I’ve only been teaching myself watch repair for a few months now, working my way through vintage Swiss, Chinese state-factory, and German pieces along the way. Nothing from the big-name brands so far, so this one was a first—my first Omega. Fittingly, it turned out to be a ladies’ dress watch, small and understated, with a champagne dial and a case that’s seen decades of wear.
Inside ticks the Omega Caliber 244, a manual-wind movement with 17 jewels and Incabloc shock protection. Omega produced the 244 from 1938 through to 1959, and by the 1950s it had become something of a workhorse in Omega’s ladies’ line—reliable, slim, and easy to service, which made it a natural choice for dress watches like this one. This time I actually had a movement serial number to work with: 14625417, which dates the movement to 1955. The caseback also carries a stamp, 2795-2, which I’m guessing is the case reference.
First Impressions
The dial was the first thing that caught my eye—that warm champagne colour, with some honest fading on the printed lettering. It’s the kind of patina that tells you the watch has actually been worn and loved, not sitting in a drawer its whole life.
The crystal was next. It’s the original acrylic, and it had picked up its share of blemishes over the years. Rather than replace it, I decided to polish it out, and it came up beautifully—smooth and clear, with none of the fine scratching visible anymore. It’s a small thing, but I always like keeping the original crystal on a piece when I can. It feels more honest to the watch’s history than swapping it for something new.
The case was the other surprise. It’s gold plated, and when I looked into it, I found it’s plated to 80 microns – noticeably thicker than the 10 to 20 micron plating I’m used to seeing on most vintage pieces I restored. That extra thickness explains why the case has held its colour and shine so well despite its age; thin plating tends to wear through at the edges and high points, but this one has stood up much better than most.
Opening It Up
This is a snapback case, so the whole case pulls away from the movement rather than just a caseback lifting off—the movement actually sits on the caseback as a single unit once it’s out. It’s a slightly different way of working compared to the screw-down and press-fit backs I’m more used to, and it made access nice and straightforward once I got the case open.
The watch was still running when it arrived, so this wasn’t a fault-finding job so much as a proper service. But once I had the movement out and under the loupe, a couple of details told me this wasn’t its first time on a watchmaker’s bench. There were scratches on the screw heads—the kind of marks that build up over repeated servicing when a screwdriver slips or isn’t quite the right size—and there were watchmaker’s marks scratched into the caseback, the usual shorthand technicians leave behind to note a service date or their own initials. So somewhere in this watch’s life, someone else has already been in here doing exactly what I was about to do.
The clearest evidence of that came when I tried to get the dial off. One of the dial foot screws was so badly worn it wouldn’t budge – rounded out to the point where I couldn’t get any purchase on it at all. Looking closer, I could see someone had already tried to pry the dial off without releasing that screw properly, which had left some minor bending on the dial itself. My guess is it was another hobbyist rather than a trained watchmaker, since a professional would have had the right tools to deal with a stripped screw rather than force it. I plan to flatten the dial back out carefully, but the screw itself has me stuck for now—I don’t have the right tools yet to extract something that far gone, so that’s homework for next time.
Servicing the Movement
Once the movement was out, the stem, setting lever, crown wheel and a few of the screws turned out to be rusted—nothing I’d dealt with before, so I figured this was a good excuse to finally try Evapo-rust. It did the job and lifted the rust off, though it left some of the screws looking noticeably darker afterwards. Not the finish I was expecting, but they’re clean and functional, and it’s a trade-off I can live with for a first attempt. Something to research further before the next one—whether that darkening is avoidable or just part of the process.
The real challenge was getting the small screws back in and lining up the pivots with the jewels through the drive train. On a movement this small, everything is fiddly, and it took me about an hour of careful trial and error to get it seated properly. It’s the kind of step that reminds you why patience matters more than speed with these movements—rushing it would have meant a bent pivot, and neither of those are quick fixes.
Bringing It Back Together
With the movement itself sorted, I turned to the dial and case. The dial’s text was already faded going in, so rather than risk making that worse, I gave it a light touch-up with Rodico just to lift any surface grime without disturbing what printing was left. The crystal came up well with a polish using Polywatch, taking out the blemishes I mentioned earlier. Case and bracelet both went through the ultrasonic cleaner and came out looking noticeably better—more shine in the gold plating and no grime sitting in the links of the bracelet.
Final Thoughts
There’s something satisfying about a first—first Omega, first time using Evaporust, first time really wrestling with pivots this small. Only a few months into teaching myself this hobby, and every watch on the bench still throws up something I haven’t dealt with before—this one being rusted screws and just how fiddly a movement this size can be. This little Omega has clearly been cared for by at least one watchmaker before me, and now it’s had a second lease of life. Small, understated, and quietly well engineered—exactly the kind of piece that makes me want to keep learning.
