The interviewer leans in, the studio lights reflecting off his glasses. He looks at Richard Dawson, who is sitting there with that classic, mischievous glint in his eye that millions of people came to love during his years on game shows.

Richard lets out a soft chuckle, adjusting his jacket and leaning back into the leather chair.

Oh, John Banner, he says, his voice dropping into that warm, nostalgic register. To know John was to love him. But to know John was also to know that he was the easiest target for a prank in the history of Hollywood. He was a beautiful man, a serious actor from the old country, but he had the funny bone of a five-year-old.

Richard shifts in his seat, a smile spreading across his face as the memory starts to take shape.

I remember one afternoon on Stage 40. We were deep into the third season, and the routine had become a bit of a grind. You know how it is. You are in the same wool uniform, in the same barracks, for the hundredth time. We were filming a scene where Schultz was supposed to burst in, suspicious as ever, and find us hiding something in the stove.

The audience in the studio chuckles, anticipating the setup.

Now, usually, it was just a prop—a coffee pot or some stolen bratwurst. But that morning, Bob Crane and I had been feeling particularly wicked. We had been watching John all day, and he was already on the verge of the giggles because Larry Hovis had made a face during rehearsal.

Richard leans forward, his voice becoming a conspiratorial whisper.

The director, Gene Reynolds, was shouting about the lighting. The crew was tired. We needed this take to be the one. And I looked over at Bob, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing.

I had something hidden in my sleeve that I had swiped from the wardrobe department earlier that morning.

I whispered to Bob, watch this.

Gene yells Action! and the barracks door flies open. John comes charging in, his stomach leading the way, doing that wonderful, blustering Schultz trot. He is shouting about how he knows we are up to something, and he marches straight for the stove. He grabs the handle, flings the door open, and prepares to deliver his big line of discovery.

Richard starts laughing just thinking about it.

But instead of the prop coffee pot, he finds my secret weapon. I had taken one of the small, hand-held mirrors from the makeup trailer and taped it to the back of the stove, along with a pair of those huge, oversized plastic glasses with a fake nose and mustache that I had managed to sneak in there during the lighting reset.

John looks into the stove, and instead of contraband, he sees his own reflection wearing a Groucho Marx disguise.

Richard mimes the moment, leaning back in his chair as the imaginary audience roars.

The poor man did not even have time to gasp. He just froze. His mouth went wide, his eyes went dinner-plate big, and he let out this sound—it was not a laugh, it was a high-pitched wheeze, like a teakettle reaching a boil. He tried to say his line, What is this? What is this? but it came out as a strangled squeak.

He looked at me, his face turning a shade of purple I did not think was biologically possible. And then he just collapsed. Not on the floor, but he leaned his forehead against the prop stove and just started shaking. The stove was wobbling, the pots and pans on top were rattling, and the entire set was vibrating because John Banner was having a total systemic breakdown.

Gene Reynolds, God bless him, starts screaming from behind the monitors. John! What are you doing? Keep the scene going! because from the back, it just looked like Schultz was leaning in to inspect the soot. Gene did not see the mirror. He did not see the mustache. He just saw his lead guest star vibrating against a piece of furniture.

Finally, John turns around. He has got tears streaming down his face. He is literally crying. He points into the stove, tries to speak, and then just falls into one of the bunks, clutching his chest. At this point, Bob Crane is on the floor. Larry Hovis is biting his lip so hard it is bleeding. I am just standing there with my hands behind my back, trying to look like a disciplined British corporal, while inside, I am dying.

Gene storms onto the set, ready to tear us all a new one for wasting film. He is red in the face, stomping across the boards. He reaches the stove, looks inside, sees the Groucho Marx reflection of himself, and he just stops. He stands there for three seconds in total silence.

And then the director breaks. He starts howling. He is laughing so hard he has to grab onto the bunk bed next to John. Now the cameramen are laughing. The lighting guys are doubled over in the rafters. The entire production of Hogan’s Heroes has ground to a complete, hysterical halt because of a five-dollar prank and a makeup mirror.

We could not film for twenty minutes. Every time we tried to reset, John would look at the stove, catch my eye, and start that teakettle wheeze all over again. Eventually, we had to remove the mirror, but the damage was done. For the rest of the day, any time any of us said the word inspection, John would just lose it. He never stood a chance.

That was the magic of that set, really. We were making a show about a POW camp, which sounds grim on paper, but we were a family. And like any family, we spent most of our time trying to make each other lose our minds. John was the heart of it. He was a man who had seen some very dark things in his real life, fleeing the Nazis in the thirties, yet he had this incredible capacity for joy.

Looking back, I think we pulled those pranks because we wanted to hear that laugh. It was the best sound on the lot. It reminded us that even in the middle of a long workday, under hot lights, wearing itchy uniforms, we were just a bunch of friends having the time of our lives.

Richard smiles, a bit of moisture in his eyes now, the humor softening into a quiet, beautiful memory of a friend long gone.

I would give anything to hear that teakettle wheeze one more time.

It is a strange thing, how a moment of pure silliness can stay with you longer than the actual work you were paid to do.

What is the one TV show that always makes you feel like you are part of the family?