At the end of the day, though he’s been ferried through Space Hell on a ship that’s four thousand years old to his destination, though he deployed from high orbit with a grav chute, though he is one of ten million men raised from his home-world to fight a war he barely understands, though he has been given a weapon that fires miniature suns and might annihilate him when he fires it because no-one knows how it works anymore, though his company is supported by tractor-tanks that run on anything you can burn, though he wages war against a devouring hive-mind, space demons or a group of space communists…
A Guardsman is a man, just like you, though he grew up in another culture. He has no millennia-old genetic engineering, no prophetic leader, no miracles of faith. He has his lasgun, his orders, his fellow soldiers, and a set of adamantanium balls.
And he will hold the line.