Additional result: While in the waiting room, I read the entire novel All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque, all the way from page 1 to page 296, and then I had two hours left over with nothing to do, so I walked across the street to a record store and bought the new Depeche Mode album, Playing the Angel, and then sat in the Pep Boys waiting room reading the lyrics and liner notes. I see they're letting Dave Gahan write songs all of a sudden. Why do I find myself suspecting that this is a ploy designed to make him feel more useful so he won't attempt suicide anymore? Oh well, I haven't listened to the album yet. And though as a fifteen- and sixteen-year old I was absolutely crazy about Martin Gore, as I've aged I've increasingly found many of his lyrics embarrassingly appallingly stupid, so Dave Gahan's could very easily be an improvement. But I probably shouldn't criticize Martin Gore too harshly; my ability to judge him fairly may well be severely impaired by the fact that I previously worshiped him, so now anything he does that's one speck less than godlike will inevitably disappoint me terribly.
All Quiet on the Western Front was okay, but definitely not even close to being my favorite war novel. I'd recommend Dalton Trumbo's Johnny Got His Gun a million times more highly.