Is Anyone in Control?

A heartening sight to the Congo's government soldiers these days is that model T of an airplane, the T-28 trainer. Rigged with rockets and 50-cal. ma chine guns, half a dozen of the U.S.-donated aircraft have proved to be le thal weapons against the ragged rebels who are undermining the shaky regime of Premier Cyrille Adoula on the eve of the U.N.'s departure June 30.

What caused some embarrassment in Washington last week was not the planes but their pilots. For it was finally common knowledge that the men in the cockpits have been U.S. citizens (the same type of plane is being used by the Laotian government against the Pathet Lao, is also occasionally flown by Americans). At the controls of one T-28 operating in the Ruzizi Valley near the Congo's eastern frontier recently was a lanky, 30-year-old ex-Marine pilot named Ed Dearborn from Gardena, Calif. His partner, also flying four flights a day to strafe the rebels, was another American, Don Coney. They are civilians, technically listed as hired hands of the harassed Leopoldville government.

Anarchy in Albertville. At first denying that American pilots were directly involved in the Congo fighting, the State Department then claimed it had been misled. U.S. mercenaries had indeed been flying missions, a spokesman admitted. But he hastily added that Americans would not be used again. This seemed accurate enough, for Dearborn and Coney last week headed back to Leopoldville to help train replacements--a dozen anti-Castro Cuban volunteers, most of them survivors of the Bay of Pigs fiasco, who have gone to the Congo to provide some kind of air support for Adoula's faltering army. Within a week, they will head east toward the fighting zones.

They will get there none too soon, for revolt flared in yet another important town in the Congo's anarchic east. It was in Albertville, capital of North Katanga, where only a month ago the government managed to regain control from dissident rebels. Now once again, the streets of Albertville were alive with armed insurgents; scores of whites gathered at the tiny airport in hopes of evacuation, while others took refuge on two steamers anchored offshore in Lake Tanganyika. Where was Adoula's army? Also seeking safety, by all accounts. When last seen, elements of the local garrison were heading swiftly for the bush.

Save Your General! This had also been the frustrating pattern farther north, in the Kivu region, where for weeks, shouting, spear-waving rebels had threatened Bukavu, the biggest town (pop. 33,500) of the eastern Congo. Government troops clearly had the weapons and the manpower to deal harshly with the marauders; yet each time the army units tried to push down the Ruzizi Valley toward the terrorist headquarters at Uvira, they scattered in fright at the first sight of a rebel band. It took the T-28s--and the presence of Army Commander General Joseph Mobutu himself--to rally any kind of organized campaign.

Flying in from Leopoldville, the plucky Mobutu collected as many soldiers as he could find and strode down a highway in defiance of snipers' bullets to win control of a village 25 miles south of Bukavu. "Advance! Advance! If only to save your general!" exhorted an officer. Ahead, Dearborn and Coney were making strafing passes in their T-28s to keep the rebels scattered. It worked reasonably well, but when Mobutu and the T-28s headed back for Leopoldville, the army's drive stopped, and the rebels were free to begin their marauding again.

As in North Katanga and other Congolese trouble spots, the Kivu rebellion is manned largely by local youths who nurse vague grudges against the government. But in Kivu at least--and perhaps elsewhere--powerful support comes from neighboring Burundi, where Communist Chinese diplomats are in close touch with Congolese refugee leaders who call themselves the "Committee of National Liberation for Eastern Congo." From Bujumbura, Burundi's capital, Liberation Committee "President" Emile Soumaliot and his "commissars" travel over the border to the rebels' Uvira headquarters at will, carrying supplies, money and orders to their field commanders.

Whistle's Blast. It is not at all clear how much real control the leaders have over their ragged followers, as TIME Correspondent Jon Randal and other newsmen discovered in a visit to rebel territory. They were accompanied by two commissars, one of them being State Commissar for Information, Security and Press Martin Kassongo.

The visitors were hardly across the frontier when their Volkswagen was surrounded by some 50 highly nervous rebel troops carrying pangas, clubs and spears, their uniforms ranging from European suit coats to shorts and grass skirts. From their midst emerged a goateed man known only as "Major," clad in green fatigue pants and a splendid monkey-skin bush hat. Commissars or no commissars, the major was not going to let the newsmen continue into the rebel area, angrily denounced Americans because the T-28 planes had attacked only that morning. Offered a pacifying cigarette, the major drew himself up with great dignity and replied, "No, thank you, I am a Protestant."

There were more anti-American speeches, and the warriors began closing in. "Vox populi, vox del," announced one of their officers cryptically. The major kept muttering, "Be confident. We are diplomats," but Commissar Kassongo was terrified. Before heading back to Burundi, he shouted: "I am being threatened by the masses. Give me protection!" It was a cry that will be heard elsewhere in the Congo during the weeks ahead.

If Kivu and North Katanga were the Congo's only trouble spots, matters might be kept reasonably under control. But they are not. Back in the west, Kwilu province is still harassed by Pierre Mulele's Red-backed rebellion; in Stanleyville and Maniema province, the government holds control by a hair, and could be upset at any time. The two battalions that General Mobutu has committed in Kivu are the last remaining government troops available for emergency duty. If the flame of revolt erupts anywhere else, it will simply have to burn itself out--or else spread across the whole country.

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