Waiting For Justice: The Saga of Army Lt.
PTSD, Hillbilly Armor, and Whistle-Blowing
BY RICHARD CURREY
Equipped with a breathing apparatus, Lt. Jullian
Goodrum provided emergency assistance.
First Lt. Jullian Goodrum, U. S.
Army Reserve, is waiting.
He is waiting for the decision of
Maj. Gen. Galen B. Jackman, commander of the Army Military
District of Washington, who will determine if Lt. Goodrum will
be court-martialed for charges that include AWOL, desertion,
disobeying an order, and fraternization with an enlisted
But Lt. Goodrum is waiting for
more than a legal decision that could change his life forever.
He is waiting for vindication.
He is hoping the Army will
acknowledge that he acted in the best interests of his troops
while serving as a platoon commander in Iraq. Goodrum wants it
understood that his complaints about crucial lapses in troop
support were not the agitation of a disgruntled soldier, but
honest attempts to bring attention to under-armored and
under-protected soldiers in the field—deficiencies that were, in Goodrum’s view, unconscionable.
Goodrum contends that the Army’s
charges against him are unsupported by evidence or reliable
testimony, and are little more than a punitive campaign incited
by his whistle blowing. A complicating factor is Goodrum’s
Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, which has exacerbated under the
duress of his legal battle.
Despite legal issues and the
burden of PTSD, the fact remains that Jullian Goodrum was among
the first to decry what later became known as the “hillbilly
armor” debacle. He took the problems of undersupplied and
under-protected troops up the chain of command when few others
were willing to do so. His fear that inattention to vehicle
maintenance might lead to injury and death proved, tragically,
to be correct.
Between the Army’s view that
Goodrum is an errant officer in need of discipline, conceivably
even prison time, and the taint of psychological injury in an
arena in which physical wounds are all that matter, this officer
makes his way through days mired in the purgatory of the Army’s
legal and bureaucratic labyrinth.
Officer Of The Year
I first met Jullian Goodrum on a
fog-cloaked morning at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in late
October 2004, on the occasion of his Article 32 hearing. A
military “Article 32” is a pre-judicial fact-finding process in
which sworn testimonies are heard and attorneys question
witnesses, present evidence, and make arguments. Although
similar to a civilian grand jury, an Article 32 is presided over
by a single hearing officer known as an investigating officer,
the “IO.” A commanding officer can elect, based on the IO’s
report, to pursue further judicial action, or to reduce or even
drop the charges.
Lt. Goodrum walked down the
corridor toward the hearing room with a bearing that betrayed no
hesitation or second thoughts: direct, proud, and martial. In a
crisp Class A uniform with five rows of service ribbons over his
left chest pocket, Jullian Goodrum was every inch a military
A 34-year-old Tennessean with a
16-year service history replete with decorations, citations,
letters of appreciation, and certificates of excellence, Goodrum
was named the 2000-2001 Officer of the Year for the Army
National Guard’s 176th Maintenance Battalion. He “epitomizes the
qualities and values espoused by the United States Army”
according to a recommendation from one of his former commanders.
Those words echo similar plaudits in other documents from
Goodrum’s service record. A veteran of both Operations Desert
Storm and Iraqi Freedom who was recommended for fast-track
promotion to captain, Goodrum has served in the Navy, National
Guard, and Army Reserve.
Until 2003, the military was the
place where Goodrum believed his best efforts would find a home
and meet the greatest need. He never imagined he might reach
Iraq and discover woefully undersupplied troops or an
unresponsive chain of command. He never anticipated that the
concerns he registered on behalf of his platoon would be
interpreted by his commanders as everything from frivolous to
Nor would he have believed that
the PTSD he has suffered since returning from Iraq might become
a source of humiliation rather than a combat-inflicted injury
that required medical intervention no less than any other
Goodrum mobilized to Kuwait with
the 212th Transportation Company out of Camp Atterbury, Indiana,
in April 2003. The 212th, under the command of Capt. Randall
“Burt” Fisher, was given the task of transporting supplies of
virtually any variety and size. The convoys employed massive
palletized loading systems (PLSs), 500-horsepower trailer trucks
with detachable, sliding cargo beds designed to transport up to
33 tons of goods, such as Bradley fighting vehicles, bulldozers,
heavy artillery, generators, and jet fuel.
Capt. Fisher testified for the
Article 32 hearing by telephone. “Lt. Goodrum came with the
highest recommendation,” he said. “He was qualified as a
quartermaster, and he had three other MOS ratings. I put him in
charge of the 3rd Platoon.”
At Camp Virginia in Kuwait and on operations into Iraq, Goodrum
began to notice worrisome things. More than a few of the trucks
assigned to his platoon were “deadlined” vehicles—kept in
operation despite having faulty or broken parts. (Although a
company commander can choose to keep a deadlined vehicle in
operation, it is generally a violation of safety protocol to do
But deadlined trucks were only a
piece of what was for Goodrum a confounding net of deficiencies.
Convoys routinely left base camp without maps, other than crude
hand-drawn affairs on smudged notebook paper handed from driver
“Sometimes we had strip maps,”
Goodrum said in an interview a few days after the hearing. “But
they only show route and direction. You don’t get elevation or
the location of fuel depots or anything like that.” Nor did
Goodrum receive intelligence about the status of a route. “We
knew nothing about danger points, areas to avoid, places the
road was torn up or controlled by the enemy.”
No maps, no intel—and no radios. The unarmored PLS cabs had only
digital messaging systems “that were often on the blink,”
according to Goodrum. “I had walkie-talkies, but their range is
only about a mile. And that’s when there isn’t a hill between
you and whoever you’re talking to.”
Meanwhile, Goodrum’s soldiers stacked sandbags on the floors of
their truck cabs in the hope that the bags might deflect a
blast. Others welded stolen manhole covers to their doors to
serve as improvised shields.
The convoys of the 212th operated
as far north as Mosul, sometimes clocking more than a thousand
miles across what is widely regarded as the most dangerous
territory on the planet. The convoys became ever more harrowing
for Goodrum, with several close calls and tense moments. Goodrum
faced down a carload of Iraqis—with AK-47s trained out of the
windows at him and his troops. And he weathered a vehicle
breakdown that necessitated overnighting along an Iraqi highway
in unknown country without the communications to report his
platoon’s status and position.
“It was crazy to send soldiers
out that way,” Goodrum said. “No body armor, no vehicle armor,
no maps, no radios, not enough ammo, riding in vehicles so
poorly maintained they shouldn’t have been driven ten yards, let
alone a thousand miles. But that’s exactly what happened.”
Leadership And Logistical Issues
Goodrum took his concerns to
Capt. Fisher, who was apparently reluctant to act. Frustrated,
Goodrum went over Fisher’s head with letters and personal
meetings with the commanding officer of the 18th Corps Support
Battalion, as well as the office of the Army Inspector General.
But it appears his allegations were written off as unlikely or
Testimony heard during the
Article 32 hearing, however, suggested that Goodrum’s concerns
were not overblown. Another 212th platoon commander, 1st Lt.
Jason Eisele, along with a platoon sergeant, Sergeant First
Class Ricky Lloyd Baker, agreed there were significant
leadership and logistical issues for the company.
Baker implied that the command
climate in the 212th hovered somewhere between lax and chaotic.
“Things were very confused,” he said. There was “a lot of
rushing around,” but “it wasn’t always clear what we were
supposed to be doing.” Baker confirmed that convoys had either
poor—or no—communication devices.
Eisele underscored the danger
involved in the convoy missions, a point that Capt. Fisher
downplayed. When advised that Fisher had testified that the
convoys encountered only minimal resistance, Eisele laughed
bitterly. “We got hit all the time,” Eisele said. There was, he
continued, “both direct and indirect fire, rockets, rifle fire,
IEDs—all over the place.” It was a miracle, Eisele said, that
the 212th didn’t lose anybody to hostile fire.
“We didn’t get much support from
the chain of command,” Eisele said. “We did the best we could.”
Eisele also noted in his testimony that Fisher had been
forthright about his dislike of Goodrum. Fisher “wanted to get
Lt. Goodrum,” according to Eisele, so much so that Fisher
threatened other soldiers with punishment unless they provided
incriminating statements about Goodrum.
It was not long after filing his
grievances that Goodrum found himself implicated in an alleged
“intimate relationship” with his platoon sergeant, Staff Sgt.
“I was blind sided,” Goodrum told
me. “It came out of nowhere. The idea that SSgt. Cavanah and I
were romantically involved was bogus. But it allowed Capt.
Fisher to level charges against me. I sincerely believe his
actions were retaliation for my whistle-blowing.”
Fisher said he was advised that Goodrum “might have been
involved” with Cavanah and felt obliged to investigate the
matter. He produced a 65-page investigation report. Yet at no
point in the course of the hearing was it clear, either on the
basis of explicit sworn testimony or unequivocal documentary
evidence shared in the hearing room, that Jullian Goodrum had,
in fact, fraternized with an enlisted soldier.
Amy Cavanah herself was never
called to testify. According to Goodrum, his attorney had taken
a pre-hearing deposition from her in which she said that Goodrum
had never “crossed the line” and that Fisher’s case was without
merit. But she was never heard from during the hearing. It
remained unclear in the hearing if she refuted Fisher’s claim or
ever was charged in the matter, nor was it clear why she was
unavailable to testify.
About three months into his tour
in Iraq, Goodrum developed weakness and pain in both wrists that
would later be diagnosed as carpal tunnel syndrome. He was sent
back to the States for surgery, assigned to Ft. Knox, Kentucky,
and billeted in the medical hold (“med-hold”) company.
As it happened, Goodrum was at
the epicenter of another maelstrom. Ft. Knox was embroiled in a
crisis related to miserable conditions endured by soldiers on
medical hold status. Soldiers at Ft. Knox and elsewhere had been
left waiting weeks and months for medical treatment—many of them
veterans of Iraq—while housed in substandard, pest-infested
barracks. The med-hold story was broken in a series of
prize-winning reports by UPI reporter Mark Benjamin, one of
which included a quote from Goodrum, who said he had been
“treated like dirt” at Ft. Knox.
The remark went nationwide and
Jullian Goodrum again found himself in sharp opposition to the
Army, now on a different matter. “But in a way,” Goodrum said,
“it was all about the same thing—decent treatment for soldiers.”
Along the way, Goodrum realized that something else was
happening. He was feeling increasingly agitated, easy to anger,
often depressed. His customary energy and focus waned.
Attributing his feelings at first to the frustration of waiting
for medical care at Ft. Knox, he began to dream—vivid dreams of
the combat zone, laced with fragmented memories of the
terrifying convoys into the Iraqi desert. The dreams were
colored by apprehension and uncertainty. Goodrum would wake
shaking, filmed with sweat, imagining shadows moving in his
bedroom, for a moment unsure of where he was.
Goodrum did not know it at the
time, but he was suffering from PTSD. When word came that Sgt.
Kenneth Harris, a member of Goodrum’s own 3rd Platoon, was
killed in a grisly PLS accident on August 20, 2003, along a
supply route near the town of Ad Diwaniyah, Iraq, Goodrum spun
deeper into guilt and depression.
The truck in which Harris was
riding had been frequently deadlined, and already had broken
down once on August 20. The precise reasons for the accident are
unclear. Army CentCom’s official position is that the convoy
slammed to a stop after taking small arms fire. Others say there
was no hostile fire, only an unreliable vehicle on a bad stretch
of road in bad weather. Whatever the cause of the sudden stop,
the brakes in the truck carrying Harris apparently failed to
hold. Harris’s truck slammed into the rear edge of the lead
truck’s cargo bed, which ripped through Harris’s cab to shear
the 23-year-old sergeant in half.
Capt. Fisher, the man who had
generated 65 pages in his quest to prove that Goodrum
fraternized with his platoon sergeant, produced only two pages
when it came time to investigate the death of Sgt. Kenneth
A Dark Place
After Harris’s death Goodrum
found himself in a dark place. “I couldn’t seem to get my
bearings,” he said. “My mind ran away with me. I kept thinking I
hadn’t done enough to stop this. I felt responsible.”
The summer passed with such ideas
festering in Goodrum’s psyche. He had carpal tunnel surgery on
his right wrist in mid-September at Ft. Knox’s Ireland Army
Community Hospital, then fought for weeks to get the
post-operative physical therapy prescribed by his surgeon. His
PTSD symptoms continued unabated and untreated—there were no
counseling services available at Ft. Knox.
It was early November before
Goodrum could get an appointment to schedule carpal tunnel
surgery for his left wrist. In the course of that appointment he
told the medical officer that he “was having a breakdown and
To Goodrum’s amazement, he was not scheduled for surgery—and he
was denied psychological care as well, a decision confirmed in
writing by the medical officer who saw Goodrum. The note,
introduced as evidence in the Article 32 hearing, referenced the
instruction of Ft. Knox’s deputy chief of clinical services, Lt.
Col. Ronald Stevens, that Goodrum not be retained on med-hold
status—that he be, in essence, denied care and turned away.
Goodrum, however, had no orders to proceed to any other unit,
was midstream with his carpal tunnel treatment, and had not
received treatment of any sort for his burgeoning PTSD.
Caught between anger and
confusion, Goodrum wandered out of the building, got in his car,
and started driving. Disoriented by anxiety and a mounting
despair, his damaged thoughts raced—but his car did not. He was
driving on an interstate highway at five miles per hour, with no
idea of his surroundings. Startled abruptly out of his trance by
a truck bearing down on his rear bumper with its horn blaring,
Goodrum said he “could’ve wound up dead on that highway. I was
having a complete breakdown.”
Goodrum called his mother who “got out a map and talked me in”
for the three-hour drive home, back to Knoxville, Tennessee. He
later made his way to the home of an old friend from his high
school days who helped get him to a Knoxville-based
psychiatrist, Dr. Vijay Jethanandani. The psychiatrist
recognized Goodrum’s problem as PTSD, hospitalized him, and on
Nov. 15, notified medical administrators at Ft. Knox that Lt.
Goodrum was under his care and should remain on medical leave
until December 7.
Dr. Jethanandani kept Ft. Knox
authorities advised in a series of five letters describing
Goodrum’s status and progress. The Army, however, took a
different approach, notifying Goodrum that he was AWOL and must
return to Ft. Knox to face charges.
“Unfortunately,” Dr. Jethanandani
wrote in one of his letters, “recent intimidation [and] threats
of being arrested for staying on medical leave has resulted in
recurrent psychiatric symptoms. Until Nov. 26 , Lt.
Goodrum was progressing fairly well.”
Lt. Col. Stevens was located on his cell phone for the Article
32 hearing. He testified that he had, in fact, never met Jullian
Goodrum, nor had he reviewed Goodrum’s medical records. Stevens
acknowledged that no mental health professional at Ft. Knox ever
evaluated Lt. Goodrum, and that Stevens himself had no direct or
personal knowledge of the nature of Goodrum’s case. He did,
however, register his unhappiness with Goodrum’s public remarks
castigating med-hold conditions at Ft. Knox.
“It does not help,” Dr.
Jethanandani wrote in his final letter, “that Lt. Goodrum was in
combat with a unit in Iraq where a superior officer ignored
safety protocol jeopardizing the safety of soldiers. Instead of
following up on these complaints, it appears that some of [Lt.
Goodrum’s] superiors may be penalizing him for reporting
[problems] in Iraq.”
PTSD And The Iraq War
There has never been a recorded
war in which combatants did not suffer from PTSD, a malady as
old as warfare itself and as new and different as each war’s
particular time and place. The names have been many. “Battle
fatigue.” “Shell shock.” “The clanks.” And, from the Civil War
and World War I, the inadvertently tender “soldier’s heart.” The
variety of terms points to the ubiquity of the problem, and
underscores the task of recovery—a difficult balance between
memory and emotion, of understanding how the psyche shapes and
redefines us in the wake of traumatic experiences. And, more and
more, we understand that trauma creates biochemical changes in
the brain and nervous system that make PTSD not simply an
affliction of battered psyches but a neurological disease.
It was the Army itself that
mounted the most recent study of PTSD, looking at mental health
problems in veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan. Published in July
2004 in the New England Journal of Medicine, the study came out
of the Walter Reed Army Institute of Research. The
researchers—Army psychiatrists—noted that as many as one in six
soldiers and Marines surveyed a few months after returning from
Iraq suffered major depression, generalized anxiety, or PTSD.
The Walter Reed study, along with
other data in the medical research literature, suggests that the
current war in Iraq will deliver a staggering national burden of
PTSD before the last page turns on our lengthening military
involvement in the Middle East.
The Los Angeles Times
reported that both the Army and the Department of Veterans
Affairs believe this war’s “ultimate psychological fallout will
worsen.” Dr. Matthew Friedman, director of the VA’s National
Center for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, told the Times
that “the bad news is that the [Walter Reed] study
underestimated the prevalence of what we are going to see down
Jullian Goodrum was among the first to decry the “hillbilly
armor” problems of our troops in Iraq; he may also be among the
first of what many experts predict will be a landslide of PTSD-afflicted
vets. After several weeks of treatment in Knoxville, Goodrum was
improved but still not fully stabilized. In view of what might
be waiting for his patient at Ft. Knox, Dr. Jethanandani
recommended that Goodrum go directly to Walter Reed Army Medical
Center in Washington.
Goodrum presented to the
emergency room at Walter Reed on February 9, 2004, identifying
himself as an AWOL soldier suffering with PTSD and in need of
Under Lock and Key
Goodrum was admitted to Ward 54,
Walter Reed’s locked unit for psychiatric patients.
Placing a first-time psychiatric
patient in a secure ward is standard medical strategy, and
Goodrum raised no complaint. Not at first. He did well with
therapy and was slated to be moved to Ward 53, where patients
come and go freely, on February 19.
Unbeknownst to Goodrum, however,
Lt. Col. Stevens—the deputy chief of clinical services at Ft.
Knox—phoned medical authorities at Walter Reed one day before
Goodrum’s scheduled move out of psychiatric lockdown. The
details of that conversation were not shared in the Article 32
hearing, nor was the basis of Stevens’s authority to intervene
in the medical care of a soldier at an installation outside his
command. Whatever Stevens had to say, however, short-circuited
plans to move Goodrum to Ward 53.
Walter Reed’s chief of inpatient
psychiatric services, Col. Theodore Nam, offered his view that
Goodrum’s PTSD probably preceded his experiences in Iraq and
might date back to being under fire on board the U.S.S.
Missouri. In any event, he agreed with Dr. Jethanandani that
Goodrum suffered from both PTSD and major depression and still
needed treatment. On the point of Goodrum’s extended time under
lock and key, Nam testified that there was no medical rationale
for keeping Goodrum in lockdown.
He offered an alternative
explanation for the decision: keeping Goodrum locked up
prevented his forced return to Ft. Knox to face charges. If this
explanation strained credibility for the attorneys or the IO,
there were no objections or further questions on the point.
Although Goodrum spent an
additional two weeks in lockdown, he managed to get word about
his predicament to Mark Benjamin, the same UPI reporter whose
med-hold story carried Goodrum’s “treated like dirt” remark.
Benjamin reported the lockdown on March 2. His article appears
to have been instrumental in getting Goodrum moved to Ward 53.
On Oct. 13, 2004, two weeks
before Jullian Goodrum’s Article 32 hearing at Walter Reed,
soldiers of the 343rd Quartermaster Company based in Kuwait
disobeyed a direct order to take a convoy on a long and
hazardous route into the heart of Iraq. The reason? Because, the
soldiers said, the trucks they were to drive were in poor repair
and unarmored. Besides that, they said, they were asked to
travel without an armed escort. Subsequent news reports noted
that the soldiers spent many hours attempting to convince their
company commander that the mission was unsafe and ill-advised.
When that effort failed, the soldiers believed they had no
recourse but to decline the mission—an action that led the Army
to promptly declare the soldiers would face courts-martial.
Widespread concern with what had
come to be known as hillbilly armor was already an issue of
national import. On the heels of that, the families of the
soldiers of the 343rd were able to help get the word out: These
troops were not cowards, but neither were they irresponsible.
The soldiers of the 343rd had been reporting concerns of
striking similarity to Jullian Goodrum’s for some time, and, as
in Goodrum’s case, their expressions of concern had not met with
One week after the 343rd refused
its mission, 13 members of the House Armed Services Committee
asked the committee chair, Rep. Duncan Hunter (R-Calif.), to
hold hearings on the shortage of armored vehicles. The Army,
meanwhile, relieved the 343rd company commander and elected to
forego courts-martial, opting instead for administrative,
non-judicial punishments for the company’s soldiers.
Hillbilly armor and other lapses
in troop support have since been reported in newspapers, on CNN,
Fox News, in on-line outlets like Salon and Slate,
in Time, U.S. News & World Report, and a powerful
year-end cover story in Newsweek. Jullian Goodrum’s
letters to his commanding officers and the Army IG preceded and
fully predicted the subsequent revelations that made lack of
armor and field support an issue of overriding importance to
Americans. And the case of the 343rd Quartermaster Company made
it clear that the problems Goodrum observed and took up the
chain of command were not restricted to one unit, nor were they
the fevered imaginings of one lieutenant.
It would seem, at least in the
court of public opinion, that Jullian Goodrum has already been
The Real Charges
The time between leaving Ft. Knox
in a state of psychological disarray on November 7 and reporting
to Walter Reed emergency room on February 9 lies at the heart of
the charges against Jullian Goodrum. Ft. Knox authorities claim
that Goodrum was AWOL from the point that he drove, precariously
and in great mental distress, from Ft. Knox to his mother’s
house in Knoxville, Tennessee. As his AWOL status stretched past
30 days, he was officially reclassified a deserter, and,
according to Army prosecutors, he subsequently disobeyed a
direct order to return to Ft. Knox.
The Army’s lawyers at the Article
32 hearing argued that this case is not about PTSD or the
efficiency or effectiveness of Goodrum’s medical care. Nor is it
about, they said, the command climate in the 212th
Transportation Company during several months of 2003 in Kuwait
and Iraq. It is not, they asserted, about the leadership skills
of Capt. Fisher or whether Sgt. Kenneth Harris died as a result
of a vehicle in poor repair.
It is simply about, they said,
whether or not Lt. Goodrum is guilty of the charges of
fraternization, disobeying an order, and desertion.
From Goodrum’s perspective, his
case is all about what happened in Kuwait and Iraq. It is
founded in the inattention his commanders gave to deficiencies
that, just as Goodrum feared, cost a life. It is about what
happened after he received word that the life lost was one of
his own men, a soldier of the 3rd Platoon, dead as a result of
the very maintenance deficiencies Goodrum so vigorously objected
to. And it is about the Army’s documented inability to deliver
medical care at anything approaching a satisfactory level as
Goodrum struggled with PTSD.
Lt. Goodrum believes himself an officer wrongly accused and
unfairly maligned by the institution he has attempted to serve
to the best of his ability.
Jullian Goodrum’s service record contains page
after page of accolades, commendations, and
certificates. An August 2002 Letter of Input from Goodrum’s
supervising officer at the time, Capt. Cynthia Coleman, notes:
“This soldier’s performance was outstanding. Lt. Goodrum’s
meticulous attention to detail greatly enhanced this staff’s
ability to perform its wartime mission.” Goodrum, she went on to
say, “consistently demonstrated superb functional area
expertise.” Capt. Coleman closed her report by recommending that
Lt. Goodrum be “promoted ahead of his peers.” He demonstrated,
she wrote, “unlimited potential.”
It is hard to imagine that an officer of unlimited potential
would have become an irresponsible malcontent dedicated to
destroying the morale of his unit less than a year later. What
seems more likely is that Goodrum, a conscientious soldier
charged with leading troops in a combat zone and faced with what
he perceived as an unresponsive chain of command, grew
frustrated and increasingly tense—the very ingredients needed to
ignite the latent PTSD simmering inside him since the day an
Iraqi missile narrowly missed his ship in the first Gulf War.
When Kenneth Harris died in Iraq, Goodrum’s worst fear was
realized, and he was committed to seeing justice done.
“Anything less dishonors Sgt. Harris,” Goodrum said. “And it
dishonors the Army itself.”
Even if PTSD means the Army is no longer a career option for
Goodrum, he has served in uniform for nearly two decades and in
two wars, as an enlisted man and a commissioned officer, to
nothing but praise. In Iraq he took exception to decisions that
might place others in harm’s way while still completing every
mission and bringing every member of his platoon back safely.
His respect for military ideals has been unwavering, and in his
own view it is that commitment that motivated his actions in
Iraq and continue to drive his actions at home.
As this issue goes to press, Goodrum’s attorneys, contending
that the first Article 32 hearing was fraught with bias and
unanswered questions, intend to ask for a new hearing. Maj. Gen.
Jackman has made no decision regarding a court-martial. Requests
made to the Walter Reed Public Affairs Office seeking a report
on Goodrum’s adjudication process remain unanswered.
And Lt. Jullian Goodrum is still waiting.