To the Edge of the World

by Christian Wolmar

  Progress was slow for several reasons. The main difficulty was the permafrost on which virtually the whole line needed to be laid – unlike the Trans-Siberian where only sections, mostly on the Amur Railway, were permanently frozen. Therefore the difficulties of laying tracks on permafrost were far greater, because there were hundreds of miles of it, and the very haste with which the line was being built, under the terrible conditions imposed by the Soviet authorities, exacerbated the problem. The permafrost is not a consequence of the current low temperatures in Siberia which are not quite cold enough, believe it or not, to create permanently frozen ground. Rather, it is a leftover of the Ice Age, which hasn’t thawed because it never gets warm enough. However, once the railway workers started digging into the soil of the permafrost, which varies between a few and several hundred metres deep, it thaws and does not refreeze in the same way in the winter. Instead a swamp is formed and laying a track before it settles is problematic, since it is impossible to know to what extent the roadbed will sink. In recent years China has found better ways to build railways on permafrost when constructing the line up to Tibet, using heat exchangers to ensure that the permafrost remained frozen, but this is extremely expensive.

  There were other difficulties, too. The Western sections of the BAM are in a zone of constant seismic activity. There have been three major earthquakes in the region since work started on the line, but more seriously in some parts there are almost constant tremors whose effect is dampened by the permafrost. Once this is removed, the impact can be much greater. Therefore building tunnels in such conditions can be both foolhardy and impractical, and, indeed, several were to be the cause of enduring problems.

  By the time the Second World War broke out, the prisoners had completed parts of the BAM at each end: in the west from Tayshet to Bratsk, where a massive hydroelectric project was being developed, and in the east from Komsomolsk-na-Amure to Postyshevo, 120 miles away, as well as a couple of branch lines. Work was then stopped, except on the section between Komsomolsk and the Pacific Ocean at Sovetskaya Gavan, where construction continued with the use of prisoners of war and a few Russian Gulag inmates because the line was seen as having potential importance for the war effort; and, in fact, it was used as a supply route for troops and equipment in the brief war between Japan and the Soviet Union in 1945.

  Remarkably, as soon as the war ended, work restarted on other parts of the line, this time largely undertaken by Japanese and German prisoners of war, forced labour in contravention of the Geneva Convention. If the treatment of the domestic prisoners had been harsh, these foreigners fared even worse. One estimate suggests that only ten per cent of the German prisoners of war who worked in the Ozerlag camp complex near Lake Baikal survived to be repatriated. The Japanese prisoners suffered a similar mortality rate, and a conservative estimate of the death toll of the two groups is 150,000. Some progress was made, such as the completion of the track to Bratsk and, later, to Ust-Kut, the most westernmost section, a total of 450 miles from the start of the line at Tayshet, but progress was slow. The dam at Bratsk had not been completed and therefore tracks were laid on the ice across the Angara river in the way that they had been on Lake Baikal before the completion of the Circum-Baikal.

  Following Stalin’s death in 1953 all work on the BAM ceased, because his successor, Nikita Khrushchev, was not convinced of the worth of the project. The surviving prisoners of war were sent home and the Gulags began to be closed. Ironically, the Western intelligence services did not learn of the cessation of work. They were fooled by the radio silence in the official press into thinking the scheme had become a secret military project. In fact, the idea of the BAM was quietly forgotten during the early part of the Khrushchev era. The reconstruction of European Russia was seen as more important and, in a way, there was a repeat of the arguments between pro- and anti-Siberian groups that had preceded the construction of the original Trans-Siberian before Witte made his decisive intervention. Those arguing that it was more important for Russia to build up its strength and consolidate its industry where most of the population lived held sway during the 1960s.

  Russia’s railway projects have always depended on politics and, inevitably, the BAM was no exception. However, the idea for the BAM never quite went away, because the railway had supporters in the top echelons of Soviet government. Gradually support for the line coalesced with a very different model of construction, given that the Gulags had closed. There were lots of ostensibly good reasons. The new line would relieve congestion on the Trans-Siberian; it would open up the western Siberian gas fields to the United States and Japanese markets; and it would be used for container traffic between Asia and Europe. Suddenly, the Soviet leadership, now under Leonid Brezhnev, became caught up in the enthusiasm. This was the early 1970s, when there were rapid price rises in oil and later in raw materials. The Soviet Union, which had the largest reserves in the world of many key raw materials, seemed to be on the point of a boom, and the BAM would help it to exploit these resources. There was, too, the continued military justification, although this did not stand up, given that modern long-range bombers would be able to reach any part of Siberia, however far north.

  The most immediate economic justification was that massive copper deposits at Udokan – halfway between Tynda, which became the administrative headquarters of the BAM, and Severobaikalsk, on Lake Baikal – had been discovered during Stalin’s dictatorship. Once support for the project took hold in the Soviet Union, the naysayers would tend to hold their fire, ever aware of what happened to dissenting voices under Stalin. Moreover, Brezhnev gave the scheme a brilliant ideological gloss. The core idea (which could have only been dreamt up by dictators with an overblown sense of their own popularity) was to make use of the support for socialist ideals among the population, especially young people. So it was not the transport or interior ministry which was given responsibility for the project, but the Komsomol (an acronym for the All-Union Leninist Youth League), the youth division of the Communist Party.

  The reasoning was clever. The BAM was seen by party officials as a way of restoring national pride and showing the world that the Soviet Union was a major force able to carry out big schemes and, in effect, ‘conquer nature’: ‘Unlike its predecessor, the tsarist-era Trans-Siberian, BAM would be laid down with “Leninist enthusiasm” through the barren taiga towards the promised land of Communism.’5 It would, in effect, be a better version of the Trans-Siberian because it was built under socialism – the watchword was ‘developed socialism’, a convoluted expression to explain away why communism had not yet been achieved. The Soviet leadership was always informing the population that ‘communism’ would be reached in a few years, a moving target that drifted forever forward, and the BAM became caught up in that search for the Holy Grail.

  For Brezhnev, the project offered a peaceful rallying cry for socialist propaganda, a war against nature and the elements, and also a ‘path to the future’. It was a battle that did not require the use of military force. That, of course, made it a struggle that had to be won; as a consequence, the project to build the BAM started with a lot riding on it. That meant, on the one hand, that almost infinite resources could be thrown at it, but on the other that the project constantly faced unrealistic timetables and deadlines.

  After much behind-the-scenes preparation, the Komsomol announced its plan to build the line in just ten years with a completion date of 1982 – later changed to 1984 (Orwell was probably not on Brezhnev’s reading list, so the irony would have been lost). It was deemed a ‘shock project’, which ensured it received priority and the Komsomol was given responsibility for mobilizing the nation’s youth to work for the BAM. The Komsomol issued a nationwide appeal on TV and in newspapers for young volunteers to work for three-year stints on building the railway.

  While undoubtedly many young people did turn up for idealistic reasons, the offer of vouchers to get priority for cars and new apartments rather contradicted the notion that their patriotic fervour
was the main driving force. There were other advantages, too. Having the experience of volunteering for a ‘shock project’ looked good on the CV of those interested in a political career in the Communist Party; and for others the opportunity of being promoted to a foreman at the tender age of twenty-six (not uncommon on ‘shock projects’) was another lure.

  Even the Soviets’ own publications recognized the inherent contradiction. An article in Soviet Sociology published in the spring of 1983 warned of the risks: ‘Offering people the privilege of receiving scarce goods as a way of attracting a workforce to the BAM region cannot be considered an adequate method . . . it stimulates consumerist attitudes among young people, paving the way for various kinds of speculation and intrigue, and damage is done to the patriotic spirit which should prevail on an urgent construction project.’6 Moreover, those who did join for idealistic reasons were soon disillusioned: ‘While interviews with a number of BAM participants reveal that although many of them initially possessed genuine enthusiasm for building BAM, they soon lost that sentiment after seeing the project in the flesh.’7

  There were other groups of labourers. Many older workers were attracted by the high pay – treble the normal level for such work in the Soviet Union – and the vouchers for new apartments and cars. Holidays, too, were longer than the norm and free train or plane tickets to and from Siberia were provided. No prison labour was to be used – Brezhnev promised it was to be built with ‘clean hands’ – and groups of young people from countries friendly to the Soviet Union, such as the Warsaw Pact nations (most came from Poland, Czechoslovakia and East Germany) and client states like Angola and Cuba, also worked on the line. There was a third group: railway troops, consisting of conscripts who made up as much as 25 per cent of the workforce on parts of the project; essentially a form of forced labour, they barely feature in the official propaganda.

  The difficulties the workers faced may have been less life-threatening than their predecessors experienced, but they were nonetheless daunting. As the author of an analysis of the BAM project puts it, ‘the area presented geologic, seismic, climatic and epidemiological challenges to its would-be conquerors, as much of the region is composed of taiga.’8 In short, building the line was not a good idea in the first place, but Soviet incompetence and corruption made it even harder.

  The Soviet Union may have been a ‘planned economy’, but oddly planning was not one of its strong points. Therefore, when the first BAMers (as the workers were known) were sent to work on the line in 1974, neither a detailed survey of the route nor a clear plan of the construction schedule had been completed. Even Izvestiya, the Soviet government mouthpiece, admitted in May 1974 that ‘at this point it is difficult to say with precision how many stations, settlements and cities will spring up on both sides of the BAM’.9 It was three years into the construction programme that a full, detailed plan with the final route was finally set out. The lack of proper training for many of the young volunteers was a constant problem, too, and it was only in the latter stages of the work that the skills shortages were recognized. Large-scale training programmes were devised, which had the side effect of further delaying work.

  The route involved about 400 miles of marshes, more than twice that length of taiga, the virgin forest, and then most challenging, around 75 miles of terrain at risk of being hit by landslides. The temperatures in the middle of winter were routinely –20°C to –30°C and when they reached –45°C without wind (or –35°C with wind) the workers were allowed to down tools and stay inside. However, even at –20°C bulldozers often seized up and axes would shatter, preventing further work. While huge amounts of resources were thrown at the project, the machinery provided was often not up to the task of working in the Siberian conditions or was underpowered for the huge lifting work required. Bulldozers, for example, were mostly converted tractors, which were unable to work continuously in the harsh conditions. There were frequent supply problems, too, especially with sleepers, which further held up work.

  The planning and labour issues were dwarfed, however, by the technical problems. When work was restarted by the BAMers in the 1970s, the experience of the past difficulties with the permafrost seemed to have been forgotten. To ensure buildings and other structures do not start sinking into the ground or sagging, it is essential to wait a couple of years after digging out the foundations to allow the soil to settle, since the amount of subsidence depends on how much of the subsoil melts after being disturbed. Ice takes up more volume than water, and consequently it will leave gaps under the building, causing subsidence. In the haste to finish the line, such precautions were widely ignored. Therefore, when the track was laid down too quickly without allowing the ground to settle, it risked subsiding and causing derailments and required speed restrictions. In time, a new bed would have to be created and the track relaid. As a result, long before the BAM was completed, sections had to be rebuilt. At the western end, between Tynda and the connection with the main Trans-Siberian at Tayshet, the use of poor materials together with subsidence caused by permafrost melting meant that there were permanent speed restrictions. According to the guide to the BAM, ‘Originally the line was laid with low-quality rails on a mixed sand-gravel ballast. This resulted in the 187 km [117 miles] taking eight hours and during four months in 1987 line subsidence and ballast washouts caused three train wrecks.’10 Eventually, the whole section was relaid, but still necessitated a 30 mph speed restriction.

  It was not only the track but the buildings in the towns that were being constructed along the BAM which suffered as a result of the failure to properly account for the effects of permafrost melting. Consequently, by the early 1980s, at various stations along the line, more than seventy buildings were affected by subsidence and many had to be demolished. The worst hit was Mogot, on a branch line, where all the 1970s buildings were, within a few years, collapsing because they had been laid on insufficient foundations. Throughout the line many quite major structures, such as hospitals and administrative headquarters, were affected, and even today there are several abandoned buildings quietly sinking into the ground.

  If the permafrost was a major issue, the tunnels were, as the guide put it, ‘the bane of the BAM’.11 The line crosses several mountain ranges and at one point reaches 4,000 feet above sea level. Unlike the Western sections of the Trans-Siberian, numerous tunnels were required to reduce the need to clamber slowly up and down the mountains. The half-dozen major tunnels – with a total length of over twenty miles – accounted for a remarkable one third of the overall cost of the line; and their construction faced unprecedented difficulties, because they go through geological fault lines and, worst, underground waterways. According to the BAM guide, ‘A number of new tunnelling techniques had to be developed which further slowed construction,’ and many of the required skills were not available in the existing workforce. It adds: ‘In retrospect, several of the tunnels should never have been built, as a more cost effective route could have been found had more time been spent on survey work.’12

  The most difficult tunnel was the near ten-mile-long Severomuysky, 200 miles east of Severobaikalsk, on which work started in 1978 with an estimate that it would take six years. In the event, it would be two decades late. There were two principal difficulties: the local seismic activity which results in around 400 minor tremors per year, and, even more seriously, the presence of various water channels and underground lakes. Consequently work was held up for years in the face of almost insuperable problems.

  The worst incident happened in September 1979 when a drilling team unwittingly broke through into a huge underground lake and water flooded the tunnel. The disaster highlighted the inadequate nature of the geological surveys, a feature of the whole construction process. Because of communist censorship, this incident was not reported until four years later and the death toll is not known. The builders sought advice from Western tunnelling experts, but the problems of the Severomuysky Tunnel were so complex and unique that they were unable to help
. To stem the flow, the workers devised the clever idea of injecting liquid nitrogen into the granite to freeze the water and stop the seepage, giving enough time for a permanent seal of concrete to set. Eventually, with the draining of the lake through underground pipes, the creation of a safety passage in the event of an earthquake or flood, and the lining of the whole structure with seismic sensors, the tunnel was opened for traffic in December 2003.

  In the meantime, not one but two bypasses had been built, offering the workers who had to ride on the trains rather perilous journeys along temporary tracks laid over the mountain. The first, completed in 1987, was supposed to last only until 1992 and had a very steep 1 in 25 gradient. The BAM guide’s description suggests it was a perilous journey: ‘Two or three electric locomotives pull the cars. The grades and the drops are so steep that, when the cars are heading downhill, the drivers literally ride on the locomotive running boards, so they’ll be able to jump off in time if there’s an accident.’13 Actually, jumping off a moving train did not seem necessarily a better option. That temporary bypass was replaced by another one which, at thirty-four miles, was twice as long allowing for gentler gradients. Again, the BAM guide was not encouraging: ‘Although it is safe for light-weight passenger trains, there are regular derailments of the heavily laden goods trains.’14 Dervla Murphy, the feisty Irish travel writer, was in her seventies when she went along the BAM in 2001 with a bicycle before the tunnel opened, and, after travelling on this section, she reported that all the passengers went quiet as the train crawled up and down the mountain: ‘For quite a distance that edge not only seems, but is, a mere yard from the train’s wheels. And the drop is a long one.’15 However, she preferred it to the prospect of a ten-mile tunnel in an earthquake zone.