The studio lights were always a bit too hot for a man of my stature, even years after we stopped filming in those dusty barracks. I was sitting across from a very young, very eager talk show host in the mid-seventies, and he was doing that thing where he tried to act like he knew what it was like on a television set. He reached under his desk and pulled out this heavy, weathered leather belt—the one with the massive buckle and the loops for the rifle cartridges. He handed it to me, and the moment the weight hit my palms, I wasn’t in a television studio anymore. I was back in 1967, standing on a soundstage that was essentially held together by hope and very thin plywood.

I remember looking at that belt and laughing because people always thought the uniform was just a costume. To me, that gear was a hazard. Being Sergeant Schultz meant carrying around thirty pounds of German military history while trying to navigate a set that was built for people half my size. We were filming an episode where the Commandant was particularly on edge, and the script called for me to come charging through the door of Barracks 2 with real authority. I was supposed to be looking for a hidden tunnel or a radio—the usual Hogan business—and the director kept telling me I needed more energy.

He wanted Schultz to be a force of nature in this scene. He wanted the prisoners to actually look startled. I remember standing outside the door, adjusting my helmet, and feeling that heavy belt dig into my waist. I wanted to give them exactly what they asked for. I wanted to show them that John Banner could be fast when he needed to be. I took a deep breath, puffed out my chest until the buttons on my tunic were screaming for mercy, and waited for the cue.

I heard the assistant director yell for quiet, the cameras started rolling, and I prepared to make the most intimidating entrance of my career.

The “Action!” came like a gunshot, and I didn’t just walk. I lunged. I threw my entire weight forward, intending to burst through those double doors like a human wrecking ball. What I had forgotten in my quest for theatrical intensity was the sheer length of the Mauser rifle slung over my shoulder and the way my heavy belt protruded from my midsection. As I hit the threshold, the barrel of the rifle caught the edge of the doorframe at the exact same moment my oversized belt buckle snagged on the latch.

For a split second, physics took over. I didn’t go through the door; I became part of the door. But the momentum of a man my size isn’t easily stopped by 1960s set construction. There was this terrifying, slow-motion sound of splintering wood—a long, agonizing craaaaaack that seemed to echo through the entire studio. Instead of me stumbling into the room, the entire front wall of the barracks decided to come with me.

I landed flat on my face in the middle of the floor, buried under a mountain of balsa wood, fake shingles, and a very confused “Prisoner of War” sign. The dust hadn’t even settled before I heard the first snort of laughter. It started with Bob Crane. He was standing near the stove, and he just looked down at the pile of rubble where a wall used to be, then looked at the gaping hole leading to the California sunshine outside the soundstage.

He didn’t miss a beat. He looked at the director and said, “Gee, John, I knew you wanted to find the tunnel, but I didn’t think you’d try to flatten the whole camp to do it.”

Richard Dawson was leaning against a bunk, clutching his stomach. He looked at the camera and shouted, “Does this mean we get the afternoon off, or is Schultz going to breathe the rest of the set down too?”

I was pinned. I couldn’t move because the rifle was wedged under a support beam and my belt was still hooked onto the remains of the doorframe. I just lay there, looking up through the debris at the ceiling lights. The director, who had been screaming for “energy” only moments before, walked over and stared at the carnage. He didn’t even say “Cut.” He just put his face in his hands and started shaking.

“John,” he whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I said ‘authority,’ not ‘demolition.'”

I finally managed to peek my head out from under a piece of the roof. I looked at the cast, who were now literally rolling on the floor, and I did the only thing I could do. I put on that famous Schultz look of bewildered innocence, threw my hands up as much as the rubble would allow, and yelled, “I see nothing! I hear nothing! I KNOW NOTHING!”

The set erupted. The crew members, who usually stayed professional to keep us on schedule, were doubled over their equipment. One of the lighting guys actually fell off his ladder because he was laughing so hard. It took them nearly forty-five minutes to dig me out and another three hours to reconstruct the wall well enough to keep shooting. Every time they tried to hammer a nail into the new frame, Larry Hovis or Robert Clary would make a “timber” sound, and we’d all lose it again.

It cost the production a fortune in lost time and materials, but that was the magic of that set. We were playing in a world of tragedy, wearing uniforms that represented a dark time, yet we found this incredible, clumsy joy in each other’s company. I remember Gene Reynolds, the producer, coming down to see why production had ground to a halt. He looked at the shattered remains of the barracks, looked at me covered in sawdust, and just patted me on the shoulder. He told me that if I ever got tired of acting, I had a bright future in wrecking balls.

Whenever people ask me if we actually liked each other, I tell them that story. You can’t fake the kind of laughter that comes from watching a grown man accidentally destroy a building. That belt I held in the interview years later? It wasn’t just a prop. It was a reminder that even when things are falling apart—literally—it’s the people standing in the rubble with you that make it worth it. We spent half our lives trying to keep the walls up, but some of our best memories happened when they came crashing down.

It’s funny how the loudest mistakes often turn into the quietest, fondest memories, isn’t it?

What is a “disaster” in your life that you now look back on and laugh about?