The Great Toyota War

Mounted on stallions of steel, desert tribesmen fight on and on

Largely forgotten amid the world's more pressing conflicts is the civil war in the central African nation of Chad. In the nine months since France sent 3,000 troops to back the government of President Hissene Habre against Libyan-supported rebels, the two sides have been largely deadlocked. But the fighting goes on: two weeks ago nine French paratroopers were killed on a road in northeastern Chad. TIME Nairobi Bureau Chief James Wilde spent ten days with the Chad army, traveling by Land-Rover from the capital city of N'Djamena to Sahara outposts near the Libyan border. His report:

Small groups of Toyota desert vehicles, with 106-mm recoilless rifles mounted at the rear, wheel and charge like cavalry in the vastness of the Sahara. Outriders hang from the sides, firing their AK-47s with deadly grace. Very young and therefore very brave, the men of these small fighting units, or escadrons, whip their Toyotas' flanks until the vehicles seem to snort and froth at the bit like fine-blood Arab stallions. The young soldiers move silently, without war cries except for the high-pitched scream of their engines.

These men are part of the first and second regiments of the Chad army, which is fighting a daily game of no-prisoners with the rebels who infiltrate from Libya to the north and Sudan to the east. The enemy also uses escadrons of Toyota vehicles, usually along with a 22-ton Mercedes truck for support. Some of these get through government lines, mine the roads and frighten the local population. When they do engage the army, they usually get the worst of it. In the battlefields of what has come to be called the Great Toyota War, the desert is littered with dead vehicles.

If the war were limited to Toyotas, the army would likely hold the day. But the rebels also have armor, and there are daily incursions by Libyan MiGs, which have to be spooked back into Libyan territory by French Jaguar fighters. Though the number of men involved on the ground is small, the distances are enormous. When a Jaguar chases a Libyan plane away from the army's front line, it must be refueled in flight in order to return to its base at N'Djamena.

Chad is effectively partitioned between the government and the rebels, but Idriss Deby, 27, commander of the Chad army, has no intention of letting things remain that way. Says Deby, a lean, ascetic man with samurai eyes: "Despite all kinds of shortages, we have been able to hold both the Libyan army and the rebels at bay." Nobody knows exactly how many men the Chad army has. The French say 7,000; the Chadians say "many, many." Its best fighters are the Goran, tribesmen from the northern district of Tibetsi, a starkly beautiful area of volcanic massifs, gorges and craters that was known in antiquity as the land where the wind is born. A French officer says that the Goran are still the finest light cavalrymen in the world. But now, he adds, "they are mounted on Toyotas instead of horses."

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 Habre ate from the same plate with us when he came to visit," the commander says.

Later Berdabali drives his visitor to nearby Wadi-Fami, where 400 government soldiers equipped with only six tanks and 21 Toyotas defeated 3,500 Libyans and rebels last September. How did they do it? "We just charged them, that's all," says the commander. As he roared off in his Toyota, a soldier called after him, "Bonne route, Papa."

That night, as the three men in the commander's escort lie in their blankets, the stars so close you could touch them with your toes, a soldier named Mohammed says proudly, "I've been at war for five years. Sometimes I've had to sleep five nights in a row with rotting corpses." Is he afraid of dying? "Of course not," he says. "If I were, I wouldn't be in the army." While most of his comrades carry lucky charms, Mohammed wears only an empty 9-mm shell casing around his neck. He is of a breed of soldier who knows nothing in life except battle, hunger, pain, cold and thirst. He and his friends say they are determined to die in the saddle, "like true Goran."