World: NIGERIA'S CIVIL WAR: HATE, HUNGER AND THE WILL TO SURVIVE

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and a civil service. "There will be no military dictatorship here," he says. Somehow, despite the austerities of war, Biafran technicians have kept water and some power running in large cities, have even managed to short-circuit captured exchanges in order to keep telephone communications open.

Ojukwu's military situation, on the other hand, has grown steadily worse. The Biafrans' territory has shrunk to less than one-third its original 29,000 square miles, now fills a lopsided circle about the size of Vermont. The Ibos hold only three important cities—Aba, Owerri and Umuahia—and federal forces are pushing toward all three. Increasingly, the Biafrans have based their defense on quick guerrilla-type strikes, which are the specialty of a small group of hard-bitten European mercenaries who have thrown in their lot with Biafra. Last week, in one of their most successful raids yet, Biafran commandos managed to sneak behind federal lines near Owerri and bushwhack Nigerian columns, killing 116 Nigerians. But federal field commanders have launched a "final push" to overwhelm Ojukwu's forces.

In contrast, federal Nigeria is relatively untouched by the war. In Lagos, street lights remain dark to conserve power and protect against an air attack, though that is certainly improbable. Military roadblocks and the spot checking of cars for smuggled ammunition create massive traffic tie-ups; and on walls throughout the city, government posters depict Ojukwu's demonic countenance being crushed by the boot of a soldier. Otherwise, life in Lagos maintains its prewar rhythms. On Saturday evenings, the Gondola and Cabin Bamboo dance halls still swing, and weekend picnickers jam the gleaming bay-front beaches, splashing in the surf and munching smoked stockfish.

Military Telex. The far different visage of a Biafra slowly starving to death is part and parcel of Ojukwu's coldblooded strategy for pleading the right of Biafra's secession to the world. The second most important military installation in Biafra—after the airstrip code-named "Annabelle"—is a Telex machine that sends out news, photo captions and press releases daily.

In-stirring the world's conscience, Biafra's publicity has forced three of Nigeria's arms suppliers (Czechoslovakia, The Netherlands, Belgium) to cut off their shipments. It has also supported the diplomatic recognition of Biafra by four African nations (Gabon, Zambia. Tanzania, Ivory Coast). Eventually, if they can somehow hold out long enough, Biafrans may win a source of material help. They have lately found an influential friend in Charles de Gaulle, who has urged that the war be settled on the principle of "a people's right to self-determination."

The other end of Biafra's strategic cable hookup is in the Geneva office of Mark-press, a public relations firm owned by American Adman H. William Bernhardt. Since January, Mark-press has literally waged Biafra's war in press releases —more than 250 of them. They are crammed with news of impending arms deliveries that is designed to embarrass European governments and with stark warnings about starvation. The firm has arranged air passage into Biafra for more than 70 newsmen from every West European nation and transmitted eyewitness reports to their publications.

Rats vs. Frog's Legs.