At first glance, he seemed no different than any other 5-year-old boy — hyperactive, curious in the way all young children are and, when placed in the adult world, tiny. Yet this kid was worlds away from the designer-clad youngsters who roam shopping malls and fast-food restaurants in the United States. He was an Iraqi child, living in a war zone.

I came across the boy recently while traveling to one of the smaller forward operating bases to check on some of my Marines.

As anybody who has done it will tell you, traveling by helicopter in the Iraqi theater involves a lot of waiting around. Having your flight canceled, or getting bumped from the ones that are running, is just a fact of life here.

It was during one of these long waits that I came across this boy and heard his story. I first noticed him as I walked through the terminal. He was trying to sit up on a cot where he had been sleeping. But both his arms from the elbows down were heavily bandaged, and he couldn’t manage it on his own. As I walked over to help, an American contractor, who was an interpreter, got there first and helped the boy sit up.

I asked the man what had happened to the boy; though he didn’t know all the details, he told me what he had heard. The boy’s father had worked for coalition forces. Insurgents from their town got wind of this and tried to kill him and his family by burning their house down.

Fortunately, everyone escaped, but the boy suffered bad burns on both of his arms. He was treated by American doctors and was awaiting a flight to receive further treatment at another hospital.

As I listened to the story, I looked at the little guy sitting on the cot next to me. He watched our conversation with big dark eyes, though he understood no English. As a father of two boys, I felt bad about his condition. When he saw me looking at him, he gave me a big, white-toothed smile. When kids smile, you can’t help but feel good. So I gave him candy left over from a Meal, Ready to Eat, wished him luck and made my exit to wait for my flight.

Later, I watched the boy play a pickup game of soccer with Marines. He was a better player than the big, heavily armed leathernecks who struggled to keep up with his polished moves. Everybody laughed as, over and over again, he maneuvered the ball around them. You could tell that he and the Marines were enjoying themselves.

As I watched, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was making of the situation — his injury, the big camouflaged men all around him, the weapons. I wondered, when all is said and done in Iraq, how this little boy will remember it all. Will he look at the scars on his arms and think in some twisted way that they were caused by our presence here? Or will he realize the truth — that it was the work of a few low-life thugs?

Will he grow up to embrace freedom and democracy? Or will he be drawn to the dark side of the Islamic religion and end up shooting at one of my sons years from now?

I pray not.

I hope he remembers Marines as the guys who protected his family, got him help for his burns, played soccer with him and gave him candy.

But what I really hope is that when he gets older, he realizes these Marines left their friends and families behind and put themselves in harm’s way to come and help children just like him. That they risked life and limb to give Iraqis the opportunity to live free and without fear.

Sadly, many of those Marines won’t return home. I hope this boy grows up to remember and appreciate their sacrifice.

Only time will tell, but I think we are on the right track, and as that boy’s wounds heal, the nation of Iraq’s wounds will also heal.

Iraqis will have their scars, but they’ll end up better in the end.