The interviewer leans forward, holding a glossy 8×10 black-and-white photograph from the mid-sixties.

Richard Dawson leans back in his chair, a rascal’s glint returning to his eyes as he adjusts his glasses.

“Oh, good lord,” he chuckles, his voice a smooth, seasoned rasp. “Look at that hair. And that turtleneck. You know, I think I still have that sweater somewhere, probably at the bottom of a trunk in the attic, smelling of mothballs and greasepaint.”

The interviewer smiles. “Richard, fans always saw Newkirk as the ultimate con man and pickpocket. Did that reputation ever follow you off the set of Hogan’s Heroes?”

“It didn’t just follow me,” Dawson replies, shaking his head. “It haunted me. You have to understand, back in the late sixties, the show was a juggernaut. People didn’t see an actor; they saw a specialist. They thought I could actually steal the teeth out of a man’s mouth while he was laughing at me.”

He takes the photo, looking at it with a mix of nostalgia and genuine amusement.

“I remember one afternoon in 1969. I was at LAX, just trying to catch a flight to London for a quick visit home. This was at the height of the show’s popularity. You couldn’t walk ten feet without someone shouting ‘Hogan!’ or asking where the hidden tunnel was.”

“But this one fellow… he didn’t want a photo. He didn’t want an autograph.”

“He was standing by the gate, looking absolutely frantic. He kept glancing over his shoulder at a woman—presumably his wife—who was busy arguing with a ticket agent about their luggage. This chap spotted me, and his eyes lit up like he’d just seen a miracle.”

“He hurried over, weaving through the luggage carts, and he wasn’t smiling. He looked like a man who was about to commit a crime, or perhaps he wanted me to commit one for him.”

“He grabbed my arm, leaned in so close I could smell the stale airport coffee, and he didn’t even say hello.”

“He just reached into his coat and pulled out this massive, bulging leather wallet.”

“I thought he was going to ask me to sign it, but he didn’t.”

“He looked at the wallet, then at me, and then back at his wife.”

“Then he said the line.”

“He whispered, ‘Newkirk, you’ve got to help me. Put this in your pocket and don’t give it back until we’re in the air. If she finds out how much I spent at the track this morning, I’m a dead man.'”

I was absolutely stunned. I just stood there like a statue. I said, “My dear man, I’m an actor. I play a thief on television. I don’t actually possess a universal license to hide gambling debts from disgruntled spouses!”

But he wasn’t listening. He was in a state of pure, unadulterated panic. He literally tried to shove the wallet into my jacket pocket. He was desperate. And of course, that’s the exact moment his wife turned around.

She didn’t see a fan meeting a celebrity. She saw a man in a Newkirk-style leather jacket—which I was wearing, because I was young and cared about my image—seemingly wrestling her husband for his valuables in the middle of the terminal.

She let out a scream that could have curdled milk. “He’s robbing him! The Englishman is robbing my Harold!“

Within seconds, two airport security guards were descending on us. Now, usually, being famous helps in these situations. But in this case, it was the worst possible thing. Because as soon as they saw it was me, they didn’t think, ‘Oh, it’s a misunderstanding.’

They thought, ‘Oh, he’s doing a bit for the cameras,’ or worse, ‘He’s finally gone method and decided to take up the family business.’

I’m standing there with my hands in the air, Harold is winking at me like we’re part of some secret brotherhood of rogues, and the wife is hitting me with her handbag. I actually had to go to the security office. I missed my flight. I was sitting there for two hours explaining the nuances of situational comedy to a very skeptical sergeant.

I finally got it cleared up after Harold sheepishly confessed he was just trying to hide his losses, but the damage was done. The security guard, a lovely fellow named Mike who watched the show every Friday, just laughed and said, “Stick to the script, Newkirk. Real life is too dangerous for you.”

The real fun started on Monday morning when I walked onto the set at Desilu Studios.

I told the story during makeup, and by the time we were ready to shoot the first scene in the barracks, word had spread to every corner of the lot.

Bob Crane wouldn’t let it go. We were in the middle of a scene where I was supposed to be picking a lock on a trunk, and Bob leaned over and whispered, “Careful, Richard, don’t let Harold’s wife see you doing that.”

I broke character immediately. I couldn’t help it. We must have wasted twenty minutes of film because every time I looked at Bob, he’d make a subtle motion like he was hiding a wallet in his boot.

Then Werner Klemperer—Colonel Klink himself—wandered over during lunch. He had that monocle in, looking very stern, and he sat down across from me. He didn’t say a word for five minutes. He just ate his salad. Then, very slowly, he reached across the table, took his own wallet out, and pushed it toward me.

He said, “Dawson, I hear you are running a storage service for desperate husbands. I have twenty marks I need to keep away from the Frau. Can you handle it?“

John Banner, our dear Schultz, was the best of all. He started walking around the set with his pockets turned inside out. Every time he passed me, he’d shout, “I see nothing! I feel nothing! Especially not my wallet!“

The crew got into the act too. The prop master started tethering the smaller items to the tables with fishing line. If I picked up a lighter or a pack of cigarettes for a scene, the whole table would lift up with it. It was complete chaos.

The director actually considered writing it into an episode. He thought the idea of Newkirk being burdened by people constantly asking him to steal things was a brilliant comedic angle. We never actually filmed it, but for the rest of that season, I was the designated “bag man” for the entire cast.

If someone didn’t want to carry their car keys or their watch during a scene, they’d just drop them in my pocket and say, “Keep it safe, Newkirk. Don’t let the wife find out.”

It became this beautiful, rolling inside joke. It reminded us that the characters we played had a life of their own in the public’s imagination. To that man at the airport, I wasn’t Richard Dawson, the guy who liked poetry and jazz. I was the bloke from the barracks who could make a problem disappear with a flick of the wrist.

It was a strange way to live, being a professional scapegrace. But looking back at this photo, I realize how lucky we were. We weren’t just making a show; we were creating people that folks felt they could rely on, even if it was for something as ridiculous as hiding a gambling habit.

I never did see Harold again. I hope he made it home without that wallet being discovered, though I suspect his wife probably caught on the moment they got on the plane.

That’s the thing about being an actor. You spend all your time trying to be someone else, and then you’re shocked when the world actually believes you.

But I’ll tell you one thing: I never wore that turtleneck to an airport ever again.

It’s funny how the roles we play eventually start playing us, isn’t it?

Have you ever been mistaken for someone else at the worst possible moment?