Robert Clary leans back in the velvet chair, the studio lights reflecting off his glasses. He looks smaller now, but that spark—the one that made Louis LeBeau the soul of the barracks—is still very much alive in his eyes. He’s talking to a podcast host about the “old days” on Stage 5, and the conversation naturally drifts toward the men in the grey uniforms. Specifically, he’s talking about Werner Klemperer.
People always ask him if it was tense on set, given the subject matter. He laughs at the idea. He explains that Werner was the son of a legendary conductor, a man of immense dignity and musical brilliance. When Werner put on that monocle, he became Colonel Klink, but the transition was always a bit of a tightrope walk. Werner was a perfectionist, and he took the “buffoonery” of Klink very seriously.
The interviewer asks if Werner ever truly lost his cool. Clary smiles, a mischievous grin that belongs to a much younger man. He recalls a specific Friday afternoon. The air conditioning in the studio was struggling. Everyone was exhausted. They were filming a scene where Klink was supposed to be at his most intimidating, inspecting a pot of “stew” LeBeau had prepared.
The script called for Klink to lean in, sniff the air with disdain, and deliver a blistering line about prisoner rations. Werner was in the zone. He had spent the morning complaining about the lighting, wanting everything to be just right for this dramatic close-up. He adjusted his uniform, snapped his heels together, and leaned over the steaming prop pot with a look of pure, aristocratic disgust.
He took a deep breath, ready to scream at the prisoners.
And that’s when it happened.
The monocle didn’t just fall. It didn’t just slip down his cheek like a bead of sweat. It performed a graceful, satirical arc, caught the light for a split second, and landed with a distinct, wet “plop” right in the center of the prop soup.
For a heartbeat, the entire set went silent. It was one of those moments where time seems to stretch. Werner stood there, bent over the pot, one eye suddenly wide and naked, staring down at his own reflection in the greasy water where his dignity was currently sinking.
Now, you have to understand John Banner—our beloved Schultz. John was a man of significant carriage, and when he laughed, it didn’t start in his throat. It started in his ankles. I was standing right next to him, and I felt the floorboards begin to vibrate. It was like a low-magnitude earthquake. John was trying so hard to stay in character, to remain the “big, scary” guard, but his stomach was dancing a jig under his overcoat.
Werner, bless his heart, tried to save the take. He was so committed to the Prussian discipline that he actually reached into the hot, murky prop water with his gloved hand to fish it out. He wanted to keep the scene going. He pulled the monocle out, dripping with what looked like brown dishwater and fake carrots, and he actually tried to wipe it on his pristine uniform.
That was the breaking point for Richard Dawson.
Richard let out a sound that wasn’t even a laugh—it was a high-pitched wheeze, like a teakettle reaching a boil. Once Richard went, the dam broke. I doubled over, clutching my apron. Even the cameraman let go of the handles to cover his face.
But the best part was the director. We were working with a very professional crew who usually hated wasting film. But even the director was leaning against a flat, shaking his head. He didn’t even yell “cut.” He just walked away from the monitor and sat down on a crate, waving a hand as if to say, “I give up.”
Werner finally looked up, the monocle held between two greasy fingers, and he started to chuckle. It wasn’t the Klink laugh; it was Werner’s real laugh—deep, musical, and genuinely embarrassed. He looked at us and said, in that perfect accent, “Well, I suppose the Colonel has lost his focus, hasn’t he?”
The prop master had to come out and literally de-grease the monocle with soap and a specialized cloth. It took twenty minutes just to get the equipment clean, but the cast? We were gone. Every time Werner tried to put the monocle back in for the next three takes, someone would make a “bloop” sound with their mouth.
John Banner was the worst. Every time he looked at Werner, he’d start that belly-shake again, and the medals on his chest would jingle like Christmas bells. We had to shut down production for nearly an hour because we couldn’t look at Werner’s face without seeing that monocle diving into the stew.
It became a legendary bit of lore on the set. From that day on, whenever Werner would get a little too “serious” or a little too focused on the technicalities of a scene, one of us—usually Richard or Bob Crane—would lean over and whisper, “How’s the soup, Colonel?”
Werner would immediately break into a smile. It was the great equalizer. It reminded us that despite the uniforms we wore and the heavy history we were satirizing, we were just a bunch of actors in a hot studio, trying to make each other laugh.
That was the magic of that set. We were playing enemies, but we were a family that couldn’t even keep a straight face through a bowl of fake soup. Werner never lived it down, and honestly, I don’t think he wanted to. It was the moment he became one of the boys.
It’s funny how a tiny piece of glass falling into a pot can hold a whole production together for six years.
Do you have a favorite “Schultz” or “Klink” moment that still makes you laugh today?
