, her presence steady, occasionally delightful, but slight. A pretty Hawaiian woman with pigtails or a bucket hat, she dances at the O Club, diligently fetches instruments in surgery, and offers her sweet, concerned expression in camera pans across the crowd. It is only in season 11’s “Hey, Look Me Over,” the final season premiere, that Kellye is elevated to main-character status—here she gets the star treatment and shows us, truly, what we’ve been missing.

Nurse Kellye was never given a consistent first and last name; fans have cobbled “Kellye Yamato” together from various credits. Actor Kellye Nakahara inspired her first name, and in at least one episode the character is credited as Lt. Nakahara. It seems as though, as happened more and more on MASH as time went on, the character Kellye and the real person Kellye were almost indistinguishable from each other.

It also seems as though the real person Kellye was worth immortalizing. After “Hey, Look Me Over,” in which the lieutenant scolds Hawkeye for never seeing her as an exciting love interest like the other nurses, Nakahara began getting fan mail. In a 2016 interview, she said, “I have people coming up to me that say… you’re the first role model that I have of an Asian that wasn’t portrayed as an Asian, just as a person.” She went on to describe the pot-luck dinners she hosted for the cast. (I’m linking the interview, very worthwhile: xxx but since Tumblr is bad with links, it’s also easy to search for “Kellye Nakahara NPR” in case it doesn’t show up here.)

Many changes came over this character, who remains so tough and uncompromising, yet so often vulnerable. Since the early seasons, Loretta Swit has chipped away at the icy Major Margaret Houlihan to show the warmth underneath, until she’s revealed a million imperfections that make Margaret all the more complete.

So how is it that this strict head nurse, with a bright military career, tends to melt so easily at the mere suggestion of romance? She also romances herself, falling for little things like a new hairstyle, a pretty pair of shoes. Don’t tell her I said this, but she’s a bit of a “candle in the wind” personality deep down, grasping for stability in her personal life as she fights to preserve the order crumbling around her.

That, strangely enough, only bolsters her status as the camp’s sweetheart. The men of the 4077th protect Margaret--they know her foibles, her tastes, and her unflagging strength. When she started to shed her hard, hypocritical exterior, and air out some of her troubles, her vulnerability only made her stronger (funny how that works). It isn’t enough to say that the regal, glamorous Margaret of season 11 is just one of the boys--she can hang with them all day long, but she’s every bit a woman. Finally, they all appreciate her as such.

BJ Hunnicutt has had neuroses aplenty here in Korea, but by this time the beefcake captain is as relaxed as they come. This is BJ’s best season-- I give you the many pranks he plays on Hawk, his slutty clown costume in “Trick or Treatment,” and that one last time he ran outside naked (inspired by Rizzo’s fake hand grenade).

In these final few episodes, more than ever, we see an appreciation of BJ as a lovable, earthy man. This includes his physicality, as Mike Farrell seems to really revel in being big and rangy, showing off his feet and swinging limbs. But he finds plenty of space, too, for the sly humor of rejoinders, puns, and secret practical jokes--subtlety, ever the province of a sidekick. That he can be ungainly and subtle at the same time is an interesting paradox which, I think, lies at the heart of Farrell’s appeal.

On the Enneagram, Type 9 becomes like Type 3 when healthy. In other words, that reserved and even shy personality, who self-effaces for the good of the group, at last comes to see their own worth--and starts to carry a warm, confident ego. This is the happy fate that has befallen Beej: Hawkeye’s best friend, Peg’s adoring husband, and the doctor to whom countless young men owe their lives. Of course, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer dude.

A lot of TV obsessives, myself included, get a perverse thrill when a minor character shows up. The same phenomenon happens for character actors in movies: hey, it’s THAT guy, goes the refrain. Igor is the ultimate That Guy of MASH, which is no small honor.

A steady presence throughout MASH’s run—he started in season 2—the soldier is used as a standby, a straight man, frequently a scapegoat. At first a grunt who did many thankless jobs around camp, he settles into his duty as food server and sometime cook, with apron and chef’s toque. By the late seasons he appears, thus attired, in almost every episode. He is there to ladle out the disgusting food, mostly—but now and then he’s good for a mistake or two, as in “A War for All Seasons” when he famously creams the corn Father Mulcahy had wanted to eat off the cob.

Unlike the composer Stravinsky, whom he seems to be named after (???), Igor is an unimportant person, an everyman weaving through this milieu of flamboyant Hawkeyes, Potters and Klingers. Igor is not particularly ethical or intelligent. He is passed over for promotion; changes into a Hawaiian shirt to get drunk with other enlisted men. Asked for photos of women for an elaborate letter-home prank, he offers Hawkeye a choice between his wife and his girlfriend. Igor, played by Jeff Maxwell, was named “Maxwell” for one episode (“The Price of Tomato Juice,” s04e16), in which he was bullied by Frank Burns in the food line.* In other words, the writers themselves seem to have temporarily forgotten him.

In spite of it all, he is lovable. Maxwell plays him with a good-natured normalcy, almost a blankness, and slow speech that holds the tiniest lilt of mockery. His tall 6’1” frame, good-looking, hangdog face, and slightly cross-eyed gaze offer us definite comfort. As evidenced by the cookbook he published with recipes from the mess tent--such an inspired idea!--Maxwell himself knows the moderate power a That Guy can wield, and how to capitalize on his moderate appeal.

So. Who will speak for bland, average Igor? At the end of the day, everyone should realize how crucial people like him are to the hospital’s success (see also: Sgt. Zale). Competence and morality in the doctors are all well and good, but where would they be without the bumbling Igors of the army? If nothing else, he makes them look great by comparison. But I submit he is pretty decent all on his own.

In the tragic theatre of war, a laugh now and then can certainly he’p—so thank Rizzo and his lazy, grifting, cigar-chomping ways. While the rest of the personnel have their heartaches, Sgt. Rizzo, introduced in season 8, remains an entirely comic character. (To some extent, Klinger filled this need previously; beloved by viewers, Klinger took on more depth as he moved into the clerk’s office.) As the head of the MASH motor pool, Rizzo lies under jeeps and wipes oil off his hands with a rag. He moseys around camp with a self-important air, knowing that anyone in charge of all these vee-hickles must hold plenty of cards.

 After some ambiguity in his first appearance, it’s settled upon that the clownish Rizzo be a Cajun from the backwaters of Louisiana, with a wife named Zola and a son named Billy-Bubba at home. Character actor G.W. Bailey nails the accent, and also achieves a great comedic likeability, with Luther’s deep voice and wide-eyed face-making. Across just thirteen episodes, Bailey makes a grand impression. In him I see similarities to the younger comedian Diedrich Bader, who is also handsome, Southern, and broadly funny.

During the controversy that surrounded the U.S. military’s ban on transgender soldiers, starting in 2016, many allies circulated a Klinger meme—a forty-year-old image of the stylish corporal standing guard with his rifle and ruffled pink shift. Protest followed almost immediately. Max Klinger on MASH was not a trans woman, and calling him one on this occasion insulted those affected, relying as it did on an ancient and false notion of what trans women are, in the military or out of it. Nothing against Klinger, though, critics were quick to add. We love Klinger! He’s great.

Jamie Farr’s sassy, stubborn character has its roots in a Lenny Bruce routine, as Lenny told of dressing as a woman to get thrown out of the army. Klinger has the same idea, but somewhere along the line, before we ever encountered him, he became just as passionate about dressing as he is about going home. His raving about couture, his near-constant sewing, and the elaborateness of the outfits themselves all give him away. So, in his monomaniacal pursuit of the section 8, has Max started actually going crazy? It seems much more like his desperation uncovered a creative outlet heretofore hidden, that now gives him joy in a joyless place. Maybe it’s a little of both.

He gives us joy, as well. Klinger is MASH’s broadest comedic device, a good-natured clown who beams brightness into mess tent grumbling and O.R. tension. It’s not just the clothes, it’s also Farr’s great wellspring of energy, his big smile and vivacious delivery. Even when he’s in the worst moods, taking swings at Zale or preparing to self-immolate, we can scarcely take Klinger seriously—and as long as the discharge is on its way, he is perfectly fine with that.

In later seasons of the show, we see a change come over Klinger, as the dresses reach the limits of their comic potential (by some accounts Farr also requested they be used less, to stop his kids being made fun of at school). He inherits the job of company clerk, where his skills as a wheeler-dealer come into play. He’s dumped by his stateside wife, Laverne, later marrying a Korean girl named Soon-Lee. And he emerges as Korea’s number one Toledo Mud Hens fan—a nod to Jamie Farr’s own Toledo pride. Indeed, as the series progresses Klinger seems to share more and more with Farr; they’re both tough Lebanese boys from the wrong side of the tracks, who have made good with hard work and a sunny disposition.

But back to his most enduring legacy, the drag. Here in the 21st century, many fans see Max as slyly representative of trans people and/or nonbinary people—his creators in the ‘70s probably had no idea how important he might become. Even if he is just a man in a dress flying his hang-glider in the face of convention, his presence is important: at no point is he ever the victim of a hate crime, nor is it even suggested that he might be. In fact, the only person consistently bothered by Klinger’s drag is Frank Burns, the villain. The rest of the camp (OK, except for Zale) come to adore Klinger, neither in spite of nor because of the dresses. Not that the styles aren’t beautiful, they love him instead for his resourcefulness, his can-do spirit, and his ability to make them laugh. Acceptance comes easily, in the knowledge that MASH just wouldn’t be MASH without him.

Here we have two buffoons-- one over-gullible, the other over-knowledgeable. Before the finale sees him suffer the loss of his musician friends, Major Winchester finds time for some bittersweet moments; he defends a soldier with a speech impediment (his sister also has one), and spurns a lover for being too bohemian. In both cases, Charles acts on behalf of his family, a responsibility which he really is inextricable from, for better or worse.

It is Maxwell Q. Klinger, devoid though he is of wealth and position, who emerges from the rubble happy. Where Charles has had to reject love, Klinger opens his heart to it when he helps Soon-Lee in her quest to find her parents. The young woman will soon become his bride, which means the guy who spent a decade trying to get out of Korea will now stay here as long as it takes. The irony is thick, while not exactly comedic.

"Goodbye, Farewell and Amen” changes every character, just when we thought no more changes could be borne--it makes Klinger full-hearted and Charles heartbroken. Up until then, both continue to function as excellent comic relief. Between the average Joe and the blue-blood, there’s ample laugh material. Klinger even gets to put his favorite black dress in the time capsule for posterity. Meanwhile Chuck, oh-so-dignified, is not above passing out in his commanding officer’s bed.

The filthy MASH is no place for him, he claims. From his bald pate all the way down to his toenails, a distance of 6’4”, Major Winchester is a gentleman. If he did a little more to pitch in in between squawking that he doesn’t belong here, his colleagues might believe him—but his entitlement proves he’s just as flawed as the rest of them. And so, showing himself to be the right amount of strange, he fits in just fine.

The 4077th has long been a playground for big egos, all jockeying for position. That’s part of what makes it so much fun. By the time we greet Charles in season 6, we have a commanding officer with almost as much bravado as our chief surgeon, plus a head nurse who’s often full enough of herself to put them both to shame. But Chuck’s is a new kind of egotism: one born almost exclusively of wealth, position, and high-up connections. In a word, snobbery.

Everyone should hate a snob, in or out of the Army. One complication is evident here straight away, however—Chuckles has every reason to brag. Top of his Harvard class and a thoracic surgeon at Mass General, not to mention a whiz at the stock market (most of the time), he is no fool, and never suffers fools gladly. We may not be crazy about his uncooperative attitude, but there’s something about his brand of arrogance that’s altogether charming. He huffs and puffs his displeasure, or else projects a silky calm. Dare I say it? We like him.

In a show jam-packed with memorable characters, the great David Ogden Stiers created one of the most memorable. He brings devastating quips and pearl-clutching offense in a manner that trains all eyes onto him—this big-bellied, imposing figure with a clever gleam and a peaches-and-cream complexion, a monk’s halo of auburn hair. And add to it all That Voice… well. Stiers, born in the Midwest and raised in Oregon, invented Charles’s Boston accent for the series, putting an exciting finishing touch on the disgruntled Brahmin. After MASH concluded, he had his biggest career success as a voice actor, an easy move to understand. To my mind, though, this role alone makes him one of the best character actors of all time.

As Charles’s six seasons on the show go by, he becomes increasingly vulnerable. It’s delighted us from the beginning to see him crack, when he gets exhausted by the meatball surgery he disdained, for instance, or has a greedy money-making scheme thwarted by his Swampmates. But this trope of de-pantsing the stuck-up dandy is finally not enough. It is in the later seasons that we see him puzzle over the mystery of death, nurture a wounded soldier’s musical talent—even confess to Hawkeye a lack of love between him and his father, which a Winchester would probably never do outside of war. These moments teach us much about who he is, and who he’s always been.

And there is the whole story. Charles is a snob through and through, surely—no one can take that away from him. But, after some of his most difficult trials, we learn that he’s so much more.