From Sitcom Laughs to Governing Strategy

“I see nothing! I hear nothing! I know nothing!”

Sergeant Hans Schultz, the bumbling guard at Stalag 13 in Hogan’s Heroes (1965-1971), turned willful ignorance into comedy. Every week, he’d stumble onto evidence of sabotage—tunnels, radios, escaping POWs—and shut down. Not his problem. Didn’t see it. Knows nothing.

Funny in 1967.

Not anymore.

The Original Schultz

Schultz wasn’t a true believer. He was a reluctant draftee, a former toy company owner who wanted to survive the war without making waves. See nothing, report nothing, avoid the Russian Front.

But underneath the laughs was something darker. Schultz stood in for all those “regular” Germans who refused to see what was in front of them. Cruelty doesn’t require monsters. It just needs people willing to look away.

The casting made this stranger. Every major German character was played by a Jewish actor:

John Banner, Schultz, was an Austrian Jew who fled in 1938 when Hitler annexed Austria. Lost family in the Holocaust. His take: “Who better to play Nazis than we Jews?”

Werner Klemperer, Colonel Klink, was the son of a German-Jewish conductor. Family fled in 1935. He took the part only if his character always lost.

Leon Askin, General Burkhalter, was beaten by the Gestapo before escaping. His parents died in Treblinka.

Robert Clary, Corporal LeBeau, survived three years in Buchenwald. Still had A-5714 tattooed on his arm. Ten of his thirteen siblings murdered.

These men played Nazis as buffoons on purpose. Revenge through ridicule.

But Schultz wasn’t a villain. He was worse: the enabler. Not cruel himself, but his ignorance kept the machinery running. He didn’t build the machine—but he kept it oiled.

The Schultz Presidency

Fast forward to 2025. The Schultz Defense isn’t comedy. It’s crisis management.

“I didn’t know.”

“Nobody told me.”

“My people handled that.”

Trump turned “I know nothing” from catchphrase into governing philosophy.

He signed off on appointees he couldn’t name. Passed policies he hadn’t read. Four a.m. raids ripped children from their parents—kids disappeared into cages, desks sat empty at schools—while he was at Mar-a-Lago. His people said it was law. He said okay.

Classified documents scattered across a beach resort. He never saw them. Didn’t know they were there. Someone else packed the boxes.

January 6th unfolded on live television. He was watching too. Didn’t know what would happen.

Millions lost healthcare coverage. Programs gutted. He was briefed on the plane. Saved a billion bucks. That’s what matters.

Files shredded. Lawyers buried it. Want proof? He’s golfing.

Cruelty Runs on Ignorance

Schultz’s ignorance was never innocent. He chose not to see because seeing required action. Knowing made him responsible.

That logic now runs the country.

Sign orders without reading? Not negligence. Deniability.

Delegate cruelty and never ask questions? Not hands-off. A firewall.

Claim ignorance of outcomes you guaranteed? Not uninformed. Protected.

The machine doesn’t need a mastermind. It needs a figurehead who signs and runs. Takes the check. Knows nothing. Breaks things, then disappears into the applause.

“Almost Told the Truth”

I wrote a song about this. One verse won’t leave me alone:

Cameras came close / Questions I couldn’t dodge Played a video / Mother and her kid Felt it one breath / Weight of what I’d done Smiled, turned away / Way I always do

Almost told the truth / Lying all along Say it once / Whole thing falls

The moment Schultz never had. Recognition, weight landing—then the familiar retreat. Smile. Turn. Keep the con going.

“I know nothing” only works if you never break character. One honest moment and everything collapses.

So you learn to feel nothing. Show nothing. Cruelty becomes routine.

Stalag 13 vs. America

In Hogan’s Heroes, Schultz’s ignorance was harmless. Fantasy. Prisoners always won. Nobody got hurt.

When the Schultz Defense becomes presidential strategy, people get hurt.

Families separated, children still missing. People who lost coverage and died. Communities wrecked by policies signed without a glance. Democracy chipped away by a man who takes credit for the good and knows nothing about the bad.

The Jewish actors who played those buffoons understood the danger of the “good German”—the Schultz type who wasn’t a believer but kept the gears turning.

Banner said Schultz represented “some kind of goodness in any generation.”

Hollow goodness. His decency stopped where it might cost him something.

Your Move

The song doesn’t end with outrage. It ends with a question:

You gave power / I gave chaos Asked me to lead / I disappeared

You know the truth / Never gave a damn Sold you out / Still walking free

Country doesn’t die from one thief Dies when you let him stay

In Hogan’s Heroes, the audience watched and laughed. The prisoners handled everything. Viewers did nothing.

We don’t get that option.

The man saying “I know nothing” holds real power. Real consequences follow.

A country doesn’t die from one thief.

It dies when everyone else decides to be Schultz too.

They asked me who I hired

My guy picked her, I signed

Didn’t read a page

She looked fine, walked away

Never asked a thing

You gave me power

I took the check

I know nothing

That’s my line

You work hard

I just lie

I know nothing

Sign and run

You break down

I’m long gone

They showed photographs

Parties years ago

Said I knew this man

I don’t recall

Files got shredded

Lawyers made it gone

Want proof?

I’m playing golf

I know nothing

That’s my line

You work hard

I just lie

I know nothing

Sign and run

You break down

I’m long gone

Split up families

Four a.m. that day

My guy said it’s law

I said okay

Maria’s daughter’s gone

Desk cold at school

I was in Florida

Not my problem

I know nothing

That’s the con

You cry out

I move on

I know nothing

Sign and leave

You scream loud

I don’t hear

Cut the programs

While I slept

Food stamps, medicine

Briefed me on the plane

Millions lost coverage

Thousands couldn’t get help

Saved a billion bucks

That’s what matters

I know nothing

Watch me go

You get sick

I say no

I know nothing

Sign the page

You fall down

I walk away

Cameras came close

Questions I couldn’t dodge

Played a video

Mother and her kid

Felt it one breath

Weight of what I’d done

Smiled, turned away

Way I always do

Almost told the truth

Lying all along

Say it once

Whole thing falls

You gave power

I gave chaos

Asked me to lead

I disappeared

Papers on desk

Never read them

Phone rang late

Never answered

People vanished

I was golfing

Easier that way

You know the truth

Never gave a damn

Sold you out

Still walking free

Maria’s kid gone

Programs still cut

Families still broke

I’m teeing off

I know nothing

But you know

You see it

See it all

Your choice now

Let me stay

Or throw me out

Before I take the rest

Country doesn’t die from one thief

Dies when you let him stay

You see it now

Do something

Gene Scott grew up on a tenant farm in Sheffield, Illinois, where strip mines swallowed the prairie and Euclid trucks hauled coal past the kitchen window. His father welded for International Harvester winters and pulled hogs from collapsed mine shafts. His mother drove a hundred miles round-trip to Bradley University three days a week, graduated with honors, and never let them miss a meal. Scott earned degrees from Illinois and Missouri, married Lana Ferguson on her family’s front porch in Hancock County—the oldest residence in the county, where her Confederate ancestor is buried at the edge of the woods—and raised a son in the Appalachian foothills. His writing draws on Midwestern magical realism, generational memory, and the stories told around oak kitchen tables where stoker men and snake women once drank coffee.