You know, Dave, it is a very strange thing to be a man of my size and my particular history, and yet be known primarily for being a very bad soldier.

I spent years on the stage in Vienna. I studied the classics. I took my craft very seriously.

But then, Hollywood gives you a helmet and a heavy overcoat, and suddenly you are the most famous Sergeant in the world.

I don’t mind it, really. People ask me all the time if it bothers me, being Sergeant Schultz.

We actually have a question from the young lady in the front row. Please, go ahead.

The young lady asks if I ever get tired of the catchphrase, or if I ever find myself using it when I am not in front of a camera.

It is funny you should ask that tonight. I was just sitting backstage thinking about a trip I took to Chicago back in 1967.

It was right at the height of the show’s popularity. We were on a massive press tour, flying from city to city, doing five or six interviews a day.

I was exhausted. My manager, a lovely man named Leo who was about half my size but twice as loud, was constantly on my case about my health.

He had me on this very strict diet because he wanted me to look “fit” for the promotional photos we were shooting later that week.

But you have to understand, Dave, I am a man who appreciates the finer things in life, and in Chicago, the finer things usually involve a very large hot dog.

We were at O’Hare International Airport, waiting for a delayed flight to Detroit. Leo had gone off to find a telephone to call the studio.

I saw my chance.

I found a small vendor tucked away in a corner of the terminal. I ordered three Chicago-style hot dogs—with everything on them, of course.

I was standing there in a quiet hallway, hidden behind a concrete pillar, cradling these three hot dogs like they were the Crown Jewels of Europe.

I was just about to take the first bite when I heard heavy footsteps approaching from around the corner.

I froze. I thought it was Leo coming to catch me breaking my diet.

A massive, burly airport security guard stepped out from behind the pillar and looked me right in the eye.

The guard didn’t move an inch. He just stood there, towering over me, looking down at the three hot dogs and then back up at my face.

I felt like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I was a grown man, a professional actor, and yet here I was, terrified of a security guard because I was holding too much mustard.

I could see his eyes scanning my face. He recognized me immediately. You cannot hide a face like this, Dave. It is a very recognizable landscape.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Leo emerging from the crowd about forty yards away. He was looking for me, his face red with frustration, probably ready to drag me to the gate.

I was trapped between the law and my manager.

I did the only thing that felt natural in that moment.

I straightened my posture. I pulled my shoulders back and puffed out my chest until I looked like I was back on the set of Stalag 13.

I looked that security guard straight in the eye, and in my loudest, most booming “Schultz” voice, I shouted so the entire terminal could hear me.

I said, “I see NOTHING! I hear NOTHING! I know NOTHING!”

The hallway went completely silent. For a heartbeat, I thought the guard was going to arrest me for disturbing the peace or, heaven forbid, for mocking his uniform.

But then, his face just… exploded.

He started laughing so hard he had to lean against the concrete pillar for support. He was wheezing, tears streaming down his face, pointing at the hot dogs that were practically vibrating in my hands because I was shaking so much.

The people walking by stopped in their tracks. They saw the guard laughing, they saw me in my suit looking like a guilty soldier, and they all started to realize what was happening.

One man shouted, “Give him a break, he’s a prisoner of war!”

Suddenly, the whole area was filled with laughter.

My manager, Leo, finally reached us. He saw the crowd, he saw the guard, and then he saw my “snack.”

He opened his mouth to give me the lecture of a lifetime. I could see the words “calories” and “contract” forming on his lips.

But before he could say a single word, the security guard straightened up, wiped the tears from his eyes, and put a heavy hand on Leo’s shoulder.

The guard said, “Sir, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I can assure you, there is absolutely nothing going on here. I haven’t seen a thing.”

Then the guard looked at me, gave me a very sharp, very respectful salute, and whispered, “Enjoy the mustard, Sergeant.”

Leo just stood there, totally defeated. He realized he couldn’t win against the entire airport.

I ended up sitting on a bench with that guard and two young boys who had come over to see what the noise was about. I shared my hot dogs with them.

It became a legend on that tour. Every airport we went to after that, the staff seemed to know.

I would walk through the metal detectors, and the officers would intentionally turn their heads and cover their eyes as I passed.

I remember calling Werner Klemperer—my dear friend who played Colonel Klink—from my hotel room that night.

I told him, “Werner, I have discovered the secret to a life of crime. All you have to do is tell people you are blind and deaf, and they will help you hide the evidence.”

Werner laughed that dry, wonderful laugh of his and said, “John, if you tried that in the real army, you’d be in the cooler in ten minutes. Only you could turn a snack into a national event.”

It taught me something important about the show, Dave.

We were playing these characters in a very difficult setting, but the reason people loved Schultz was because he represented the part of all of us that just wants to get by.

He wasn’t a hero, and he wasn’t a villain. He was just a man who liked a good strudel and didn’t want any trouble.

And in that airport, for a few minutes, everyone there got to be part of the joke.

They weren’t looking at a celebrity; they were looking at a friend who was getting away with something small and silly.

That is the power of comedy. It can take a stressful afternoon at an airport and turn it into a memory that stays with you for decades.

I still think of that guard every time I walk through O’Hare. I wonder if he still tells the story of the day he let Sergeant Schultz smuggle three hot dogs through his terminal.

I hope he does. Because I certainly haven’t forgotten it.

It’s a wonderful thing to be able to make people look away from the rules and just see the humor in being human.

Even if it means I never did lose those ten pounds for the photo shoot.

Do you have a favorite line from a character that you find yourself using in real life?