The studio lights were a bit softer than the ones Werner Klemperer had spent years under at Desilu Productions. It was late in his career, and the man sitting in the armchair was a far cry from the bumbling, shrill commandant of Stalag 13. He was elegant, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that carried the weight of his operatic roots. The interviewer leaned in, holding a small, silver-rimmed piece of glass between his thumb and forefinger.

A fan in the front row of the small audience had handed it to him during the break. It was a replica monocle. Werner looked at the object and a slow, mischievous smile crept across his face. He didn’t just see a prop; he saw a decade of facial cramps and a specific Tuesday afternoon in 1967 that still made his ribs ache from laughing.

He took a slow sip of water and looked at the audience. You have to understand, he began, his tone conspiratorial, that the monocle was not just a costume piece. It was my master. If I lost the monocle, I lost the authority of Colonel Klink. And the problem was, I didn’t use a string. I refused to have it tethered to my uniform because I thought it looked cheap.

He explained how he had to train the muscles around his eye to grip the glass with the strength of a vise. On a typical day, it was fine. But then there were the days where Leon Askin was on set. Leon played General Burkhalter, and in real life, Leon was one of the funniest, most cultured men I knew. But when the cameras rolled, he was a mountain of German intimidation.

We were filming a scene in Klink’s dining quarters. It was a very serious moment, or as serious as Hogan’s Heroes ever got. Burkhalter was supposed to be leaning over me, shouting about some failure of security, while I was frantically trying to eat a bowl of very hot, very steamy potato soup.

The steam from the soup was rising directly into my face. I could feel the moisture condensing on the back of the glass lens. My eye started to twitch, and I knew the grip was failing. I was trying to stay in character, nodding and trembling as Leon boomed in my ear.

I felt the muscle in my cheek finally give up.

The monocle didn’t just fall. It took a high, graceful arc, catching the studio lights for a split second like a tiny, falling star.

Then came the sound. A distinct, metallic “plink” followed by a wet “thud” as it landed perfectly in the center of the oversized bowl of potato soup.

In a normal production, that would be the moment the director yells “cut” and everyone breaks into hysterics. But our director that day loved to see how far we could go. He stayed silent. The cameras kept rolling. The film was spinning in the magazines, and every second cost money, so we felt this immense pressure to keep the momentum.

Leon Askin didn’t miss a beat. He was a professional of the highest order. He saw the monocle dive into the soup, but instead of stopping, he leaned even closer. His face was inches from mine, and his voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl. He improvised right there on the spot.

“Klink,” he hissed, “are you so incompetent that you are now trying to season your soup with eyewear?”

I was terrified. Not as Klink, but as Werner. I knew if I laughed, I would ruin a perfect take. But I also knew I had to get that monocle back. I couldn’t finish the scene without it. Klink without a monocle was like a bird without feathers.

I took my soup spoon. My hand was shaking, partly from the scripted fear and partly from the suppressed urge to scream with laughter. I began to fish for it. The soup was thick. It was creamy. It was opaque. I was poking around in the bowl like I was looking for a lost treasure at the bottom of the ocean.

Leon just stood there, his arms crossed, watching me struggle. The crew was deathly silent, but you could hear the faint, rhythmic sound of the cameraman shaking. He was trying so hard to hold the camera steady while his shoulders were heaving with silent laughter.

Finally, the spoon hit something hard. I scooped it up. The monocle was covered in thick, yellowish potato broth. Bits of chives were clinging to the rim. It looked absolutely disgusting.

At this point, any sane actor would have wiped it off on a napkin. But Klink was a man of high-strung nerves and immense, misplaced pride. I didn’t want to show Burkhalter that I was flustered. So, I did the only thing that made sense in the heat of the moment.

I picked up the soup-covered monocle with my fingers. It was slippery. It was hot. I took a deep breath, and with one swift, practiced motion, I jammed the dripping, broth-soaked glass right back into my eye socket.

The soup ran down my cheek like a greasy tear. It stung like the devil. I could see the world through a blurry, yellow film of potato starch. My eye was burning, but I turned to Leon, gave him the most dignified Klink stare I could muster, and snapped, “The soup is excellent, General. Perhaps a bit heavy on the lens.”

Leon’s face went through a transformation. He tried to hold the scowl. He tried to keep the General alive. But then his chest started to heave. A small, high-pitched wheeze escaped his nose. Then, like a dam breaking, he just exploded.

He roared with laughter, doubling over and slapping the table. Once Leon went, the rest of the room followed. The director was howling from the darkness behind the monitors. The grip crew was leaning against the walls, wiping their eyes.

I just sat there, one eye clear and the other looking through a potato-based fog, realizing that we had probably just shot the most expensive, unusable piece of film in the history of the show. We couldn’t use it, of course. It was far too ridiculous, even for us. But for the rest of the season, every time I sat down for a meal on camera, Leon would lean over and whisper, “Is the prescription delicious today, Werner?”

It was those moments that made the show. We weren’t just making a comedy; we were living one. That monocle was a constant reminder that no matter how serious you try to be, life—and potato soup—has a way of humbling you.

Werner looked back at the replica in the interviewer’s hand and chuckled. I think I’ll pass on putting that one in my eye, he said. I’ve had quite enough soup for one lifetime.

The camaraderie on set is often what makes a show timeless, don’t you think?

What is your favorite “hidden” detail or prop from a classic TV show?