The studio was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional clink of a coffee mug. Werner Klemperer sat back in the leather chair, his posture still remarkably straight for a man of his years. He wasn’t wearing the monocle, of course, but the sharp, intelligent glint in his eyes was exactly the same as it had been forty years prior on the set of Stalag 13.

The podcast host, a young man who had grown up watching reruns, leaned toward the microphone. He mentioned a specific fan question about the “unseen” moments between Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz. He brought up a legendary rumor about a particular blooper that supposedly left the entire crew unable to work for the rest of the afternoon.

Werner chuckled, a dry, melodic sound that filled the room. He rubbed his chin, his mind clearly drifting back to the hot, dusty soundstages of Paramount. He began to talk about the physical requirements of playing Klink. He explained that the character was built on tension—the stiff neck, the high-pitched bark, and that precarious monocle.

He described the dynamic with John Banner, who played Schultz. John was a man of immense warmth and, as Werner noted with a smirk, an immense appetite. They were the best of friends off-camera, often sharing quiet moments in their trailers discussing music or history. But on camera, Werner had to maintain the persona of the frustrated Prussian commandant dealing with a bumbling subordinate.

The host asked if there was ever a time that the professional mask slipped. Werner nodded slowly, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. He recalled a specific episode where Klink was under immense pressure from the Gestapo. The scene required Klink to be at his most volatile and paranoid.

He was supposed to be conducting a surprise inspection of the barracks, convinced that Hogan was hiding a radio. The script called for Klink to be terrifyingly serious. Werner had spent the morning getting into that mindset of “furious incompetence.”

He walked the host through the setup of the shot. The cameras were rolling, the lighting was perfect, and the supporting cast was perfectly in place. He had his riding crop in hand, and he was ready to deliver a scathing lecture to Schultz about the lack of discipline in the camp.

He remembered reaching the climax of his dialogue, leaning in so close to John Banner that their noses were almost touching. He was about to demand that Schultz turn out his pockets to prove he wasn’t carrying contraband.

The tension on the set was palpable because the director had asked for a long, continuous take.

Werner drew a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and reached into Schultz’s heavy overcoat pocket with a dramatic flourish.

Instead of pulling out a hidden map or a piece of Hogan’s radio equipment, my hand closed around something soft, slightly warm, and wrapped in greasy wax paper.

I didn’t stop. I was so committed to the Prussian rigidity of the scene that I yanked the object out and held it directly in front of John’s face, screaming about the “evidence of his treachery” before I even looked at what I was holding.

It was a massive, half-eaten liverwurst sandwich on thick pumpernickel bread.

The silence that followed lasted maybe two seconds, but it felt like a lifetime. John Banner’s eyes went wide—not with the scripted fear of Schultz, but with the genuine, panicked realization of a man who had been caught hiding his lunch in his costume. He looked at the sandwich, then at me, then back at the sandwich.

His lower lip began to tremble. It wasn’t the “I hear nothing” tremble. It was the “I am about to explode with laughter” tremble.

I was still holding the sandwich inches from his nose. I tried to save it. I really did. I tried to pivot the dialogue, to scream that this was “the fuel of a lazy soldier,” but the smell of the onions hit me. I looked at the bite mark John had taken out of the corner, and I felt the monocle start to pop out of my eye.

John was the first to go. He let out a sound like a steam engine losing pressure—a high-pitched “hoo-hoo-hoo” that shook his entire frame.

That was the end of it. The director, Gene Reynolds, tried to yell “Cut!” but he was already doubled over behind the monitor.

The crew, who had been holding their breath for the long take, just disintegrated. You have to understand, these were professionals, men who had worked on the biggest sets in Hollywood, but seeing a Nazi colonel interrogation derailed by a deli sandwich was more than they could handle.

Bob Crane came running over from the other side of the barracks, saw me standing there with the liverwurst, and immediately started improvising a bit about how the sandwich was actually a secret German weapon designed to clog the arteries of the Allied forces.

Richard Dawson was leaning against the bunk beds, sliding down to the floor because he couldn’t stand up straight.

John just kept saying, “Werner, I was hungry! The catering was late!”

We tried to reset. We really did. We cleaned the wax paper off the floor, and John tried to look solemn again. But every time I reached toward his pocket, the entire room would start giggling. The camera operator actually had to step away from the lens because his shoulders were shaking so hard he was ruining the framing.

The “sandwich incident” became a legend on the lot. For the next three weeks, every time I walked onto the set, the prop master would ask if I needed a side of mustard for my interrogation.

It was one of those moments that reminded us why we were there. We were telling stories about a dark time in history, but we were doing it with love and a sense of absurdity.

John never lived it down. Until the day he passed, if I ever wanted to make him blush, I would just lean in and whisper the word “pumpernickel.”

He would give me that big, beautiful Schultz smile and tell me he still heard nothing, especially if there was a snack involved.

That was the magic of the show. We were a family that happened to be wearing uniforms, and sometimes, a piece of liverwurst was all it took to remind us of that.

It is a wonderful thing to look back and realize that the loudest sound on our set was usually the sound of a friend’s laughter.

Do you have a favorite memory of a time when a simple mistake turned into a lifelong inside joke with your friends?