The interviewer reaches into a small mahogany box sitting on the table between them. Inside lies a simple, circular piece of glass attached to a thin black string. Werner Klemperer, now in the twilight of a distinguished career, leans forward. His eyes, still sharp and intelligent, fix on the prop. He doesn’t just see a piece of costume jewelry; he sees the five years he spent as the most famous, bumbling Commandant in television history.
Ah, you’ve brought the enemy, Werner says, his voice a rich, cultured baritone that sounds nothing like the shrill, frantic tones of Colonel Wilhelm Klink. He takes the monocle, rolling it between his fingers with a practiced ease. This little circle of glass was responsible for more retakes, more laughter, and more frustration than any script we ever shot. People think it was easy to wear. They think I had a special clip or a hidden wire. I did not. It was held there purely by the strength of my squint and a great deal of prayer.
The host laughs and asks if there was a specific moment where the monocle won the battle against his face. Werner smiles, a distant look coming into his eyes. He remembers a hot afternoon on Stage 30 at Desilu Studios. They were filming a scene for the third season. The set was the Commandant’s office, and the atmosphere was unusually heavy because they were hours behind schedule.
They were filming a high-stakes visit from Leon Askin, who played General Burkhalter. Leon was a dear friend, but on screen, he was the ultimate foil. Klink was supposed to be at his most desperate, pleading for his career while Burkhalter loomed over him like a thunderstorm. Werner had spent the morning preparing a particularly elaborate piece of physical comedy involving a map and a pointer. He wanted to show Klink’s incompetence through his frantic, shaky movements.
He took his position, the studio lights were blinding, and the sweat was beginning to pool under the rim of the monocle. He knew the glass was slipping. He could feel the tension in his cheek failing. But the cameras were rolling, and he had to deliver his most important line of the episode. The lights seemed to grow hotter. Leon Askin was staring at him with that terrifying, unblinking General’s gaze, waiting for Klink’s explanation.
Werner opened his mouth to speak, knowing that any sudden movement would dislodge the prop entirely.
That was when the laws of physics decided to intervene.
The monocle didn’t just fall out of his eye; it launched itself.
As Werner snapped his head toward the General to deliver a desperate excuse, the piece of glass popped out with the velocity of a grape-shot. It arced through the air, hit the edge of the mahogany desk with a sharp, metallic clink, and performed a perfect backflip before landing squarely in the middle of Leon Askin’s prop glass of schnapps.
There was a second of absolute, dead silence on the set.
The sound of the splash was tiny, but in that quiet room, it felt like a depth charge. Leon Askin, ever the professional, didn’t move a muscle. He sat there, his massive frame draped in the General’s uniform, staring down into his drink where the monocle was now slowly sinking to the bottom of the amber liquid. He didn’t look up. He didn’t blink. He just stared at his beverage as if it had suddenly developed an eye.
Werner stood there, one eye squinting at nothing, his face half-paralyzed in the expression he had been holding for the take. He was waiting for the director to yell cut, but the silence stretched on. He realized that the crew was so stunned by the accuracy of the shot that nobody wanted to break the spell. The cameras were still humming, capturing the most ridiculous accident in the history of the production.
Behind the General, John Banner, our beloved Schultz, was the first to give way. John was a man of considerable size and even more considerable heart, and when he started to laugh, it wasn’t just a sound—it was a seismic event. You could see his shoulders start to heave. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to maintain the “I see nothing” persona, but his face was turning a shade of purple that looked like a sunset over the Pacific.
Werner decided to stay in character for just a moment longer. He leaned over the desk, his voice trembling in that perfect, nervous Klink vibrato, and said, “General, I believe you’ve found my eye.”
That was the end of the take. Leon Askin let out a bellow of laughter that could probably be heard on the neighboring Star Trek set. He picked up the glass, drained the water—which was supposed to be schnapps—and handed the monocle back to Werner with a formal bow. Werner, he said, wiping tears from his eyes, if you could do that every time, we would be the number one show in the world for a hundred years.
The director, Gene Reynolds, finally walked onto the set, shaking his head. He told the crew they needed five minutes because he couldn’t see through his own viewfinder from laughing so hard. He told Werner that it was the greatest bit of physical comedy he had ever seen, and the tragedy was that they couldn’t possibly use it in the final cut. The audience would think it was a camera trick or a hidden wire. It was too perfect to be believed as an accident.
Werner spent the rest of the afternoon talking with the prop master about how to prevent “The Great Eye Escape” from happening again. They tried different types of spirit gum and different sizes of glass, but Werner realized something that day. The monocle wasn’t just a prop; it was the physical manifestation of Klink’s instability. From that point forward, he stopped fighting the monocle. If it fell, it fell. If it got stuck, it got stuck. He allowed the clumsiness of the object to dictate the rhythm of the character.
He tells the interviewer that this moment was a microcosm of why the show worked. It was a production built on a foundation of brilliant, classically trained actors—many of whom, like Werner, Leon Askin, and John Banner, were Jewish men who had fled the very regime they were now satirizing. There was a profound, underlying sense of victory in being able to stand on a Hollywood soundstage and turn the symbols of their oppressors into tools of ridicule.
When the monocle fell into the schnapps, it wasn’t just a blooper. It was a reminder that the “Master Race” was, in their world, a collection of buffoons who couldn’t even keep their glasses on their faces. Werner reflects on the fact that he only agreed to play Klink on the condition that the character never won. He wanted Klink to be the eternal loser. And that afternoon, the monocle ensured that Klink lost in the most hilarious way possible.
He looks back at the prop in the box and chuckles. He mentions that John Banner never let him live it down. For years afterward, whenever Werner would walk onto the set, John would lean in and whisper, “Careful today, Werner, I’ve hidden all the glasses.”
It is a quiet, human memory from a show that often dealt in broad strokes. Werner puts the monocle back in the box and closes the lid with a gentle snap. He notes that while the show has been off the air for decades, the laughter in that room feels like it happened only yesterday. He misses John. He misses Leon. But mostly, he misses the sheer, unadulterated joy of a mistake that turns into a masterpiece.
The monocle was his constant companion, his greatest adversary, and occasionally, a very talented diver. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Sometimes the best parts of our lives are the ones we never actually scripted.
What’s your favorite unscripted moment from a classic show?
