The classic CBS sitcom “M*A*S*H” earned a reputation early on for not shying away from the harsh realities of war. In most cases, the series’ skillful writers, led by Larry Gelbart, gracefully integrated these jarring moments into the show’s laugh-heavy fabric. But when Gelbart and company killed off the well-liked Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake (McLean Stevenson) at the end of the third season’s finale, they received a raft of outraged responses from the network and television viewers.
Sitcoms weren’t supposed to go this hard. At their best, they were 30-minute joy machines that allowed working people an escape from the drudgeries of the day. “M*A*S*H” was one of the most reliable shows in this regard when the finale aired on March 18, 1975. Most viewers knew Stevenson was leaving the show, but they were probably expecting a wistfully fond farewell. And while certain journalists, like Gary Deeb of the Chicago Tribune, had reported on Blake’s death prior to the broadcast, most people weren’t in the habit of reading television columns. And, of course, there was no internet.
So when this episode, titled “Abyssinia, Henry,” aired, it absolutely floored viewers.
It spun in. There were no survivors.
Most of the episode played to the series’ good-natured form. It begins with Radar O’Reilly (Gary Burghoff) informing Blake that he’s been granted an honorable discharge. He’s going home to Bloomington, Illinois. There’s a raucous, booze-fueled going-away party at Rosie’s Bar and Grill, and a couple of lovely scenes between Radar and Blake where the former expresses happiness and a tinge of sorrow at the departure of a man he’d come to view as a surrogate father. Blake leaves in a helicopter, and all that’s left is the episode’s denouement, which, like most sitcoms, always ended on a laugh line.
Not this time.
Radar staggers into the operating room without a mask, which draws a reprimand from Alan Alda’s Hawkeye Pierce. Radar’s face is tear-streaked. He can barely get the words out. But he does, and anyone who’s a fan of the show can quote them verbatim: “I have a message. Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake’s plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan. It spun in. There were no survivors.”
The camera pans across the room. Everyone is masked, so you have to read their eyes. Loretta Swit’s Houlihan’s are pinched with grief. The camera ultimately comes to rest on Hawkeye, who is in the middle of piecing a wounded soldier back together. He can’t halt his work, but he does manage two glances off to the curtain behind which Radar has disappeared. He’s used to watching people die, but for Blake to perish on his ride home hits him hard. And we fade to black as he continues to hack and sew away.
You can’t have gallows humor without the gallows
M*A*S*H’s Unexpected Season 3 Death Received A Complaint From An Unhappy Parent
CBS
BY JEREMY SMITH/SEPT. 19, 2023 11:45 PM EST
The classic CBS sitcom “M*A*S*H” earned a reputation early on for not shying away from the harsh realities of war. In most cases, the series’ skillful writers, led by Larry Gelbart, gracefully integrated these jarring moments into the show’s laugh-heavy fabric. But when Gelbart and company killed off the well-liked Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake (McLean Stevenson) at the end of the third season’s finale, they received a raft of outraged responses from the network and television viewers.
Sitcoms weren’t supposed to go this hard. At their best, they were 30-minute joy machines that allowed working people an escape from the drudgeries of the day. “M*A*S*H” was one of the most reliable shows in this regard when the finale aired on March 18, 1975. Most viewers knew Stevenson was leaving the show, but they were probably expecting a wistfully fond farewell. And while certain journalists, like Gary Deeb of the Chicago Tribune, had reported on Blake’s death prior to the broadcast, most people weren’t in the habit of reading television columns. And, of course, there was no internet.
So when this episode, titled “Abyssinia, Henry,” aired, it absolutely floored viewers.
It spun in. There were no survivors.
Most of the episode played to the series’ good-natured form. It begins with Radar O’Reilly (Gary Burghoff) informing Blake that he’s been granted an honorable discharge. He’s going home to Bloomington, Illinois. There’s a raucous, booze-fueled going-away party at Rosie’s Bar and Grill, and a couple of lovely scenes between Radar and Blake where the former expresses happiness and a tinge of sorrow at the departure of a man he’d come to view as a surrogate father. Blake leaves in a helicopter, and all that’s left is the episode’s denouement, which, like most sitcoms, always ended on a laugh line.
Not this time.
Radar staggers into the operating room without a mask, which draws a reprimand from Alan Alda’s Hawkeye Pierce. Radar’s face is tear-streaked. He can barely get the words out. But he does, and anyone who’s a fan of the show can quote them verbatim: “I have a message. Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake’s plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan. It spun in. There were no survivors.”
The camera pans across the room. Everyone is masked, so you have to read their eyes. Loretta Swit’s Houlihan’s are pinched with grief. The camera ultimately comes to rest on Hawkeye, who is in the middle of piecing a wounded soldier back together. He can’t halt his work, but he does manage two glances off to the curtain behind which Radar has disappeared. He’s used to watching people die, but for Blake to perish on his ride home hits him hard. And we fade to black as he continues to hack and sew away.
You can’t have gallows humor without the gallows
In a 2022 interview with The New York Times, Alda recalled how it felt to shoot this moment:
“Gelbart showed me the scene I think [it was] the morning of the shoot. I knew, but nobody else knew. He wanted to get everybody’s first-time reactions. And it really affected Gary Burghoff on camera. I think everybody was grateful for the shock.”
As for the audience, not so much. The network, which was unhappy with the episode (they actually cut the final scene from the summer rerun), was flooded with irate letters and phone calls. Alda received his share of correspondences as well. As he told the Times:
“I had a letter from a man who complained that he had to console his 10-year-old son who was sobbing. But it was one of the ways for the adults in the audience to realize that another aspect of war is that things happen that you don’t expect.”
Viewers might’ve been angry in the moment, but “Abyssinia, Henry” is now considered one of the best sitcom episodes of all time. War is cruel, and Gelbart would’ve been doing the subject and his characters a grave disservice if he failed to acknowledge this.
