Excerpt from 72 Below Zero by Vladimir Sanin, translated from Russian

Kharkovchanka halted; Ignat must have hit a snag. The whole train had stopped, so Valera had to go outside. It was of course tempting to stay in the warm cabin, perhaps to have a nap, while Ignat was repairing, but Valera needed to check ‘fingers’. Damn them, those hinge pins, which link track plates into the caterpillar tread. Two feet long, yet they break like matches. If a broken pin is overlooked, it may go out and then the tread is fractured, unfolding like a snake.

Valera put on his helmet liner, an earflap fur hat, wrapped his scarf around his face for extra protection, put on the hood of his super warm, camel hair jacket, and went out of cabin, turning his back to the wind right away; frost got to his eyes regardless, nearly sticking eyelashes together, and to his wrists (numerous requests for longer mittens had always been ignored). His breath caught inside, Valera paused, calmed his racing heartbeat, then took a hammer and began surveying the tread. Sure enough, heads of two pins were out. Thanks to Ignat for stopping in time. Now Valera was considering how to repair as shrewdly as possible. A seductive thought flashed across his mind: if he carefully hammered the pinheads back, perhaps they would last till next stop, when he could put new ‘fingers’ in place. Guys would do that sometimes, when extremely tired. Yet that was risky, and the boss, if he suspected such tricks, would give no quarter.

Valera stepped left from the rut and saw all drivers busy at their treads; one and the same for all… And hard luck for him, ‘fingers’ broke under the second and third road wheels. He had to drag the crawler a bit forward, so that the broken ‘finger’ was sagging between the front drive wheel and the first road wheel. He bowed and carefully hammered the pinhead away. Now it was turn for the hardest task – inserting a new ‘finger’ into the opening and sledgehammering it, thus pushing the remainder of the broken one out.

One should take a rest before such work, as the sledgehammer weighs eighteen pounds, and to wield it two miles above sea level is a tough row to hoe! Valera coughed, steadied his breath and sledgehammered the pinhead three times. All right, resting a bit until the heart stops tap-dancing. Then, three more blows with the sledgehammer before taking yet another rest. Two more blows, one more… His lungs demanded oxygen, an orange veil blurred his eyes, and the sledgehammer fell out of his limp hands.

In twenty minutes he managed to hammer the ‘finger’ in, then climbed into the cabin, like an old man, and collapsed on the seat. Having rested and recovered, he crawled under the vehicle, inserted two ‘rusks’ into the pin groove, fastened them with a washer and a linchpin. With bare hands, since the ‘rusk’ is 1/8 inch thick, too tiny for mittened hands.

With bare hands – at seventy below zero!

Skin would peel right away when guys tore their hands off the frozen metal. Doc would balm and dress the wounds, which, in Toshka’s words, helped no more than vitamins help a dead dog.

Done fastening, Valera went right back into the cabin. After warming up, he dragged the crawler one more bit and went out to replace the other ‘finger’. Having inserted the pin, he lifted the sledgehammer, which now seemed to weigh a good two hundred pounds, and… the blow struck wide of its mark. Valera felt so upset about his miss, as if he had made a tragic and irrecoverable mistake. He cursed himself badly, aimed and hit once more – wide again… Exhausted Valera leaned against the crawler, despairing thoughts buzzing in his head. He cursed again, pulled himself together, squatted down to pick up the sledgehammer, and… suddenly came to himself through rapid, steady blows to the metal when Lyonka was hammering the second ‘finger’! Seven… ten… fifteen hits in a row! Done hammering, Lyonka fastened the ‘finger’ under the crawler, nodded to Valera and went on to help Somov.

Thanks Lyonka for helping out; you’re a good pal.