At this point, I have to recall one of my favourite quotes from Sir Winston Churchill: “Success is the ability to go from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm.” When I received those Soviet watches from my grandparents, I was fully confident in my ability to service them. They were running, and I had no indication that anything might be seriously wrong. I was mistaken. I couldn’t source a properly sized mainspring, one of the gears was damaged, and the balance spring had lost a couple of counterweights. In short, my first attempt at servicing ended in humiliation — not to say failure.
Enter the scene: a vintage Omega 2810-2 SC, produced between 1954 and 1956. A colleague of mine, a collector of vintage watches, wondered if I was up for a challenge. This watch had enjoyed a refreshing swim in a washing machine, followed by a very long rest. Even though my skills had only slightly improved, I accepted.
When I received the watch, the seconds hand was out of place. Not a huge issue — impacts can easily do that to a vintage piece. But once I opened the caseback, it became clear why the watch couldn’t be wound: the ratchet wheel had come off. Strangely, the securing screw wasn’t broken; it had simply detached. As you’ll soon see, the screws in this movement are a nightmare and the source of all my suffering.
Given the age of the watch and the time it had spent forgotten in a drawer, the movement was full of dirt, rust, and everything in between. Luckily, I have a few cleaning solutions that can work wonders. I removed the crystal casing to begin dismantling the hands and dial. The hands came off easily. The dial? The first screw was no problem — tiny, accessible, and obedient. The second screw… what second screw? Its head had snapped off, giving me my first heartache of the process.
I tried everything: gently wiggling the dial, hoping it wasn’t fully secured; gluing my screwdriver to the broken screw (don’t judge); pushing the dial upward. Nothing worked. Eventually, after yet another attempt at wiggling, the dial foot gave way — snapping at the point where it meets the mainplate. Not ideal, but at least the dial could still be secured reasonably well with the remaining screw.
With the dial finally off, the movement was ready for disassembly. Inside was a calibre 283, from the 1940s: 17 jewels, a 45-hour power reserve, and a frequency of 18,000 vibrations per hour. A solid movement — although one small feature would eventually ruin everything.
Let’s continue.
The disassembly was mostly straightforward. Nothing I hadn’t seen before, which explains my confidence going in. You saw how filthy the movement was when I opened the caseback, and while it improved after cleaning, the keyless works were still a swamp of old grease. The previous watchmaker had been very generous with lubrication. If you’ve ever wondered what happens when you skip servicing: the oils and grease oxidise, turn black and muddy, and choke the performance of your watch.
In previous articles, I’ve written about how a well-engineered watch differs from a poorly engineered one: mainly in how precisely the gears sit in their pivots. In this Omega, everything sat beautifully, and reassembly was refreshingly straightforward.
Once disassembly was complete, I immediately began cleaning the movement and removed the old mainspring. I had ordered a replacement earlier; time to see whether it would fit.
After everything had been cleaned, reassembly could begin.
Step one: the mainspring. Thankfully, no issues — it slid into place smoothly. First potential problem avoided.
Step two: the gear train — four gears and one bridge. Historically, this was always the point where I struggled. I moved slowly to avoid damaging any pivots. After a few adjustments, the bridge settled, and the gears spun freely. Second potential problem avoided.
The barrel bridge also behaved. Have a look at the click spring — clever design. Normally, the click spring is just an awkward semicircle with bent ends. After securing all three screws, I lubricated the jewels so everything could move with minimal friction.
Turning the movement over, I assembled the keyless works. A little oil here, a drop there, a touch of grease on the stem, one central screw, and everything was in place. For those who may not know: they’re called “keyless works” because, in the old days, watches were wound with an actual key. Keys were often lost, and watchmakers were asked to devise a better system. They succeeded.
With the keyless works, barrel bridge, and train bridge done, the last major component was the balance. I installed the lever, then its bridge, gently guiding everything into position. I wound the mainspring slightly to give torque to the escapement. Now, just the balance assembly remained. With some luck, it would come alive.
It didn’t.
I nudged it, removed it, reinstalled it. And then it happened.
The jewel that supports the balance dropped out.
As I was trying to mount the balance, the jewel simply fell. My heart sank. I removed the balance spring and flipped the movement to assess the damage. The jewel’s seat was visible, as was a screw next to it. I grabbed my smallest screwdriver and tried to loosen the screw. It turned — endlessly — but wouldn’t come off. My heart sank again. Not only had the jewel fallen out of a place where it absolutely shouldn’t, but the screw that should secure the jewel had now broken.
I turned the movement over again and tried reassembling the balance. Maybe it could still work. I managed to reinstall it, but it remained lifeless. The lever was engaged, but nothing moved — until I turned the movement upside down. Then the balance began to oscillate. If I placed the jewel loosely on top, it kept turning — but the moment I flipped the movement again, it stopped. I was beyond heartbroken.
Still, we made it this far.
I placed a narrow strip of heat-resistant tape to temporarily secure the jewel. With the movement flipped over, it barely kept running. Gutted and defeated, I completed the final assembly, cased the watch, and observed the movement start and stop. Could that one jewel be the reason? Or did I make a mistake somewhere else?
And so, we return to Churchill’s quote: “…from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm.”
This was, in a way, a successful failure. The movement works — albeit poorly. Could I do it again to find the issue? Maybe. Here’s what I would do:
I’d disassemble the movement again, clean it again, and use proper solvent to remove both broken screws completely. Then comes sourcing replacements. The dial screw won’t be a problem, but the jewel screw might be. And I still need to determine whether the screw is the only broken component. Finally, I’d also try to find a new dial.
Let’s see.
Kindly,
Olaaf
