Free Enforcer by Caesar Campbell, Donna Campbell Page A

military focus was evident in the club rules. There were fourteen rules in the Comanchero charter, which was pretty standard, but within those rules were a whopping fifty or sixty by-laws. All of them written by Jock. And some of them were pretty strange. Like the ban on associating with members of other clubs. Jock’s reason for that was that if there was ever a war with a club that you had friends in, you might not be able to bash them or, if he gave the order, kill them. I had plenty of friends in different clubs so that was one rule I didn’t plan on keeping.
    The other peculiar thing about Jock was that he wasn’t much into his bike. In fact, he had night blindness, so me and another member had to ride either side of him and tell him when to turn, or when to brake. Hence when I first joined the Comancheros there wasn’t a lot of riding going on. Jock’s idea of going out was to go to the same hotel and do the same thing every week. It was always Saturday night at the Ermington Hotel, playing pool. There’d be no runs to different parts of Sydney like we used to do in the Gladiators. I suggested we go to different pubs where they had bands on, and we started riding into places like Newtown and Glebe, up the Cross, into Darlinghurst and Taylor Square. We also started going for runs out to Blacktown and up to Windsor. It was a motorcycle club, after all, and that’s what most of the blokes were there for. They enjoyed the ride.
    Not everyone, though. Jock’s inner circle were more like him, particularly his two lieutenants, Foghorn and Snowy. Both were life members and always seemed to be in Jock’s ear.
    Snowy was about five eleven, with thin hair and a thin build. He wasn’t a bad bike mechanic but I rarely saw him actually riding. Under Jock’s rules, if you were a life member you could do as you liked, so if he didn’t want to turn up on his bike, he didn’t have to. Instead, he’d go everywhere in his ute. This made the Comancheros completely different from any other club, where the bikes were the reason for being.
    Then there was Foghorn, a little bloke with big-man syndrome. He was scrawny – couldn’t have been more than five eight and sixty kilos if he was lucky – with straggly hair and a little goatee. He walked with a limp and didn’t ride his bike much either.
    Snowy and Foghorn didn’t like it when my brothers and I came into the club. Not only had our arrival made the club a lot stronger, it had also started attracting more people to the Comancheros. The club was growing and you could see Snowy and Foghorn being pushed aside. Before, they’d been the big fish in a small pond, but they were quickly becoming tiddlers in a big pond. They wanted the power and the attention back with them.
     
    A SIDE FROM the petty power squabbles and Jock’s military caper, though, the Comancheros were a tight club. There were some tough blokes and, along with my brothers, a couple of good fighters. There was plenty of riding, partying and blueing to be had.
    It was the end of the seventies and we were at a concert down at Parramatta Park when a fight broke out among three other outlaw clubs. There was brawling all over the place, and when one of our members, Lard, decided to get stuck into a bloke, things spilt over into our club. Next thing I saw, Jock was getting thumped. It was the first time I’d seen Jock in a fight, and he was losing badly. I went over and smashed his opponent. He went down and then someone else was calling for me. ‘Caesar! Caesar!’ It was Roach. Three blokes had him down on the ground and were punching the shit out of him. Roach couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag, but he was staunch. He was always right in there, bleeding but giving it a red-hot go. I grabbed a chain with a big padlock on it from the front of someone’s bike and walked up behind these blokes. Whack. Whack. Whack .
    It was the sort of fight that really got you pumped up. You were punching on with your