The young Allied soldier was buried by three of his
                     officers while the padre read a prayer over his
                     body, reports Sarah Oliver

                     They rode at dawn, the men of the First Royal Irish,
                     the vanguard of the British assault in the desert
                     redoubt of Iraq. Crossing the mile-long breach in
                     Iraq's southern frontier was like passing through the
                     gates of Hell.

                     The column thundered through the Rumaila oilfield
                     as well-heads blazed at 600C (1,000F), searing the
                     soldiers' faces with their heat and making the
                     morning air shiver with ash. Ahead lay an unknown
                     number of Iraqi soldiers, many incinerated in the
                     ageing tanks and armoured cars with which they
                     had attempted to defend Saddam.

                     Ahead too, were the terrified troops who had cast
                     down their weapons in the face of the Allied
                     advance and hundreds of innocent civilians holding
                     makeshift white flags to show their peaceful intent.

                     We moved swiftly into enemy territory pushing due
                     north to secure a 50-mile front line in the richest
                     parcel of this fabled oilfield. No wonder then that
                     securing it was critical to the Allies.

                     Critical too, it seems, to Saddam, for he had
                     dispatched to meet us elements of his mechanised
                     18th division who played such a powerful role in the
                     1991 Gulf conflict: however, their rusty weaponry
                     and fading spirits were no match for the battalion of
                     the Fifth US Marine Corps who had passed this way
                     on Thursday night.

                     The devastation they left in their wake was to be
                     the mission of the elite infantry of the 1st Royal
                     Irish. On the eve of battle their commanding officer
                     Lt Col Tim Collins promised: "I shall cross the breach
                     with the Royal Irish fanning out behind me like a
                     cloak."

                     Yesterday, with his four fighting companies -
                     including one of Gurkhas - he kept his promise.

                     The advance party of 1,100 marines had done their
                     job well. Javelin anti-tank missiles had taken out the
                     heavy armour waiting at the breach and bomblets
                     dropped by mortar dispatched the resistance that
                     remained.

                     The dead were piled in heaps at the border and also
                     on the road to Basra. One man caught alone in a
                     firefight had fallen by the side of the road. As I
                     watched, stray dogs began to circle. The marines
                     also lost one man here. A young platoon commander
                     was shot through his liver and bled to death in front
                     of his comrades.

                     Exhausted, the marines summoned the Royal Irish
                     across the border at 3am yesterday. In the
                     moonlight, all that was visible on each vehicle was
                     the regimental shamrock.

                     As day broke Lt Col Collins assumed control of the
                     gas-oil separation plants being held for him by the
                     US forces. A handshake marked the handover from
                     one commander to another - both men believing this
                     was a mission of mercy as much as an act of war, for
                     these fields are home to more than 1,000
                     well-heads and an oil industry without which there
                     will be no regeneration in Iraq.

                     As we drove between them, we saw perhaps the
                     most poignant sight for an advancing First World
                     army - the Third World desert people, themselves
                     victims of Saddam's regime - tentatively approaching
                     us.

                     Their white flags may have been made of sacking
                     and plastic but their meaning could not have been
                     misunderstood. The Bedouin were desperate not to
                     be confused with the hundreds of conscripted
                     soldiers who simply tore off their uniforms and threw
                     aside their berets and sought refuge in the desert.
                     Then there were the prisoners. Last night the Royal
                     Irish were holding 37 officers, 277 men and
                     expecting another 200 on their way in from the
                     outer reaches of the oilfield.

                     They seemed simply relieved that their obligation to
                     Saddam was over and content to settle in secure
                     cages while they waited for their fate to be decided.
                     The most senior of their number, a lieutenant
                     colonel, was personally escorted by Lt Col Collins to
                     the temporary headquarters he had established.

                     There, in return for rations and tea, he helped the
                     British identify a minefield. It is also hoped that he
                     will encourage his men to advise British engineers
                     which of the bunkers and berms contain booby-traps
                     which could cost a British life.

                     Torched deliberately or ignited by stray artillery, the
                     well-heads blazed around us as the dead were
                     buried. The Iraqis were allowed to lay to rest those
                     who had fallen among them. The young Allied soldier
                     who died was buried by three of his officers while
                     Royal Irish Padre Phil Bosher read a prayer over his
                     body.

                     It was a moment of pure compassion in the middle
                     of war, but not the only one. As the hundreds of
                     prisoners of war huddled into their makeshift pen, a
                     team of burly Irish rangers prepared dates for them
                     so they could have something to eat before the
                     supply trucks followed us through the breach.

                     It was in the spirit of the speech made by Lt Col
                     Collins which captured British imaginations when he
                     demanded that his troops be "liberators not
                     conquerors" and therefore magnanimous in victory.
                     When the moment came, they were.

                     As I passed through the breach behind Lt Col Collins
                     as part of his forward tactical headquarters, I was
                     told that those behind us had left a sign for all who
                     follow. It says: "Welcome to Iraq, border secured by
                     the 1st Royal Irish."

                     • Pooled despatch