It is funny, you know? People look at those old clips and they see the uniforms and the barbed wire, and they wonder how we did it.

I remember sitting in the makeup chair next to John Banner—our big, wonderful Schultz—and we would just look at each other.

We were two Jews in the middle of a mock-up prisoner of war camp in Hollywood.

If you did not laugh, you would go crazy.

I was looking at this old wardrobe piece the other day—a small scrap from one of LeBeau’s neckerchiefs—and it all came rushing back to me.

The smells of the set, the heat of the lights, and the absolute chaos of working with John.

One afternoon, we were filming an episode in the barracks.

The script was simple enough: Schultz was supposed to come in, act very stern, and threaten to report us all to Colonel Klink.

But there was always a challenge when it came to John.

He was the most gentle man you could ever meet, and he had an appetite that was… well, it was legendary.

He used to joke that his Sergeant’s coat was the only thing keeping his character together because it hid how much he was shaking when he tried to be “mean.”

On this particular day, we decided to play a little trick.

I was playing LeBeau, of course, and I was supposed to be “cooking” something over the small stove in the corner of the barracks.

Usually, the pots were empty, or maybe they had some colored water for steam.

But that morning, the craft services table had these incredible, fresh, warm apricot pastries.

The smell was filling the entire soundstage, and it was driving John crazy during rehearsals.

Richard Dawson leaned over to me and whispered, “Robert, put one in the pot.”

I looked at the director, then at Bob Crane, who gave me that mischievous, silent grin of his.

The cameras started rolling and the room went quiet.

John Banner took his cue and stomped into the barracks, trying his best to look like a formidable guard of the Third Reich.

He opened his mouth to deliver his big, intimidating warning.

And that’s when it happened.

John didn’t just stop talking; his entire face underwent a physical transformation.

You have to understand the level of commitment John had to his stomach.

The moment that scent hit him—real, buttery, cinnamon-dusted pastry steam—his eyes didn’t just widen; they glazed over with a sort of spiritual hunger.

He was supposed to say, “Hogan! I know you are up to something, and I will have you all in the cooler!”

Instead, he just stood there, mid-stride, with one finger pointed aggressively in the air, sniffing the oxygen like a bloodhound on a fresh trail.

The silence on the set was deafening for about five seconds.

We were all waiting for him to snap out of it and remember his lines.

But John just started drifting.

He didn’t walk; he floated toward the stove, completely ignoring Bob Crane, who was standing right in front of him waiting for his cue.

He leaned over my shoulder, looking into the pot where I had hidden this giant, sticky bun.

He didn’t say his line.

He didn’t even look at the camera.

He just whispered, in the most heartbroken, hopeful voice, “Is that… is that apricot?”

The director, Bruce Bilson, yelled, “Cut! John, what in the world are you doing?”

But it was too late.

The dam had broken.

Richard Dawson was the first to go.

He had this high-pitched, wheezing laugh when he really got going, and he just collapsed onto one of the bunks, burying his face in a thin pillow to muffle the sound.

Then Bob started.

Bob had this very infectious, leading-man chuckle that just filled the room and made everyone else join in.

John, God bless him, didn’t even look embarrassed.

He looked at the director with this completely innocent, puppy-dog expression and said, “Bruce, I cannot be expected to be a Nazi on an empty stomach. The smell is an assault on my willpower!”

He then reached into the pot, pulled out the pastry, and started eating it right there in the middle of the barracks set.

Now, usually, a director would be furious.

Time is money, and we were losing the light for the day.

But Bruce just put his head in his hands and started shaking with silent laughter.

The crew—the cameramen, the lighting techs, the script supervisors—they were all doubling over.

One of the grips actually had to step off his ladder because he was laughing so hard he thought he would lose his balance.

We spent the next twenty minutes trying to reset, but it was impossible.

Every time John tried to look “tough” for the next take, he would catch a whiff of the sugar that was now stuck on his own mustache.

He would start to giggle.

And when a man as large as John Banner giggles, his entire body moves in waves.

His medals were jingling against his uniform.

His belt was creaking.

It was a rhythmic, jiggling comedy routine that no writer could have scripted.

We tried to do the take a third time.

John comes in: “Hogan! I see nothing! I see… I see…”

He looked at me, looked at the stove, and just started howling.

He couldn’t get the words out.

He eventually sat down on the edge of a bunk, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and said, “I am a terrible soldier. I am a disgrace to the uniform. Please, give me another bun so I can hide my shame in the sugar.”

That was the thing about the Hogan’s Heroes set.

We were doing something that, on paper, shouldn’t have worked.

It was a comedy in a setting that was historically tragic.

But the love we had for each other, and especially the love we had for John, made it work.

That “I see nothing” line became his trademark for the rest of his life.

But for us, it was never just a catchphrase.

It was a literal description of John’s ability to ignore anything—rules, scripts, or military discipline—if there was a snack involved.

By the time we finally got a clean take, we had all lost our voices from laughing.

The director finally just told the writers, “Don’t bother making him intimidating anymore. Just let him be hungry. It’s more believable.”

And if you watch the later seasons, you will notice Schultz is almost always being bribed with food.

That wasn’t just a character choice.

That was a concession to the fact that John Banner was a man who couldn’t be tamed by a script if there was a bakery within five miles of the studio.

Whenever I see a rerun now and I see that look of “cluelessness” on his face, I don’t see a guard.

I see my friend John, wondering if there is a strudel waiting for him just out of frame.

It is a wonderful way to remember him.

He brought so much light to a setting that was supposed to be so dark.

I think that’s why the show still plays today.

You can’t fake that kind of genuine joy.

It is those little moments of humanity that stick with you, long after the sets are torn down and the costumes are in a museum.

We weren’t just making a TV show.

We were surviving the industry by making each other laugh until it hurt.

I wouldn’t trade those afternoon “disasters” for anything in the world.

He really did see nothing, as long as the pastry was good.

What is your favorite “mistake” that ended up making a story even better?