They hadn’t worn these uniforms in 43 years.
Most of them barely fit anymore.
But that morning…
They put them on anyway.
For him.
January 28, 2026.
7:00 a.m.

Three elderly men stood quietly in Jamie Farr’s living room.
Buttons were stubborn.
Zippers refused to cooperate.
Memories came rushing back faster than their hands could move.
They laughed.
They sighed.
They kept going.

“I can’t believe I still have this,” Mike Farrell said softly.
He held up his B.J. Hunnicutt uniform — faded olive green, the captain’s bars still sewn on, the name tag yellowed but unmistakable:
HUNNICUTT.
“I can’t believe it still fits,” Gary Burghoff said.
Radar’s uniform looked almost exactly the same.
The corporal stripes.

The oversized helmet.
The glasses he didn’t need anymore — but wore anyway.
“Radar was always small,” Gary shrugged. “So am I.”
Jamie Farr looked down at himself and shook his head.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this… in a dress.”
Klinger’s red dress.
The pearls.
The heels he could barely stand in now.
Ninety-one years old.

In a dress.
For Alan.
“Are we crazy?” Mike asked.
“Absolutely,” Gary said.
“Is Alan going to cry?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” Jamie smiled. “That’s the point.”
The idea had come to Jamie weeks earlier.
What do you give a man turning 90?

A man who’s won everything.
A man whose memory is slipping away.
Then it hit him.
You don’t give him a thing.
You give him a memory.
Jamie called Mike first.
“Do you still have your uniform?”
A long pause.
“…Why?”

“Because we’re wearing them to Alan’s birthday.”
Silence.
“Mike?”
“I’m here,” Mike said. “I’m just… crying a little.”
“Save it for the party.”
Gary didn’t hesitate.
“I’m in.”
“I haven’t told you what it is yet.”
“Doesn’t matter. If it’s for Alan, I’m in.”

When Jamie explained, Gary paused — then said quietly:
“I’m going to find my helmet.”
They prepared for weeks.
Mike had his uniform altered — it hung loose on his 86-year-old frame.
Gary’s fit perfectly.
Jamie’s dress needed repairs; moths had gotten to it.
“You’re really going to wear this?” his wife asked.
“I wore it for eleven years,” Jamie said. “I can wear it one more time.”
January 28, 2026.
10:00 a.m.

They arrived at Alan Alda’s house.
In costume.
Three old soldiers.
Reporting for duty.
One last time.
Arlene opened the door.
She saw them.
And burst into tears.
“Oh my God…”

“Is he awake?” Jamie asked.
“He’s in the living room,” she whispered. “He doesn’t know you’re coming.”
“Good,” Jamie smiled. “We want to surprise him.”
Alan was sitting in his wheelchair, staring out the window.
Lost in thought.
Lost in memories he could barely hold onto.
“Attention!”
Gary’s voice snapped — sharp, military.
Alan turned.

And froze.
Three men stood before him.
In uniform.
Radar O’Reilly.
B.J. Hunnicutt.
Maxwell Klinger.
1983
Standing in his living room.
In 2026.

Alan gasped.
Then sobbed.
A sound pulled from somewhere deep inside — a place memory hadn’t touched.
“Corporal O’Reilly reporting for duty, sir.”
Gary saluted.
“Captain Hunnicutt reporting for duty, sir.”
Mike saluted.
“Corporal Klinger reporting for duty, sir,” Jamie curtsied.
“And yes — I know I’m technically out of uniform.”
Alan couldn’t speak.

He reached out — hands trembling from Parkinson’s — and touched Gary’s sleeve.
“Radar…” he whispered.
“You’re really here.”
“Always, Hawkeye.”
He touched Mike’s captain bars.
“You kept it…”
“It’s the most important thing I own,” Mike said.
More important than awards.
More important than anything.
Then Alan touched the red dress.
“Klinger…”
“I’ve been wearing dresses for you since 1972,” Jamie said.
“You think I’m stopping now?”
Alan laughed through tears.

“I thought I’d lost this,” Alan whispered.
“My family.”
“You haven’t lost us,” Mike said, kneeling to eye level.
“We’re right here.”
“What if I forget you?” Alan asked softly.
“What if I forget everything?”
Jamie knelt beside him, pearls swaying.
“Then we’ll remember for you.”
“Memory isn’t just in your head,” Mike added.

“It’s in your heart.”
“And Radar always knows what you need,” Gary smiled.
“I’ll come. In this uniform. And you’ll feel it.”
Alan looked at them.
Ridiculous.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
“I love you,” he said.
“You’re my brothers.”
They hugged him.

Radar.
B.J.
Klinger.
Holding Hawkeye.
One last formation.
That night, Alan asked for one more thing.
His camera.
They found his uniform in the closet.
Unworn since 1983.

Still waiting.
They helped him into it.
Carefully.
And there they were.
The 4077th.
Together again.
“Say ‘MAS*H’!” Arlene called.
“MAS*H!”
The flash went off.

For one frozen moment…
It was 1983 again.
Alan looked at the photo.
“Same family,” he said softly.
“Same love.”
“Forever.”
Because some families don’t end.
They just age.
And sometimes…
They show up in uniform.