By SGM Rene O. Aleman

In the Army, we are taught that there is a manual for everything. As a Power Generation Equipment Repairer (91D), I was trained to dismantle and rebuild the MEP series generators in my sleep. I knew the wiring diagrams, the torque specs, and the fault codes for every type of generator in the motor pool. But as I quickly found out during my deployments in Iraq, the desert doesn’t care about your training. "Army Logic" often means being the right person for the job, but with the completely wrong set of instructions.

Lost in Translation

I was occasionally attached to a Military Transition Team (MiTT) tasked with keeping the Iraqi Police (IP) checkpoints powered. MiTT stands for Military Transition Team. These were small, specialized units of U.S. advisors (usually 10 to 15 personnel) embedded directly within Iraqi Security Forces (ISF) during the Iraq War (Beehner, 2006). These outposts were the thin blue line of local security; without power, their radios, lights, and cooling systems went dark, leaving them isolated in the heat.

The trouble started at the very first gate. I rolled up with my standard issue general mechanic toolbox and a mental library of experience, expecting familiar equipment. Instead, I found myself staring at ugliest, oldest piece of French engineering you can find in the middle of Iraqi nowhere. At the next stop, it was a German-made unit. The control panels looked like the cockpits of foreign airplanes of the early 1920s. Where I expected to see "Start" or "Oil Pressure," I was met with labels like Préchauffage or Öldruck.

The MiTT team looked at me, then at the silent hunk of metal, then back at me. "You’re the generator guy, right? Fix it." I tried to explain that this wasn't what I was trained on—that I didn't have the manuals or the parts for European civilian hardware. But in a combat zone, "I don't know" isn't a valid answer. The argument was short and the pressure was high. They didn't care about the language on the labels; they cared about the lights in the tower. They needed a mechanic, and I was the only one they had. I asked if there was at least one person who could translate a bit and there was no such luck. Everyone was tasked out with securing the checkpoint, no one available to help out.

The "Bad Gas" Miracle

I’ll never forget one particular checkpoint that pushed me to the limit. The Iraqi Police greeted us with the usual shrugs and a simple diagnosis: "Bad gas." They were convinced that if we just swapped the fuel, the beast would roar back to life.

I popped the access panel and realized "bad gas" was the least of their worries. This generator wasn't just broken; it was an archaeological site. The oil filters were so ancient and clogged they had become solid blocks of carbon. When I looked into the fuel tank, I didn't see diesel; I saw a layer of Iraqi silt at the bottom that looked like a beach. To top it off, the wiring was a "spaghetti's nest" of shorts and melted leads.

I didn't have German parts, and I didn't have a manual I could read. I had to go back to the basic physics of internal combustion: diesel, air, and compression. When the manuals are in a language you don’t speak and the parts are in a country you can’t reach, you have to strip away the "technician" and become a mechanic in the most primal sense. I realized that while the labels on the buttons were foreign, the iron under the hood didn't have a nationality. A piston doesn't know it’s French; a fuel injector doesn't know it's German. They only know physics.

I had to ignore the complex wiring harnesses and the confusing control panels and look for the three things every diesel engine needs to live: Fuel, Air, and Compression.

This process was a mental reset. In the schoolhouse at Aberdeen Proving Grounds (yes I’m the older generation mechanic), we were taught to follow a flowchart: If X happens, replace Y. But at that checkpoint, there was no Y. There was only my hand on a hot engine block, feeling for the vibration of a fuel pump, and using my ears to diagnose a timing issue. It was a return to the basics of 19th-century engineering, solved by 21st-century grit. I wasn't a "specialist" anymore; I was a man trying to convince a stubborn piece of iron to defy the desert and turn over one more time.


Professional Improvisation

I spent the next several hours in the blistering 110-degree heat, tracing wires by hand and splicing them back together where I thought they made sense. I cleaned what couldn't be replaced and bypassed what couldn't be fixed. The "parts run" was the real kicker. We didn't have a supply chain for European civilian generators, so we ended up using filters purchased from a local store down the road. They didn't actually fit, they almost fit. With enough persistence, some electrical tape, and a bit of "field-expedient" force, I coerced the machinery into accepting the heart transplant.

What would have really helped in repairing these generators is a good battle damage repair kit (BDAR kit). These kits had everything like radiator repair kits, wiring, belts, etc. (TRADOC Executive Agency, 2007). I needed at least one of these kits with me and unfortunately for me I couldn’t take one from my own motor pool for these missions but the MiTT did order a few for future missions.

When it finally cranked, coughing out a cloud of black smoke that probably could be seen from space, the Iraqi Police commander beamed at me like I’d performed a miracle. A temporary fix was the best I could do that day and it was the best they could hope, it was the best they were used to getting in that type of operational environment. Field expedient repairs were common when repair parts were scarce (Smal, 2011). I knew the repair was temporary, held together by luck and "close enough" parts, but the hum of the engine was the sweetest thing I'd heard all day.

The Aftermath of the Repair

As the generator settled into a shaky but steady rhythm, the atmosphere changed. The frantic energy of the repair the cursing at foreign labels and the wrestling with "almost-fit" filters evaporated into the heavy Iraqi heat. I stood there for a moment, simply observing. I watched the engine vibrate against its mounts, then turned my eyes to the checkpoint itself.

Vehicles kicked up plumes of fine dust as they filtered through the barriers. I could hear the low murmur of conversations between the MiTT team and the local police nearby, the kind of casual, post-success chatter that only happens when the lights are on.

I began the slow, methodical process of collecting my tools. In the desert, you learn quickly that a forgotten wrench is a lost wrench. I wiped the thick layer of black oil and desert grit from my sockets, counting each one, making sure every piece of my kit was accounted for. I was drenched in sweat and dazed from the sun, but there was a profound clarity in that moment.

The Universal Language

The transition from mechanic to guest was almost instantaneous. Despite the language barrier and the grime on my hands, the police ushered me over. They sat me down and offered me a plate of food and a glass of hot, sweet tea. It was like they didn’t notice or didn’t care that I was covered in filth and oil, I was their honored guest for the moment. They were without light and heat for the past two nights and were grateful for power. Though I knew in my head that whatever I put together was temporary, they felt it was awesome.

Sitting there, listening to the rhythmic thrum of an engine I’d just tricked into running with local parts and American grit, the absurdity of it all hit me. The labels might be French or German, and the voices around me might have been Arabic, but the struggle was universal.

When you strip away the uniforms and the borders, you’re left with the same basic gears: the machinery that wants to break, and the human will that refuses to let it. My tour taught me that you don't need to speak the language on the control panel to be successful. In the middle of the desert, you just need to speak the language of grease—and have the resilience to keep talking until the engine finally answers back.

The Architecture of Resilience

My tour taught me that the most important tool in a soldier’s kit isn't a wrench, a multimeter, or a technical manual it is the quiet, stubborn ability to adapt when the plan falls apart. In the civilian world, "resilience" is often a buzzword; in the desert, it’s a survival mechanism. It’s the mental shift you make when you realize that no one is coming with the right part, and the manual in your hand might as well be a prop.

True resilience was found in those moments of total technical isolation. It was the refusal to walk away from a machine that "spoke" German just because I spoke English. It was the patience to trace a single wire through a charred harness for three hours in 110-degree heat, knowing that the safety of the men at that checkpoint depended on my ability to stay focused through the sweat and the sand.

I realized that being a 91D wasn't just about electricity; it was about managing the friction between reality and expectation. Resilience meant accepting that a "close enough" filter and a bit of electrical tape was a victory, not a failure. It was the grit to keep turning a wrench when your hands were slick with oil and your mind was screaming for a break.

In the end, you don't need to speak the language on the control panel to be successful. The labels might be French or German, but the struggle is universal. When you strip away the uniforms and the borders, you’re left with the same basic gears: the gear that wants to break, and the human will that refuses to let it. In the middle of the desert, you just need to speak the language of grease and have the resilience to keep talking until the engine finally answers back.

Looking back at this one day, there were many resiliency skills applied throughout the day before the resiliency training became a mandated training requirement. Reflecting through that deployment I was involved in convoys where we delivered supplies such as food, fuel, and ammunition to our forward deployed squadron troops through what we called combat logistical patrols, a term not widely accepted but commonly used (Bond, 2011). These convoys prepared me to expect the unexpected while “outside the wire” but its different when you’re on the ground exposed compared to driving on the road in an armored cab. I leaned on my resilience and put the situation into perspective.

Today’s resilience training teaching Soldiers to control the controllables (Directorate of Prevention, Resilience and Readiness, 2026). Back on that day I put a working generator, so the police checkpoint had power and heat into perspective. I visualized what I needed to do, how to do it, and why it was important. Controlling the controllables is the same process as you look at what needs to be done, prioritizing your efforts in the correct order and controlling the process (Directorate of Prevention, Resilience and Readiness, 2026). Similar to how I put my desired outcome into perspective, I placed what I could control at the time into a troubleshooting and repair process to get the generator running.

Another Turn of Events

As we wrapped up and rolled out the commander decided to go to the police station located a few miles down the road. I wanted to take a few minutes off without wearing body armor so whatever time he wanted to spend there I was all for it. It was amazing to see the composition of the gun truck I sat in. The gunner was a captain, the driver was a master sergeant, and the TC was the commander, a colonel. We parked next to the fuel tanks, and we took the opportunity to top off the vehicles while we were there before heading back. It turned out to be a familiar stop as it was a stop where we had dropped off supplies before for one of our scout platoons.

That’s when I heard a familiar voice, one of our culinary specialists also stayed there to help cook meals for the scout platoons and whoever stayed around long enough for dinner. As we started our conversation after filling up our vehicles, that’s when it started, the rocket propelled grenades and small arms fire coming in from the taller buildings surrounding the police station into the compound. We scrambled for cover at first and then we mounted the vehicles to return fire from the turrets with .50 caliber weapon systems. The attack went for at least 30 minutes until the scout platoon and the police patrol that were nearby returned to the compound and joined in on the fight returning fire to the assailants.

Luckily no one was hurt, no vehicles took major damage, and I immediately began looking for the Soldier I was conversating with. He of course ran inside to get his body armor on and retrieved his weapon and was ready to get into the action, but the crew served weapon systems were enough to repel the attack. I was happy enough that none of the fuel tanks near the vehicles exploded as it would have resulted in a catastrophic explosion.

We started making our way back to FOB Marez and without incident. I was just thinking how many times I went through the same type of situation but from the cab of a moving armored vehicle. Standing behind the hood of vehicle shooting back while a captain is firing a .50 cal from a turret is quite a different experience than what I’ve seen up to that point.


Conclusion: More Than Just Power

Looking back, those checkpoints were about more than just electricity. They were a masterclass in the reality of warfare that no training center could simulate. I went to Iraq thinking my job was to follow technical manuals and maintain Army standards. I left realizing that my real job was to find a way forward when the standards didn't exist and the manuals were written in languages I didn't know.

That generator, held together by "close enough" filters and spliced wires, became a symbol of my entire deployment. It was a testament to the fact that while the world is divided by language, culture, and borders, the mechanics of life are much simpler. We all need the lights to stay on. We all respect a man who can fix what is broken. And we all find common ground over a hot cup of tea after a hard day's work.

I eventually packed my tools and moved on to the next mission, but I carried that sense of resilience with me. I learned that you are never truly "out of your element" if you are willing to look past the labels and focus on the fundamental physics of the problem in front of you. Whether it’s a French engine in the Iraqi desert or the complex challenges of civilian life, the solution is always the same: stay calm, trust your hands, and never stop talking to the iron until it finally hums back.

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Show Notes

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© 2026 By SGM Rene O. Aleman

SGM Rene O. Aleman served in the U.S. Army as a 91D (Power Generation Equipment Repairer) during Operation Iraqi Freedom. He currently serves as an instructor at the Sergeants Major Academy at Fort Bliss, TX. During this deployment, he was occasionally attached to Military Transition Teams (MiTT) to provide technical support for local infrastructure. Today, he shares his experiences from his time during one deployment, focusing on the lessons of adaptability and resilience learned while serving downrange.

* Views expressed by contributors are their own and do not necessarily represent those of MilitaryHistoryOnline.com.