Why The 1909???

Well, it’s been a hot minute since I last wrote one of these. Needless to say, it’s been relatively busy over at GoArmy. We’ve been all hands on deck for quite some time now. As you’ll no doubt have noticed, we released our new 1909 parka, and we’ve been genuinely relieved that not only has it sold, but it’s sold well despite us heading into summer and the weather heating up. We currently have a second run in production, along with a new and exciting variant that I don’t think anyone has ever done before.

But the question is: why this parka? Well, dear reader, I shall clue you in.

From around the age of five, I’ve been collecting military items in one way or another — gas masks, backpacks, badges, and the like. Though it wouldn’t be until I was about fifteen that I really started collecting old uniforms from around the world. I was always fascinated by the way different nations approached the same problem. Every country needs its soldiers to be warm, dry, and capable of moving at a sustained pace for prolonged periods of time. With that in mind, you’d expect military uniforms to all look somewhat similar. And while, in modernity, that’s increasingly true — with growing homogenisation across Western militaries — if you simply wind the clock back a little, things become far more interesting.

If we go back to the 1800s — arguably too far for this example, but stay with me — we can see nations facing the exact same problems as today, but solving them in a far more ostentatious manner. Uniforms of the era were colourful, ornate, and designed to be seen clearly from the safe and comfortable vantage point of horseback, elevated above the battlefield as was customary for commanders of the time. This was the era where tradition and pomp were at their absolute height, though admittedly practicality sat much lower on the list of priorities.

Jump forward a hundred years to the post-war utilitarianism of the 1950s and everything is suddenly new, modern, and sleek. We’ve left behind vibrant colours, brass facings, and embroidered cordage in favour of hard-wearing green fabrics, utility-driven field caps, semi-automatic firearms, and competent webbing systems. Here, tradition is at an all-time low, while utility reaches its peak.

So where does the graph cross over? Where in history do we find utility and traditional design existing in equal measure? Well, dear reader, tolerated skimmer, and unacceptable “is that another newsletter? get that in the bin” enthusiast — that is exactly where we’re heading next.

The First and Second World Wars were the pinnacle of military design, in my professional opinion. The first truly industrial wars, fought as peer conflicts across a global stage. They were the first wars to be filmed, photographed, and discussed on such a vast scale. And with them came this wonderful blend of tradition and utility. Kilts charging against machine guns. Lancers on horseback wearing gas masks and steel helmets. Bedouin robes sweeping across deserts in pursuit of armoured trains.

This collision of the old world and the new is exactly where my fascination stems from — a touch of tradition woven into every garment. When we look at the Second World War, we see that same sense of tradition, though modernised to reflect the changing world around it. A more mechanised, modern, and relaxed society led to more utilitarian clothing that allowed men to fight harder and for longer, while still retaining flashes of what came before: jackboots, gymnasterkas, tam o’ shanters — the list goes on.

But when you travel north toward the Arctic Circle, things get a little strange.

Sweden was always an odd one. Neutral on paper, the nation remained something of an outlier. During the First World War, as part of their M1910 uniform, they actually retained the tricorne as part of everyday dress — a strange holdover from a much earlier age. But their Arctic clothing is where things become truly fascinating.

The Livpäls — literally translating to “life fur” — was produced by Mats Larsson of Malung. A heavy canvas coat lined with sheepskin and fitted with an enormous collar designed to shield the wearer from the biting winds of the Arctic Circle. The thing weighs an absolute ton, yet still retains these beautiful little details of Swedish design. The pockets, for example, close with three buttons — a style commonly found in Swedish menswear throughout the 17th and 18th centuries. It fastened using large pull-tabs designed to be operated with gloved hands, and retained a stark white colour that not only blended into snowy landscapes but also felt deeply tied to Scandinavian traditional dress. Later models would be produced in field grey, more suited to the changing face of modern combat.

Very few ever saw combat use, though some notably found their way to Finland alongside the nearly 10,000 Swedish volunteers who travelled to fight arm in arm with the Finns against the Russians during Talvisota — the Winter War.

All in all, it’s a wonderfully unique jacket — one I’d been infatuated with for years, though I could never afford an original. Then one day, entirely by accident, I stumbled across one at an antique fair for £50. I nearly broke my wrist getting my wallet out of my pocket. Besotted with my new — or at least new-to-me — jacket, I wore it through the entirety of winter. And when the time came for us to begin thinking about producing our own clothing, I wore it into the office one day and soon enough the idea was pitched, and the jacket remade.

A 24-year love for design, a chance encounter at an antique fair, and a job I accidentally found myself in somehow led to us remaking one of the most iconic jackets you’ve never heard of.

The right man in the wrong place can make all the difference in the world, you see.

Until next time.