The studio lights were a bit softer than the ones he had lived under for years on the set of Family Feud, but Richard Dawson still had that same spark in his eye. He sat back in the leather chair, smoothing out the front of his vest, looking every bit the elder statesman of Hollywood. The interviewer reached under the desk and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box. With a flick of his wrist, he produced a single, circular piece of glass attached to a thin black cord.

Richard froze for a second, then a wide, mischievous grin spread across his face. He pointed a finger at the prop and started to chuckle, a deep sound that rumbled in his chest. He told the host that just looking at that little piece of glass brought back the smell of cigar smoke and the sound of heavy boots on the Desilu soundstage. He explained that people often misunderstood the dynamic on the set of Hogan’s Heroes. They thought because it was a show about a prisoner of war camp, the atmosphere must have been disciplined or perhaps a bit somber.

In reality, Richard said, it was more like a high school locker room where everyone had a paycheck and a costume. He spoke specifically about Werner Klemperer, the man who played Colonel Klink. Richard described Werner as a brilliant, classically trained musician and a serious actor who had a very specific rule for the show: Klink could never, ever win. Because Werner was so dedicated to the craft of being the “perfect loser,” he took his preparation very seriously. He would arrive on set, snap into that rigid Prussian posture, and transform.

This professionalism made him the ultimate target. Richard recalled a particularly grueling Tuesday afternoon during the third season. The cast was exhausted, the script was being rewritten on the fly, and the tension was thick. Richard decided the set needed a “lift.” He noticed the prop master had left Klink’s uniform layout unattended near the dressing rooms. The monocle was sitting there, shining under the work lights.

Richard explained to the interviewer how he whispered to Bob Crane, who immediately gave him a wink of approval. Richard had a tiny vial of spirit gum in his pocket—a leftover from a makeup touch-up earlier that morning. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, but he had to be quick. He watched the crew hauling cables and moving the big Technicolor cameras into place for the next scene in Klink’s office.

He crept over to the table, his heart racing like a kid stealing from a candy jar. He didn’t want to break the prop; he just wanted to enhance it. He applied a microscopic, nearly invisible ring of the adhesive to the inner rim of the monocle. It was just enough to ensure that once it went in, it wasn’t coming out without a fight. He placed it back exactly where he found it and retreated to the shadows of the barracks set to watch the drama unfold.

The director called for everyone to take their marks. Werner marched onto the set, adjusted his belt, and took his seat behind the famous desk. He was ready to be the foil for Hogan’s latest scheme. The cameras started rolling, the slate snapped, and Werner reached for his signature accessory.

(begin climax)

The moment the glass touched his face, the entire trajectory of the afternoon changed. Werner snapped the monocle into his eye socket with his usual practiced flair, intending to peer suspiciously at a map Hogan had laid out on the desk. However, as he tried to adjust his expression to look stern, the spirit gum took hold.

Werner’s eyelid was suddenly fused to the rim of the glass. He tried to blink, but his eye remained frozen in a wide, startled glare. He attempted to deliver his first line—”Hogan!”—but the tension of the adhesive pulled the corner of his mouth upward, giving him a bizarre, lopsided sneer that looked more like a stroke than a military reprimand.

John Banner, standing just a few feet away as Schultz, was the first to notice. John was a man who lived to laugh, and he had absolutely no defense against a blooper. He started to make a high-pitched wheezing sound, like a tea kettle reaching a boil. His massive stomach began to vibrate under his tunic. He turned his head away, trying to look at the wall, but his entire body was shaking so violently that the medals on his chest were actually clinking together.

Bob Crane, ever the pro, tried to keep the scene going. He looked Werner right in the eye—the stuck eye—and asked, with a completely straight face, if the Colonel was feeling quite alright or if the Russian front was finally calling his name. That was the end of any shred of decorum.

Werner realized something was wrong and reached up to pop the monocle out. It didn’t budge. He pulled a little harder, and his entire eyebrow followed the glass. He let out a confused, “Ach!” and began to frantically claw at his face, but the spirit gum was high-quality stuff. He was essentially trapped in character.

The director, Gene Reynolds, was shouting “Cut! Cut!” but he was laughing so hard he could barely get the words out. He ended up doubled over behind the monitors. The camera operators had to step away from their rigs because the frames were bouncing up and down from their own laughter. It was total, beautiful anarchy.

Richard recalled sitting on a crate just outside the lights, watching his handiwork. He said the best part wasn’t the initial shock, but the ten minutes that followed. They had to bring the prop master and a makeup assistant over with a bottle of solvent. Werner had to sit there, perfectly still, while they dabbed at his face with Q-tips, all while the rest of the cast stood around him making clicking noises and offering “helpful” advice on how to remove skin without losing an eyeball.

Werner, to his eternal credit, didn’t stay angry. Once the glass was free and he realized it was a prank, he stood up, looked directly at Richard, and said in that unmistakable Klink voice, “Newkirk, I will have you in the cooler for a thousand years!” Then he broke into a massive smile and hugged the prop master.

Richard told the interviewer that they didn’t get another usable take for nearly an hour. Every time Werner looked at Bob or John, one of them would start mimicking the “stuck eye” look, and the whole set would dissolve into hysterics again. It was the kind of moment that bonded them. In a show where they spent their days pretending to be in a grim situation, those bursts of pure, ridiculous joy were what kept them sane.

He leaned back, the memory clearly lighting up his face even decades later. He noted that Werner kept that specific monocle for years, and Richard suspected he secretly loved the chaos it caused. It wasn’t just a prank; it was a reminder that even in the most structured environments, a little bit of glue and a lot of friendship can turn a workday into a legend.

That afternoon in Klink’s office became the benchmark for every other joke they played on the show. Whenever a scene felt too stiff or a day felt too long, someone would just point to their eye and wink, and the tension would evaporate instantly. It was the secret ingredient that made the show work—they were genuinely having the time of their lives, even when the cameras weren’t supposed to be catching it.

The best comedy isn’t written in a script; it’s the chaos that happens when you’re trying to be serious.

What is the funniest thing that ever happened to you while you were supposed to be being professional?