Eager to wipe the slate clean, Allied forces quickly returned policing duties to the German states after the war. Notably—perhaps, admirably—missing from the post-Ordnungs landscape were countrywide police codes. One town’s authorities could dress in blue uniforms; in another, grey. Some even adopted forest green military uniforms. It was decidedly disorderly, a rare exception for a culture defined by meticulousness and order.

The Allies had promised to bring freedom to Europe. In this case, the Americans overshot a little. German Shepherds may be colorblind, but for everyone else, tasks as simple as “get the local policeman” were far from simple. It was obvious that something had to be done, but post-war infrastructure projects proved more necessary.

As Germany entered the height of the Marshall Plan era, all eyes were on rebuilding the Autobahn and the reemergent tourism industry. To borrow an expression: there were bigger wurst to grill.

Loved or hated, there’s a certain intangible West German-ness about the Förstergrün uniform. It has become a cultural touchstone, something which will exist in the European subconscious for decades to come.

But it’s not just within fashion.

In theaters, Cold War movies are being produced at breakneck speed. Atomic Blonde and The Man From U.N.C.L.E. are noteable examples in a litany of films to bring the Cold War, and Berlin to the big screen. On the “small screen”, hit shows like Stranger Things and Killing Eve have done the same.

And it’s easy to see the appeal. Say what you will about the Cold War, one thing’s for certain. It was a period defined by unprecedented economic and technological growth, and unrivaled national solidarity and patriotism. As bad as the threat of nuclear annihilation was, the enemy was known and clearly defined in the public consciousness.

In a “post-modern” world defined by intangible threats, indiscriminate violence, open borders, and shifting identities, the Cold War is a comfort blanket for a confused West.

Blue In Green

In 1998, the EU issued a recommendation to all member states, calling on them to standardize all police uniforms to an internationally-recognized dark blue. It made sense on paper: the Schengen free travel area meant more intra-European movement than ever before. A universal standard would ensure everyone, regardless of nationality or language, would be able to quickly seek help from local authorities. Besides, Brussels argued that many EU members (Britain, France, etc.) already used the dark blue color. The rest were merely—in a convention best reserved for middle managers and high school guidance counselors—“recommended” to switch.

Heeding the EU’s “friendly nudge,” the first German police departments waved auf Wiedersehen to their forest green uniforms in 2004. Even by 1998, Oestergaard’s design was showing its age—not just in cut, but in function. To a certain degree, modernization was needed. However, many felt that giving up the beloved green uniforms was too steep a price to pay.

For many Germans the EU “recommendation” was simultaneously patronizing and entirely tone deaf. Over the years the Förstergrün uniform had been inexorably linked to the liberation of East Germany. It was in many ways a symbol of the resilience of the German people, and the triumph of the Western world against the evils of communism. Spain and Italy had also gone to bat to preserve historic uniforms, why should Germany—the economic engine of the EU itself – back down?

Although many German states quickly succumbed to the EU mandate, two states, Bavaria and Saarland, held out. And so, decades after the fall of the Berlin Wall, a bureaucratic Cold War was declared.

Bavaria, the “Texas of Germany,” slow-rolled the uniform process through internal uniform committees and state-wide votes. As the rest of the country rolled their eyes at “southern stubbornness,” both citizens and government alike took a stand for local identity. After all, the state’s rural police, the Feldgendarmerie, had worn green since their founding post-Napoleon—for Bavarians, it was a matter of heritage.

Saarland, a state famous for its “live and let live” mentality, took an entirely different approach. Unlike Bavaria, Saarland’s police simply didn’t change. While Bavarians puffed out their chests, the Saar performed the political equivalent of a vacation auto-reply. A packed barbecue schedule leaves little time for David-Goliath standoffs; smiling and nodding, however, can be done from anywhere.

This battle of wills—a Cold War over Cold War uniforms - lasted close to a decade.

Then, in 2013, Saarland threw in the towel. Citing the unreasonable cost of new, limited-quantity green uniforms when the rest of the country had gone blue, Germany’s smallest police force officially retired Oestergaard’s designs. Two years later, Bavaria polled all 27,000 members of its police force. After a majority decision, it too, announced it was switching colors.

The conflict was over.

46 years after their introduction, the last Förstergrün uniforms were retired from service. In the ensuing months, Bavaria and Saarland would unceremoniously begin the process of liquidation, handing over their stock to the German public auction authority and ordering blue.