Host: Werner, we have a caller on the line who wants to ask about the technical side of the show. Specifically, they want to know about the monocle. How on earth did you keep that piece of glass in your eye while you were screaming at Hogan or barking orders at the guards? Did you have some kind of Hollywood adhesive, or was it just pure willpower?

Werner Klemperer: (Laughs heartily) Oh, the monocle. That little circle of glass was my greatest adversary for six long years. You look back at the episodes now and it looks so natural, so part of the character’s DNA, but behind the scenes, it was a constant battle against gravity, physics, and my own facial muscles.

I remember one particular Tuesday morning during our fourth season. We were filming on the soundstage in North Hollywood, and it was one of those brutal California summer days. The air conditioning in those old studios was more of a suggestion than a reality, and under those massive stage lights, the temperature on the set of Stalag 13 would easily climb past a hundred degrees.

I was dressed in the full Luftwaffe uniform—wool, mind you—and I was already starting to melt. The scene was a high-stakes confrontation in Klink’s office. I was supposed to be at my most dignified, my most “Prussian.” I had this long, blistering monologue where I had to berate poor Schultz for yet another security lapse.

John Banner was standing right across from me. He was wearing that heavy greatcoat, and he was sweating even more than I was. We were both just trying to get through the take so we could go stand in front of a fan.

The camera was pulled in for a very tight close-up on my face. I had to lean in, just inches from John’s nose, and really let him have it. But as I started the dialogue, I felt it. A single, traitorous bead of sweat started rolling down from my forehead, heading straight for my right eye.

I knew if that sweat hit the rim of the monocle, the seal would break. I tried to widen my eye to grip it tighter, but that only made my face slicker. I could feel the glass starting to vibrate. It was like a tiny ice skater losing its footing on a pond.

I decided to push through. I took a deep breath, leaned in until I could see the individual fibers on John’s collar, and prepared to deliver the final, shouting line of the scene.

Then, the glass gave up.

It didn’t just fall out. It performed a literal gymnastic feat. The tension in my cheek must have acted like a spring, because the monocle launched off my face with enough velocity to clear the distance between us.

And the timing? It was supernatural. Just as I opened my mouth to shout “Schultz!” the monocle flew straight across the gap and landed—with a soft, wet “clink”—directly into John Banner’s open mouth.

There was a split second of absolute, terrifying silence on that set.

John stood there, his eyes going wide, his cheeks puffed out. He hadn’t swallowed it, thank God, but he was too shocked to spit it out. He just froze like a statue, staring at me with those big, confused eyes, while my wardrobe was currently lodged behind his teeth.

I was standing there, suddenly half-blind in one eye because of the way the studio lights were hitting me, staring at a man who was literally gagging on my props.

For some reason, my brain didn’t register that we should stop. I was so deep into the rhythm of the scene that I stayed in character. I leaned even closer, narrowed my one “good” eye, and hissed in my best Klink voice: “Schultz… give it back.”

That was the end of any productivity for the rest of the morning.

John started making these muffled, wheezing, whistling sounds through the glass. He tried to stay disciplined, he tried to keep his shoulders square, but the sheer absurdity of the situation was too much. He turned a shade of red I didn’t think was humanly possible.

Finally, he couldn’t hold it. He spit the monocle into his palm and doubled over, howling with a laugh that shook the entire “office” set.

The director, Gene Reynolds, actually fell out of his canvas chair. He was on the floor, clutching his stomach. I looked over at the camera crew, and the lead cameraman had walked away from the eyepiece. He was leaning against the soundstage wall with his forehead pressed against the wood, his whole body heaving with silent laughter.

You have to understand, we were doing a comedy in a setting that was, historically speaking, very dark. Because of that, the cast and crew were always looking for a reason to break the tension. When something truly ridiculous happened, it was like a pressure valve popping. The release was explosive.

We couldn’t stop. Every time I looked at John, I saw him catching that piece of glass like a seasoned outfielder catching a fly ball. And every time he looked at me, he saw my bare, squinting eye and started the wheezing all over again.

The makeup department had to come out with towels because we were both crying. Our makeup was running, our eyes were red, and the set was in total shambles.

“I am not wearing that, John,” I told him once I could finally speak. “That piece of equipment is now officially a part of your digestive system.”

John just gasped for air, holding the monocle out like a prize. “Werner, I didn’t know… I didn’t know the Colonel was trying to feed the troops!”

The best part of the whole ordeal was the producer’s reaction. They actually kept the footage of the monocle flying off my face. They couldn’t use the part where it went into John’s mouth, of course—that would have been a bit much even for a sitcom—but they used the take right before the “launch” for the master shot.

Whenever I saw that episode in syndication years later, I would look at the screen and I could see the exact moment my facial muscles gave up the ghost. I could see the glistening sweat on my temple and the sheer panic in my one eye as I realized I was about to lose my vision.

It became a running gag for the rest of the season. Every time we had a scene where I had to get close to him, John would lean in during the rehearsal and whisper, “Is it tasty today, Werner? Have you cleaned it?”

It taught me that you can’t plan for the best comedy. You can have the most brilliant writers in the world, but nothing beats the pure, unadulterated chaos of a prop deciding it wants to be the star of the show.

We were a family on that set. We had to be. And those moments of shared, ridiculous failure were the glue that held us together for 168 episodes. I still have a monocle in a drawer at home. I don’t wear it, but occasionally I’ll look at it and think of John’s face in that moment.

He was a beautiful man, and he was the only person I ever knew who could catch a piece of my uniform in his mouth and turn it into a comedic masterpiece.

The show was a riot to make, and I think that’s why people still watch it today—you can feel the joy behind the camera, even when the glass is flying.

What’s the funniest thing that ever happened to you when you were trying your hardest to be serious?