A mile beyond the Tanzanian Army's front lines outside Kampala a no man's land spreads out as far as the Kenyan border, more than 100 miles farther east.

Outwardly all seems quite and peaceful. Cars, trucks and buses drive by as if it were a normal holiday weekend.

But beyond the 13 miles from Kampala controlled by the new provisional government, the allies of now-deposed Field Marshal Idi Amin have left a bitter legacy of simmering violence and anarchy.

"No one is in control. . . . There is no organization at all."

"Amin's soldiers are harassing the people and stealing food and transport at gunpoint."

"They are broken up into little pieces in the countryside."

These various appreciations, from three men-a doctor, a company manager and a police assistant superintendent-describe the situation in and around Busana and Kayunga, located on a narrow strip of land between the nile River and the marshy swamp some 40 miles due north of here.

Talking to other Ugandans arriving from other points east gave much of the same overall impression.

Amin's last remaining troops-mostly his loyal and hated Nubians-straggled through on Tuesday headed east, only hours before the Tanzanian and Ugandan exile invaders entered Kampala, the capital.

The police superintendent in Jinja, 45 miles east of Kampala, said that the troops of Amin's northwestern Nile district had mutinied when the battalion commander suggested they surrender.

"They started shooting a lot in the barracks," he said of the troops from the West Nile Area, men so closely identified with Amin that they apparently felt they had nothing to hope for. Their commanding colonel reportedly said that many of his officers have sought asylum in Kenya.

Soldiers from the Kayunga area came home, stayed out of the towns, but began harassing people, threatening them with guns and demanding food and cars.

However, some have heeded the provisional government's appeal to surrender. "They threw their weapons and uniforms away in the bush where our policement find them," the superintendent said. "Some turn themselves in and I tell to stay put till I receive them."

He said 50 soldiers had surrendered in such fashion so far in this area.

"People want the Tanzanians to move in fast to stop the lawlessness," Dr. Fred Tamale, the Kayunga hospital medical supervisor said. "People want to be secure."

When Kampala was liberated last Wednesday, "the people welcomed the news and shouted their joy, but Amin's soldiers shot one man in the thigh and another through the testicles," the doctor said.

Back at the Tanzanian lines, Maj. Cyril Okido, commander of the 7th Battalion, pointed out where less than half an hour earlier his men had killed an Amin soldier who foolishly shot at a passing bus from deep bush near the roadside.

"We'll start the push on Jinja within five days," the young major said, indicating that the Tanzanian Army was waiting for more supplies before advancing.

In the meantime, at a roadblock, his men in camouflaged uniforms checked out identification cards of the Ugandans, both those moving out from Kampala, often with looted goods in their buses and trucks, and those returning with food from the countryside now that the fighting in the capital was over.

One Tanzanian soldier proudly displayed a bottle of French cognac. Another liberated a watch from a young boy who had the foresight to remove it from his wrist, but not his pocket.

The boy smiled. An older man, seemingly a relative, laughed. Neither they nor the long line of Ugandans being checked protested. But for the conquering heroes, it was hardly a time for indignation and in any came Ugandans have known worse in the past eight years of Amin's rule of terror.

Not so lucky was Sampson I. Bikingi, who lay on the ground at the major's command post in a school building down a nearby dirt road.

Self-described as the assistant commissioner for tsetse fly control against sleeping sickness, he was shirtless and his body was patched up with a rudimentary bandage where a bullet had entered his back and come out through his shoulder.

Articulate in English, he denied soldiers' charges that he had been shot while trying to run away. Rather, his car was struck and boys were pushing him to get it started. He was "concentrating on the steering," he said, when he ran into a "hail of bullets."

When a visitor suggested the assistant commissioner might be taken to a Kampala hospital, under guard if necessary, the major said he was not a good man. "We will fix him."

Earlier the major devised various states for Amin. "I'm going to eat his flesh," he said laughing at his own joke. "Or we'll put him in a museum.' Dead or alive, he was asked. "Alive,' replied the major.

Should Amin be put on trial or executed? "I cannot think that anyone will have time to have a trial," he said, then thought better of it. "That man deserves to die a slow and bitter death. I'd be ready to give him 10 years of death."

Driving back to the center of the much-looted Kampala, various bodies lay gathering flies. Some, like the Amin soldier, or like four other men at the golf course, said to have been killed by the secret police known as the State Research Bureau, had their hands bound behind their backs.

Others, like several dozen political prisoners who were the State Research Bureau's last victims, lay putrefying in underground cells where they had been killed only hours before the Tanzanian forces captured the capital.