The interviewer leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at the small, glass circle sitting on the table between them. It was a simple monocle, the kind of prop you might find in a dusty costume shop, but in this room, it carried the weight of television history. Werner Klemperer looked at it with a soft, weary smile, his eyes twinkling with a sharp intelligence that was always far more present than the bumbling Colonel Klink he had portrayed for six years.

He took a slow sip of water and adjusted his posture, the years having done little to dim the precision of his movements. The host asked if he ever missed the uniform, and Werner chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that felt grounded and warm. He told the host that he didn’t miss the boots or the heavy coats, but he missed the people. He missed the strange, wonderful family they had built in the middle of a simulated prisoner of war camp in the heart of California.

The conversation eventually turned to the physical comedy of the show. Werner explained that the monocle was never glued to his face; it was held there purely by the tension of his facial muscles. It became a barometer for Klink’s emotional state. If Klink was startled, the monocle fell. If he was smug, it tightened.

Werner leaned in, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone as he remembered a specific morning during the third season. They were filming a scene in Klink’s office, and the air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke from the crew. John Banner, who played the lovable Sergeant Schultz, was standing across from him.

The scene required Werner to be at his most intimidating, leaning inches away from John’s face to bark orders about a security leak. Werner had spent the morning practicing his most severe, rigid expression. He wanted to be the perfect foil for the chaos.

He was right in the middle of a high-tension delivery, his eye squeezed tight around that piece of glass.

Then he looked directly into John Banner’s eyes.

The moment John looked back at me, he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. John had this incredible ability to communicate an entire world of comedy just by shifting his weight or widening those large, puppy-dog eyes of his. As I was mid-sentence, screaming about the consequences of another prisoner escape, John did this very subtle, almost imperceptible wiggle of his ears.

It was so slight that the cameras might not have even caught it, but because I was standing three inches from his nose, it was the only thing I could see. My facial muscles, which were supposed to be locked in a grimace of Prussian authority, simply gave up. The monocle didn’t just fall; it launched itself off my face like a tiny glass projectile.

It flew through the air, bounced off the brass buttons on John’s coat, and landed with a perfect, metallic ‘clink’ right inside his open pocket. There was a heartbeat of absolute silence on the set. I stood there, one eye squinting at nothing, my mouth still open from the sentence I hadn’t finished.

John didn’t break character immediately. He looked down at his pocket, looked back at me, and then reached in with two fingers, pulled the monocle out, and held it up to his own eye as if he were trying to see the world through my perspective. He whispered, very softly, ‘I see something, Colonel.’

That was the end of it. I erupted. It wasn’t just a chuckle; it was one of those deep, soul-shaking laughs that makes your stomach ache. Once I started, John started. He had that infectious, belly-shaking laugh that sounded like a joyful Santa Claus.

The crew, who had been waiting for the director to yell ‘cut,’ realized the take was ruined and joined in. We were all standing there in those ridiculous costumes, on a set designed to look like a place of misery, and we were absolutely hysterical.

The director, Gene Reynolds, was usually quite focused, but even he was leaning against his chair with his head in his hands, laughing at the sheer absurdity of the monocle’s trajectory. We tried to reset the scene four different times. Each time I would get close to John’s face, I would think about his ears wiggling, or I would see that little bit of glass sitting in his pocket, and I would lose it all over again.

John would just stand there with that innocent, ‘I know nothing’ expression, which only made it worse. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was a master of the silent break. We eventually had to take a fifteen-minute break just so I could compose myself.

I remember walking outside the soundstage to get some fresh air, still wearing the grey uniform, and seeing the other guys—Robert Clary and Richard Dawson—leaning against a prop truck. They asked me what was so funny, and I couldn’t even explain it. How do you explain the comedic timing of a falling piece of glass?

That was the magic of that set. We were playing out these roles that, on paper, should have been very stiff, but there was so much love and genuine humor between us that we couldn’t help but break. John and I had a shorthand. We knew how to push each other’s buttons.

Whenever people ask me if it was hard to play a character like Klink, I tell them the hardest part wasn’t the lines or the accent. The hardest part was staying serious when John Banner was in the room. He was the heart of that show, and he knew that my dignity as Klink was a very fragile thing held together by a single piece of glass.

I look at this monocle now and I don’t see a villain’s accessory. I see a tool of the trade that failed me at the most hilarious possible moment because my friend wanted to see me smile. We spent years in those barracks, and while the world saw a show about war, we were busy making each other cry with laughter.

That little piece of glass eventually went back in my eye, the cameras rolled again, and we finished the scene, but I don’t think I ever looked at John the same way for the rest of the day. Every time he looked at me, I could feel my eye muscle twitching, just waiting for the next launch.

It is a wonderful thing to look back at a long career and realize that the moments you remember most aren’t the awards or the big speeches, but the times you completely lost control of your own face because someone you cared about was being a bit of a clown.

Do you have a friend who can make you laugh just by looking at you?