The lights in the studio are a bit lower now, and Robert Clary leans forward, his eyes sparkling with that same mischievous energy he had back in the sixties.

He’s sitting across from a young interviewer for a retrospective documentary, and they’ve just finished talking about the serious aspects of his life—the history, the survival, the gravity of his past.

But then, a fan in the small audience raises a hand and asks a question that changes the entire mood of the room.

The fan asks if there was ever a moment on the set of Hogan’s Heroes where the “prisoners” were actually more afraid of the director than they were of Colonel Klink.

Robert starts to chuckle, a deep, knowing sound that suggests he’s been waiting decades to tell this specific version of the story.

He mentions that people often forget how grueling a television schedule was back then. They were filming on the backlot, often in heavy wool coats under the blistering California sun, trying to pretend they were in the middle of a freezing German winter.

The tension was usually high, not because of the script, but because they were always behind schedule.

Robert recalls one specific afternoon in 1967. They were filming a scene in the barracks, one of those crowded shots where every single main cast member had to be in the frame.

The legendary Leon Askin, who played General Burkhalter, was on set that day. Leon was a consummate professional, a man of the theater who took every line seriously.

Standing next to Robert was Richard Dawson. Now, Richard was a brilliant man, but he was also a professional instigator. If he felt a scene was becoming too stiff, he made it his personal mission to dismantle it.

On this particular day, the director was already on edge. They had missed lunch, the lighting rig was acting up, and everyone just wanted to go home.

The scene required Werner Klemperer to deliver a long, blustering report to Burkhalter while the boys—Hogan, Newkirk, LeBeau, and Kinchloe—stood in the background, trying to look like they were plotting a sabotage.

Robert remembers Richard leaning over and whispering something completely nonsensical in his ear just as the cameras started rolling.

He tried to keep his face like stone. He focused on the buttons of Werner’s uniform. He tried to think about anything else.

But then, John Banner—the lovable Sergeant Schultz—had to enter the room with a tray of food.

It was a simple entrance. He just had to walk in, look startled, and say his line.

Robert saw the way Richard’s shoulders started to twitch.

He knew it was coming.

John Banner walked through that door, but he didn’t just walk—he tripped slightly on the threshold, and the prop tray he was carrying didn’t just rattle; it sang.

The metal lid of a silver platter bounced off the floor with a rhythmic, clanging sound that seemed to sync up perfectly with the dramatic silence Werner Klemperer was trying to maintain.

John, being the natural comedic genius he was, didn’t stop. He tried to catch the lid with his foot, which resulted in a sort of frantic German folk dance in the middle of the barracks.

I looked at Richard. Richard was already gone. His face had turned a shade of purple I didn’t know humans could achieve. He wasn’t even laughing out loud yet; he was just vibrating.

Then, Leon Askin, with all the dignity of a Prussian General, looked down at the rolling lid, looked at John Banner, and in his deepest, most resonant voice, ad-libbed, “Schultz, is this the secret weapon we have been hearing about?”

That was the end. The dam broke.

Richard let out a sound like a tea kettle screaming. I lost my footing because I was laughing so hard I couldn’t keep my knees locked.

Even Ivan Dixon, who was usually the most composed man on that set, had to turn his back to the camera and bury his face in his hands.

The director, Gene Reynolds, yelled “Cut!” but it was too late. The infection had spread to the crew.

The cameramen were leaning against their rigs, shaking. The script supervisor was wiping tears from her eyes.

But the funniest part wasn’t the initial laugh. It was the aftermath.

Gene was a great director, but he was also a man who had a schedule to keep. He stood up from his chair, walked into the center of the barracks, and just stared at us.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t scream. He just whispered, “We are professionals. We are adults. We are going to do this again.”

We all lined up. We took deep breaths. We did the “serious actor” thing.

Werner started his monologue again. He was being brilliant. He was being Klink.

But every time he got to the word “efficiency,” Richard would make a tiny, microscopic clicking sound with his tongue.

Only I could hear it. It was like a psychological torture device designed by a comedian.

I started to wheeze. Not a laugh, just a wheeze.

Leon Askin noticed. He turned his massive, imposing gaze toward me. He was trying to be stern to help me stay in character, but as he looked at me, he saw Richard’s face.

Richard was doing a perfect impression of Leon’s “angry face” right behind Leon’s back.

Leon’s lip started to tremble. This giant of a man, this serious Shakespearean actor, was losing the battle against a British guy in a RAF jacket.

The director yelled “Cut!” again. This time he didn’t whisper. He told Richard and me to go stand in opposite corners of the soundstage like we were in primary school.

He actually separated us. He told the crew that if anyone so much as smiled during the next take, they were buying dinner for the entire production.

The set went silent. It was the quietest Stalag 13 had ever been.

We did the take. John Banner entered. He didn’t trip this time. He was perfect.

Werner was perfect. Leon was perfect.

We got through the entire scene. The director finally yelled “Print!” and we all let out a sigh of relief.

But then, right before we broke for the day, John Banner leaned over to the director and said, “Gene, I’m so sorry about the tray. I think I know what happened.”

He then proceeded to try and demonstrate how he tripped, and he tripped exactly the same way again, knocking the tray into the same rhythmic clatter.

The entire set exploded all over again.

Gene just threw his clipboard into the air, walked out of the barracks, and we heard him laughing all the way to his office.

It was moments like those that kept us going. We were playing a game in the middle of a very serious world, and sometimes, the game just took over.

People ask me if I miss the show, and I tell them I don’t miss the uniforms or the cold backlot.

I miss the feeling of being so connected to a group of people that a falling pot lid could become the funniest thing in the history of the world.

We were a family, and like any family, we were at our best when we were absolutely failing to be serious.

That’s the thing about comedy—it’s most powerful when it’s not supposed to be there at all.

It was the best job I ever had, mostly because I spent half of it trying not to ruin it with a smile.

Do you have a favorite memory from the show that always makes you smile?