It was a crisp afternoon in the mid-nineties when Werner Klemperer sat down for what he thought would be a standard retrospective interview. He was older then, his voice still carrying that refined, melodic precision that made his portrayal of Colonel Klink so deliciously ironic. The interviewer, a long-time fan of Hogan’s Heroes, reached under the table and pulled out a small, padded box.

With a smile, the host opened it to reveal a vintage, gold-rimmed monocle. He didn’t say a word; he just slid it across the mahogany desk toward Werner.

Werner’s eyes lit up with a mixture of nostalgia and mock horror. He picked up the glass piece, turning it over in his fingers as if it were a strange artifact from a distant civilization. He laughed, a deep and genuine sound that lacked any of the nasal pinch he used on the show. He remarked that just holding the thing made his right eye start to twitch instinctively.

The host seized the moment and mentioned a famous story that had circulated among the crew for years. It was a story about a particular Tuesday in 1967, during the filming of the third season, involving a high-stakes scene with John Banner.

Werner leaned back, his expression softening as he remembered his old friend. He explained that people often assumed he was as rigid and disciplined as the character he played. He took pride in his craft and his musical background, and he viewed Klink as a clown who didn’t know he was a clown.

Because of that, Werner tried to never break. He felt that if Klink laughed, the illusion of the bumbling commandant vanished. But on this specific day, the heat on Set 1 was oppressive, the lights were humming, and John Banner was in a particularly mischievous mood.

They were filming a scene where Klink had to deliver a long, arrogant monologue about the superiority of his security system while standing over a large topographical map of the camp.

Everything was prepared, the cameras were rolling, and Werner was determined to deliver the most intimidating performance of the season. He felt the monocle resting firmly in his eye socket, his uniform was starched to perfection, and he was ready to prove that Klink was a man of absolute authority.

He took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and leaned over the map to point out a flaw in Hogan’s logic.

And that was the exact moment when the gravity of the situation shifted.

The monocle didn’t just fall out. Werner explained to the interviewer that usually, if the muscle in his face tired, the glass would simply tumble into his hand or onto his chest. But this time, because of the sweat from the studio lights and the sheer force of his “Prussian” intensity, the monocle acted like a projectile.

As Werner leaned forward to bark a line about the “impenetrable walls of Stalag 13,” the monocle shot out of his eye with the velocity of a small stone. It hit the wooden map table with a sharp, echoing “clack” that sounded remarkably like a starter’s pistol. It didn’t stop there. It bounced off the wood and landed directly into a glass of water sitting on the edge of the desk, making a perfect, comedic “plip” sound.

The room went silent for half a second. Werner, ever the professional, didn’t stop. He tried to keep his eye squinted as if the monocle were still there, continuing the line about the “visionary leadership” of the camp. But John Banner, who was standing directly across from him as Sergeant Schultz, had seen the whole trajectory.

John’s eyes went wide. His massive chest began to heave. It started as a low, subterranean rumble—a physical vibration that Werner could actually feel through the floorboards of the set. Werner tried to stare him down, using his one good eye to project a look of absolute steel, but that only made it worse.

John let out a sound that Werner described as a “strangled teakettle.” It wasn’t a laugh yet; it was the sound of a man trying to swallow a laugh that was too big for his throat. Then, the dam broke. Banner exploded into a fit of giggles that shook his entire frame, his “I know nothing” expression replaced by a bright red face and streaming eyes.

Once Schultz went, the rest of the room followed like falling dominoes. Bob Crane, who had been standing off-camera waiting for his cue, doubled over and had to grab a grip stand to keep from falling. The director, who had been hoping to finish the shot before lunch, threw his headphones onto the script in mock despair.

Werner told the interviewer that he tried to stay angry. He really did. He stayed in his Klink posture for about five more seconds, staring at the monocle submerged at the bottom of the water glass. But then he looked up and saw John Banner pointing at the glass, unable to even speak, just gasping for air.

Werner finally lost it. He broke out into a high-pitched, hysterical laugh that he had been holding back for three years. He said it was the most unprofessional he had ever been in his entire career.

The crew tried to reset the scene, but every time Werner and John looked at each other, the “clack-plip” sound would play back in their heads, and they would start all over again. They had to shut down production for nearly twenty minutes because the two leads were incapacitated by mirth.

The lighting department started making bets on how many takes it would take to get the line out. Even the makeup artists were laughing too hard to fix Werner’s eyeliner, which had smeared from his own tears of laughter.

Looking back, Werner told the host that those were the moments that made the show work. Behind the costumes and the heavy themes was a group of men who genuinely loved making each other break. He said that John Banner was a “professional corpse”—someone who would die laughing at the slightest provocation—and that day, Werner had finally joined him in the grave.

He told the interviewer that he kept that specific monocle for years. Not as a prop, but as a reminder that no matter how serious you try to be, or how much authority you think you have, sometimes the universe just wants to drop your dignity into a glass of water and watch you splash.

It was a small moment in a long career, but to Werner, it was the essence of why Hogan’s Heroes felt like home. The laughter on that set wasn’t just a byproduct of the script; it was a shield against the heat, the long hours, and the pressure of the industry.

He set the monocle back down on the interviewer’s desk with a soft click, his eyes twinkling with the same mischief that had finally conquered Colonel Klink all those decades ago.

Laughter is the one thing no commandant can ever truly deport from a room.

Who is your favorite character from the barracks?