The Trench Coat That Went to War and Came Back Chic
It’s strange to think that one of the most elegant symbols of British style began its life in mud, misery and mustard gas. The trench coat, that whispering statement of class and confidence, wasn’t born in the boutiques of Bond Street but in the damp chaos of World War I. Picture it: freezing soldiers, endless rain, and a stubborn British need to look put-together even while being shelled. Out of that madness came a garment so practical, so enduring, it marched straight from the battlefield to the runway.
Before the trenches, there was gabardine. Thomas Burberry, a draper from Basingstoke, invented this tightly woven waterproof fabric in 1879, convinced that rain should never ruin a man’s dignity. Gabardine repelled water while letting the body breathe—a small miracle in Victorian England, where weather was practically a character in every story. The British military noticed. They were always interested in anything that could make life slightly less miserable, and by the time the First World War erupted in 1914, Burberry had already designed coats for explorers, hunters and polar expeditions. In other words, he was ready for anything, even war.
The British army needed something between a greatcoat (too heavy) and a uniform jacket (too short). The result was a mid-length coat of gabardine with a belt, epaulettes, D-rings, storm flaps, and enough buttons to make a sergeant proud. Every detail had a reason. The belt held weapons or maps; the D-rings attached grenades or flasks; the storm flap protected against wind and water; the deep pockets hid letters, rations or secret love notes. Soldiers wore it day and night, in the mud and in the fear, and it became more than clothing—it was a second skin, a kind of armour.
And then, the war ended. The trenches emptied. The world tried to forget. But the coat stayed. It had proven itself too good, too adaptable, too British to disappear. Returning officers wore their beloved trench coats on the streets of London, and suddenly the garment that once carried the smell of war carried the scent of success. It said, “I survived, I’ve seen things, and I’m still standing.” You could almost hear the echo of boots in the way it swished.
In the roaring twenties, the trench coat became an emblem of post-war cool. Film stars and journalists picked it up like a badge of resilience. Humphrey Bogart, leaning in the rain in Casablanca, turned it into a symbol of heartbreak and mystery. Audrey Hepburn, running through the drizzle in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, gave it a whisper of romance. It was no longer just men’s attire; women claimed it too, cinched at the waist, collar up, confidence high. The coat had transcended gender long before the word unisex became fashionable.
By mid-century, every major fashion house wanted its own version. Burberry and Aquascutum fought quietly over who invented it first (the jury’s still out, though Burberry’s marketing team tends to shout louder). Designers reinvented it in leather, silk, and later vinyl, but nothing beat the original gabardine. The beige hue, somewhere between khaki and cream, became instantly recognisable—a neutral tone with a pedigree. The lining with its signature check pattern was like a secret handshake of good taste.
And yet, despite its aristocratic evolution, the trench coat never forgot its roots. It remained democratic, worn by detectives, students, lovers, spies, and anyone with a flair for understated drama. Think of the private eye in the rain, collar up, cigarette glowing in the fog. Or the student in Paris, too broke for a taxi, but striding through drizzle as if starring in a French New Wave film. Or the London commuter, balancing coffee and umbrella, pretending not to notice the puddles—all of them part of the trench coat’s long, damp love affair with life.
What makes the history of the trench coat so addictive is that it’s not just a fashion story—it’s a cultural biography. It tells of empire, war, invention, cinema, and identity. It’s as British as tea or sarcasm, yet it conquered the world. During World War II, the American army adopted it too, with their own tweaks—shorter cuts, looser fits—and Hollywood picked that up instantly. Suddenly every leading man looked like he’d just stepped out of a classified mission. The trench coat became shorthand for complexity: a hero, a traitor, a lover, or maybe all three.
Even the name carries irony. “Trench coat” sounds glamorous now, but in 1915 it was literal—a coat for the trenches, not for selfies outside Harrods. The soldiers who first wore it would be astonished to see it draped on supermodels or priced at a month’s rent. Yet perhaps they’d understand. After all, the appeal of the trench coat is survival—not just through rain, but through time. It’s a garment that adapts, endures, and insists on relevance.
Of course, fashion can’t resist playing with nostalgia. Designers have sent endless reinterpretations down the runway: oversized, cropped, neon, transparent, you name it. Some look like sci-fi armour; others like raincoats that lost an argument with a highlighter. But underneath all that experimentation, the silhouette remains unmistakable—structured shoulders, belted waist, long stride. The trench coat always looks like it has somewhere important to be, even if you don’t.
In recent decades, it’s become a kind of metaphor for modern identity. It’s versatile, androgynous, simultaneously old-fashioned and futuristic. It carries echoes of bravery and irony, discipline and rebellion. Wear it open, and you’re casual; tie it tight, and you’re mysterious; pop the collar, and you’re cinematic. It gives everyone a bit of that secret-agent confidence. No wonder even in the age of hoodies and puffer jackets, the trench still walks proudly through the drizzle, unimpressed by trends.
Its journey mirrors Britain’s own story: practical, resilient, occasionally damp, and perpetually stylish. From the mud of Flanders to the glass of department stores, it’s seen it all. The soldiers who first wore it probably didn’t imagine their uniform would one day grace red carpets and fashion shoots. But maybe, deep down, that’s exactly what made it British: a refusal to surrender to circumstance, a belief that even in the worst weather, you can still look composed.
Today, the trench coat is less about war and more about attitude. It’s the garment you throw on when you want to feel capable. When you need a bit of quiet armour to face the world—a long meeting, a long queue, a long day. You fasten the belt, adjust the collar, and suddenly you’re part of a century-old lineage of people who refused to let the rain win. The history of the trench coat isn’t just a tale of fabric and fashion. It’s proof that style, like courage, survives everything.
So next time you shrug one on, think of those soldiers shivering in the mud. Think of Burberry in his Basingstoke workshop, weaving waterproof dreams. Think of Bogart and Hepburn and every anonymous soul who has walked bravely into bad weather, collar up, spirit intact. The trench coat didn’t just go to war and come back chic. It came back immortal.