MASH legend has died aged 82!

Patrick Adiarte, a familiar face from some of television’s most iconic shows, has died at 82. His death marks the quiet closing of a career that stretched from Broadway stages to prime-time classics and left a trail of memorable performances across generations.

According to The Hollywood Reporter, Adiarte died in a Los Angeles–area hospital. His niece, Stephanie Hogan, shared that pneumonia was the cause. Even in his final moments, he remained close to the city where he had spent much of his long career building a legacy that blended acting, dancing, and music.

If you watched television in the 1970s, you likely saw him on one of two massively popular shows. His most recognizable role came as Ho-Jon on “MAS*H.” Ho-Jon was the soft-spoken Korean orphan who captured viewers’ hearts with his loyalty and gentle soul. Over seven episodes in the first season, he shared scenes with Alan Alda’s Hawkeye Pierce and Wayne Rogers’ Trapper John, often grounding the chaos of wartime medicine with quiet humanity. Even in limited screen time, he brought nuance to a character who could’ve easily been written as a prop. Instead, Adiarte gave Ho-Jon dignity, vulnerability, and life.

A year earlier, he appeared in one of the most memorable storylines in “The Brady Bunch.” In the three-part Hawaiian vacation episodes, young Bobby Brady finds a cursed tiki idol, and Adiarte shows up in the middle of that sunny, slightly absurd adventure. It became one of the most-watched arcs in the show’s history, replayed for decades and woven permanently into American pop-culture nostalgia.

But long before he showed up in millions of living rooms, Adiarte had already built a career most performers only dream about. Born in Manila on August 2, 1942, his early life was defined by survival. During World War II, he and his family were imprisoned by the Japanese. When the family attempted to flee, he was just two years old and burned by a grenade explosion. Trauma like that could derail a childhood, but his family pushed forward. They eventually relocated to New York in 1946. A decade later, the United States became home officially, when they gained citizenship after his father—who served as a captain in the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers—was killed.

In New York, a new life began, and so did his path in the performing arts. Adiarte’s talent emerged early. He landed roles in the Broadway productions of “The King and I” and “Flower Drum Song,” both landmark musicals that helped bring Asian representation—however imperfect for the era—to mainstream American theater. He wasn’t just good; he was striking. His dancing was fluid, precise, and expressive in a way that made choreographers remember him.

That success carried him into the film versions of those same Broadway hits, placing him on screen alongside Yul Brynner and other heavyweights of the time. For a young Filipino immigrant, it was an extraordinary arc: from being a wartime child survivor to performing in some of the most influential musicals of mid-century America.

Television followed. His career branched into roles on “Bonanza,” “Hawaii Five-O,” “Kojak,” “High Time,” and the comedy “John Goldfarb, Please Come Home.” He worked steadily and professionally, carving out opportunities in an industry that didn’t offer many to Asian actors in those decades.

And then, surprisingly, he pivoted again—this time into music. Adiarte joined the NBC variety show “Hullabaloo” as a dancer, a gig that highlighted his versatility. He even enjoyed a short but memorable singing career, including the pop single “Five Different Girls,” which earned him a wave of teen-magazine attention.

Eventually, after decades of performing, he moved into teaching. Dance remained in his blood, and he poured that passion into instruction, including teaching at Santa Monica College. He shared not just technique but experience—teaching a new generation what resilience looks like when paired with talent and discipline.

His personal life had its own threads of joy and loss. He married cabaret singer Loni Ackerman in 1975. The two lived the unpredictable life of performers for years before eventually divorcing in 1992. His sister, to whom he was close, passed away in 2016. In the end, he is survived by his niece and nephew.

What stands out most when looking across Adiarte’s career is how many eras he managed to touch. Broadway in the 1950s. Musicals that defined film adaptations in the early 1960s. Prime-time television’s golden age. Variety shows, pop music, crime dramas. Few performers weave in and out of so many lanes with that level of consistency.

And yet, despite decades in front of audiences, he never became one of those celebrities who lived loudly. His legacy is quieter, steadier—one built on skill, professionalism, and showing up again and again to do the work. He helped create moments people remember, sometimes without even knowing his name. He was one of those performers whose presence elevated every scene even when the spotlight wasn’t centered on him.

That kind of career matters. It matters in how it shapes the landscape for the performers who come next. It matters in how it broadens representation on stage and screen before words like “representation” became cultural priorities. And it matters in how audiences form emotional connections to characters—like Ho-Jon—who embody heart in the middle of a story built around war.

Patrick Adiarte didn’t need to be a superstar to leave a mark. He built a life that spanned continents, genres, and generations of entertainment. He survived a war, crossed an ocean, stepped onto Broadway, danced on national television, acted on some of America’s most iconic series, taught his craft, and lived quietly with the discipline of an artist who loved what he did.

Eighty-two years is a long life. His was one lived fully, complicatedly, and with an unmistakable imprint on American entertainment. His passing closes a chapter, but the work he left behind—the musicals, the shows, the characters—continues to exist exactly where he’d put them: in the memories of anyone who ever watched and felt something because of him.