Interviewer: We are sitting here with the one and only Richard Dawson.

Richard, the stories from the set of Hogan’s Heroes are legendary, but people always want to know about the man behind the coat.

What was it really like working with John Banner?

Dawson: (Laughs) Oh, you want to talk about John.

You know, people see Schultz and they see this lovable, bumbling guy, but John was actually a very sophisticated, classically trained actor.

But he had this wonderful, self-deprecating soul.

He knew exactly what his role was on that set, and he embraced it with every fiber of his being.

Interviewer: We actually have a question from someone in our audience today that touches on that.

Fan: Mr. Dawson, I’ve always wondered—with all those physical gags and the tiny tunnel sets, did John Banner ever actually get into a bit of a tight spot?

Dawson: (Chuckles) A tight spot? My dear, that is the understatement of the century.

I remember one Friday afternoon at the Paramount backlot.

We were filming an episode—I think it was titled The Witness—where Hogan had to smuggle a defector through the tunnel system.

Now, as you know, the tunnel entrance was usually hidden under a bunk in Barracks 2.

The prop department had built these sets out of plywood and 2x4s.

They were meant to look like a dirty dirt floor, but it was all movie magic.

The problem was that John was a man of… significant presence.

He was wearing the full German sergeant’s winter kit that day.

The heavy wool greatcoat, the belt, the ammunition pouches, the whole works.

He looked like a grey mountain.

The director was getting a bit cranky because the sun was going down and we were losing the light.

He told John, “Look, John, I just need you to lean deep into the tunnel opening. Hogan is down there, and you’re supposed to be suspicious.”

John nodded, very professional as always.

He took a deep, bracing breath to settle his weight, stepped up to the bunk, and leaned his entire upper body into the hole.

And that is when the laws of physics decided to take the afternoon off.

There was this sound.

It wasn’t a snap or a crack.

It was a very distinct, muffled “thwump.”

It was the exact sound of three hundred pounds of Austrian actor perfectly sealing a vacuum.

John didn’t just lean into the tunnel; he wedged himself into it.

The heavy wool of his overcoat acted like a gasket against the wooden frame of the opening.

He went down to his armpits, and then he just stopped. Dead.

For a few seconds, the entire set went dead silent.

We were all waiting for him to deliver the line—something about Hogan being up to no good.

But instead of the line, all we heard was this tiny, echoing voice coming from inside the floorboards.

“Oh… oh dear. Robert? I believe I have encountered a structural disagreement.”

Bob Crane was standing right there, maybe two feet away.

He looked down at the back of John’s head, then he looked at me, and that famous Hogan grin just spread across his face.

Bob whispered, “John? You still with us, pal?”

John’s voice came back, sounding like he was shouting from the bottom of a well.

“Robert… I am no longer in control of my lower half. I am a permanent part of the Stalag now.”

By this point, the crew was starting to vibrate.

The camera operators were biting their lips so hard they were probably bleeding, trying not to shake the equipment with their laughter.

The director yelled “Cut!” but John didn’t move.

He couldn’t move.

He was dangling.

His feet weren’t touching the ground inside the tunnel, and his shoulders were locked tight against the bunk frame.

I walked over, leaning on the cane I used for Newkirk’s character, and peered down at him.

I said, “John, are you looking for a hidden strudel? Because I don’t think the prisoners keep the bakery down there.”

John started to laugh.

That was the fatal mistake.

Every time John laughed, his chest expanded, which only served to lock him even tighter into the plywood frame.

He was literally vibrating against the set.

He started shouting, “I see nothing! I see absolutely nothing! Especially not my own dignity!”

At that point, the entire set just exploded.

We were doubled over.

Even Werner Klemperer, who usually stayed in his “Colonel Klink” persona until the very last second, walked onto the set to see what the hold-up was.

He saw the back half of a German Sergeant sticking out of a bed like a beached whale.

Werner adjusted his monocle, looked at the director, and said in that perfect, sharp Klink voice:

“Schultz! I told you to stay away from the kitchen! Now you have gone and colonized the tunnel system!”

That was it. We were done.

The grips were crying.

But we actually had a problem—we had to get him out.

The prop master came over with a literal crowbar.

He was looking at the plywood, worried he’d have to break the set.

Bob Crane shouted, “Forget the wood! Get me a tub of lard and a winch!”

We ended up having to send two grips into the actual tunnel structure underneath the stage.

They had to stand on ladders and literally push John’s legs upward.

Meanwhile, Bob and I grabbed him under the armpits.

It was like a bizarre tug-of-war where the rope was our favorite costar.

We’re pulling, the grips are pushing, and John is just howling with laughter the whole time.

He kept yelling, “I am a prisoner of my own wardrobe! Call the Red Cross! Tell them I require a shoehorn!”

Finally, with a sound like a giant cork popping out of a bottle, John flew backward.

He landed flat on his back on the barracks floor, with Bob Crane right on top of him.

They were just a heap of wool, brass buttons, and tears.

John sat up, his hat was sideways, his face was beet red, and he just patted his stomach.

He looked at the director and said, “I think next time, we should build the tunnels for the guests, not just the prisoners.”

The director just threw his hands in the air and called a wrap for the day.

He knew there was no way we’d get another serious take after that.

We spent the rest of the night at the bar, and John kept insisting that the tunnel had shrunk specifically to spite him.

It actually became a running gag for the rest of the series.

Every time we had a scene involving the tunnel, the prop guys would bring out a tape measure.

They’d ostentatiously measure John’s waist, then measure the hole, and give him a thumbs up.

He’d always respond with: “Don’t worry, I had a very light lunch. Only four sausages today.”

That was the magic of that show.

We weren’t just making a sitcom; we were a family that survived the absurdity by laughing at it.

John never let his ego get in the way of a good joke, even if he was the punchline.

He was a big man with an even bigger heart, and the set always felt a little too quiet when he wasn’t there to get stuck in something.

I still think about that “thwump” sound every time I see the opening credits.

It’s a reminder that life usually has a much funnier script than the one you’re trying to film.

Do you have a favorite Sergeant Schultz moment that still makes you laugh?