(2 of 3)
The 500-mile trip from the capital to the outpost of Kalait in northeastern Chad can take days, even weeks, over one of the worst roads in Africa. It varies from soft, treacherous quicksand and dunes to flinty, sunbaked plains to immense boulders. On occasion it is mined by rebel infiltrators, and sometimes it is patroled by bandits of uncertain political persuasion.
The road itself is a war museum, a graveyard of vehicles used in past battles. Silhouetted against the sky is an Arab horseman. His stallion rears, pawing the air, and he is off in a cloud of dust toward the horizon. "That could well be a rebel," says our driver.
The first night is spent at Tersef, 100 miles north of N'Djamena. Supper is served in a hut of branches and millet straw. Everyone eats from the same dish, though there is little but hard gristle and bone. "We have no ranks," says Abdul Osman, 21. "We are all combatants, we are all volunteers." His job is to teach reading and writing to the troops. After supper he conducts a lesson: "Maman est tres belle .. . Maman a une belle robe . .. Bonjour, maman." Since there are 300 different languages in Chad, French is the lingua franca.
At the French Foreign Legion fort in Ati, a Scottish legionnaire checks travel documents. Of the twelve robed passengers in our truck, he asks, "Who are all those guys with spears? Are they O.K.?" Before an excellent lunch, served on fine linen, the local legion commander says, "A Goran soldier can go 48 hours without water and a week without food. That's more than our boys can do." That night at a military outpost in Oum-Hadjer, a civil servant observes, "This war started out with cavalry and scimitars. Now it is all Soviet rocket launchers, recoilless rifles and antitank guns. It is cutting our country to pieces."
On the fifth night, in Biltine, an army lieutenant tells of a victory last January led by General Deby. Government forces ambushed an enemy column of 25 Toyotas and other vehicles. "We trapped the enemy and took 256 prisoners and all the weapons we needed," says the lieutenant. "You see, there is no need for the French to take part in the fighting. But it is those Libyan planes that break up our troop concentrations after every victory."
After Biltine comes the Sahara. Driving in the desert is like swimming in treacle. The engine screams and one inches forward with painful slowness. To stop can mean being delayed for hours, perhaps days. Suddenly a Toyota appears, followed by a truck. The wild-eyed leader, his pistol wrapped in a cloth, begs for gasoline, explaining that his small escadron has been driving all night.
Kalait is a collection of smashed huts, thorn trees and wrecked vehicles. The army's divisional headquarters is a green canvas tent captured from the Libyans. Inside, sitting with legs crossed on a carpet, is the general, Abdul Raman Berdabali, 47, looking like a bird of prey. "Oh, yes," he says, pointing to a heap of seven land mines sitting next to his sleeping mat, "there are plenty of mines about. They are plastic, which makes them hard to detect." Under his watchful eye, everyone devours trays of boiled mutton covered with flies. Again, all eat together. "Even Camarade Habré ate from the same plate with us when he came to visit," the commander says.