Perhaps I can explain the mystery of the "yellow" 190. Just a theory :Clostermann reports a certain fight in detail - the fight at the end of which capitaine "Martell" (a nom de guerre) alias Pierre Montet shot down the "all-yellow" 190. I had a tendency to believe Clostermann about the colour for during this final duel he was just an onlooker, he didn't take part in it and it was relatively long, so I figured he had plenty of time to LOOK at the 190. But recently Christer has told us (in his Graf-Grislawski book) that there never was such a yellow bird and I believe him.
What now? Could it be that the sun was setting already and its warm light made the 190 appear yellow for Closter's eyes? Such things are possible, with red too. I made a film myself : the 9 "Alpha Jets" of the "Patrouille de France" flying along a deep valley in the Alps - in the late afternoon, far below. A wonderful sight. The jets turned to the left following the valley... and they were entirely red. A nice, warm, red colour! Surely I am not the only one having seen such a thing. Sometimes you even can see something of the kind in TV commercials : an airliner in the setting sun...
What do the experts think?
Pierre Montet alias "Christian Martell" shot down 6 Fw 190s from 14 May 1943 through 24 Sept. 43, 6 confirmed, unshared victories on 190s in 4 months and 10 days. Not bad considering the opposition.
I entirely share Christer's views on biographies. I know I believed certain things on MY OWN LIFE which were wrong, as I discovered later. I didn't lie, I just was wrong. For example I would have sworn that I was on a certain airfield and did a certain thing but in fact it was another airfield (as my logbook proves). My memory betrayed me. Such things will happen.
One thing can't be disputed : Clostermann sailed to England (he could have stayed safely in the USA as an aeronautics engineer and made aircraft there, and enjoyed private flying (he had some 250 hours already) and California girls. Instead he joined the Free-French in bombed-out England and its terrible English food, even worse during the war! The chances to come back alive were very slim. After some training, formalities and red tape (British and French) he joined the Free-French squadron Alsace in January 1943. From this day on he flew combat operations, almost without any pause, until the end of the war 2 years and 4 months later. Everybody knows that he fought a lot, "which nobody can deny, for he's a jolly good fellow..." : on Spitfires, later on Tempests, ending an acting Wing Commander (Flying). He won a DFC and bar at the rate of his aerial victories, plus a DSO. Not to forget the less glamourous but very dangerous attacks on German trains, columns, airfields etc. While you're duelling with the 20 mm quadruple and 37 mm Flaks of a train you can't shoot down any aircraft at the same time and win even more glory and honours. Once he led his 8 Tempests into an airfield attack. 30 seconds later only 2 Tempests were left including himself. Would YOU accept such odds? I doubt I would (I'd say : "Fighting is OK but I need to have a chance").
I feel he knows his stuff and he knew what he was talking about when he wrote his first book. Who knows - some day maybe some great historian will discover that there actually WAS an all-yellow 190, at least for a few days... No offence Christer, hey?
About Closter's first book "Le grand cirque" I have to add that his writing - in French - makes a deep impression on me every time I read a few pages again. His style is incredible, magnificent, formidable; this really is writing, often poetry. A great, great book! I never read it in another language and I doubt that the author's great style was "translated" too. It's hardly possible anyway, and translations are almost invariably very poor, even very wrong (see what I wrote about Galland's book in English : terrible). Well, I'll have to purchase a copy in English.
At some place in this book he reported how he was sent back from Normandy to England aboard a LCT or something. This passage is so terrific in French that I read it aloud on several occasions for friends who are not air-minded and not at all interested in war. They were impressed too. How about the English version? Is it so impressive too, with the reek of diesel fuel and sea water, the red glow of a fire on the horizon and the boat's propellers who "beat the tempo of my heart, heavy with memories, ...? and sorrow"? This is the most beautiful sentence I ever read and the rest of the book is not bad either in this respect.